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Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Prologue

Sunday the Third of November

The Year Nineteen Hundred and Thirty-Two

Lord Rosier,

Per the arrangement and contract extent between your lordship and Mary Rose Katherine Sheridan, once known professionally as Rose de Wynter, I am thus writing to inform you that I have extended patronage and housing to an orphan of magical extraction.

The child, known per the records at one Wool’s Orphanage as Tom Marvolo Riddle, is currently five years of age and was born on New Year’s Eve of Nineteen Hundred and Twenty-Six.

Sincerely,

Your Ward

Rose Dominique Sheridan

Of Rose Cottage, Elan Valley, Wales

Rose Dominique Sheridan was born under - depending on how one looked at it - either scandalous or practical circumstances.

She didn’t have parents as such.

Instead, she had a benefactor and a, well, a Rose de Wynter.

The former was one Lord Dominic Edward Rosier, a pureblood wizard of some fifty-six years when she was born, and the latter was, arguably, a muggleborn whore.

Mary Rose Sheridan never bothered quibbling over nomenclature - she was far too practical for that.  Born to staunch Irish-Catholic merchant parents before the turn of the twentieth century in Waterfordshire, Mary Rose knew from the moment that she had her first bout of accidental magic that practicality for her wasn’t so much as a personality trait as it was a matter of survival.  By the time her invitation to Hogwarts arrived, Mary Rose had already undergone an exorcism at age nine and spent many an hour kneeling before effigies of the Blessed Virgin as either one of her parents or the local clergy beat her back raw and bloody in an attempt to “drive the devil out of her.”

Having an official wixen arrival to perform feats of magic and attempt to prove that rather than possessed Mary Rose was merely magical did little to assuage her certainty that escape from the life she was born into was the only way Mary Rose would survive to see her sixteenth birthday - let alone anything else.

But as a muggleborn…well.

Magic could help her but even it had its limits.

It couldn’t change the overarching magical culture or its norms.

It couldn’t stop the purebloods who sneered at her birth status all while appraising her face and form for less-than-pure reasons - though it could silence them for a time if she was quick enough with a hex.

A pretty smile and a vivacious manner netted her invitation after invitation to holiday with friends - far away from her ostensible guardians and parents back in Ireland.

Then once she turned seventeen, a pretty smile, a vivacious manner, and a thoughtfully-selected wealthy wizard to lift her skirt bought her a muggle flat of her own in Bath - and from there Rose de Wynter was born.

But again: Mary Rose Sheridan was practical.

Even with magic and adoring patrons and benefactors - the career of a whore was a young thing’s game and even the most devastating beauties (which Mary Rose was not for all that she’d learned to use what she had to her advantage) grew less desirable as they aged.

But along with practicality, what Mary Rose had on her side was sheer audacity - as befit a Gryffindor.

And so, when a married wizard with no children or heirs decades her senior approached her regarding contingencies, well.

Mary Rose Sheridan was no one’s fool.

Bearing a child for a pureblood might have been one of the few “uses” the arseholes in her school years had thought her “worth” but as ever Mary Rose was determined to do so her way.

And with the life she’d had, even as a teenager the last thing she’d wanted was to be magically bound literally to-death-do-they-part to some wanker.

Popping a sprog for one and a retirement from her chosen profession however - now that was more the style of Rose de Wynter.

A contract was made and signed.

Lord Rosier provided a home for the child, a nanny-elf, and stipends for both the child’s care and the former-harlot’s upkeep.

Mary Rose provided Lord Rosier with a spare just in case he was unable to ever produce a legitimate heir.

Under such interesting circumstances was Rose Dominique Sheridan born.

But that, however, was merely where the story began.

Where it ended was somewhere entirely different than planned - even for Rose who, despite the memories of another life entirely crowding her brain, couldn’t have anticipated the twists and turns life would take her.

Least of all what it took just to survive it in the first place.

Tom Marvolo Riddle would remember the day an angel came and saved him from the muggle filth until the day he died.

She was tiny, smaller than him and he was hardly the fittest child due to Matron Cole of Wool’s Orphanage preferring to drink away the funds provided by the government rather than spending them on the children in her care.  Back then as Tom Riddle, the devil spawn child of the house, whenever rations ran short - and they often did so - he was the first to be forced to tighten his belt.  Tom spent his early years hungry more often than not and his diminished height and stick-like limbs at the time showed it clearly.

Wreathed in curls glinting golden in the weak November morning light, and dressed in a pristine white pinafore, with plump unblemished cheeks of porcelain and a pink rosebud mouth, Rose Sheridan was the most beautiful thing Tom had ever seen.

Like one of the angels in his neighborhood church’s stained glass window brought to life.

And that was before she saw the little garter snake twining around his fingers and instead of screaming or throwing rocks at him for being a demon, had asked him what it was saying with pure curiosity shining on her face.

Tom, flabbergasted, had answered: “'e’s asking if I’ve seen any mice.  'e’s 'ungry.”

Rather than run away screaming at this proof of devilment, Rose had merely nodded sagely, and then held out her hand.

“You better come with me then.”  She told him seriously.  “You don’t belong here with them.”

“I know.”  Tom answered bitterly, feeling ephemeral impressions of caning after caning for his devilish ways striking across his back in recall.  “But the families keep bringin' me back.  The matron says I’m possessed.  She wanted the priest to come an' 'andle me.”  He snorted.  As if he didn’t know what that meant.  “Wants 'im to drive out the devils from insi'e me.”

“Everyone has a devil or two inside them,” Rose shrugged, the picture of nonchalance.  “It’s whether we listen to them or not that’s important.”

“You’re a strange girl.”  Tom blinked, taken aback at words that would’ve gotten him another caning if he’d ever thought to say as such to the priest or the matron or anyone at all.  Let alone a boy he’d only just met.

“You’re a strange boy,” she countered.  “At least to them you are.”  Then she waved her still-offered hand around a bit impatiently.  “Do you want to escape them or not?”

Tom merely narrowed his eyes, suspicious to his bones.

In response, Rose rolled her own then blew out a breath before taking a furtive look around, retracting her hand and bringing it in close to her chest.

An instant later, there was a glowing ball of light cradled in her cupped hands.

Tom gasped, rising to his feet and rushing over to her side, glancing frantically between the light - light that he could feel like a warmth tingling against his skin, that didn’t burn but also didn’t have a source other than her.

“You’re like me.”

Rose smiled impishly up at him, then released the wandless lumos that she’d spent hours and hours practicing.  Just in case.  She was no Tom Marvolo Riddle.  Magic didn’t come as easy for her as it did for him.

“You’re like me,” she countered him once again, then tilted her head a bit to the side.  “And you don’t belong here.”  She repeated, gently offering her now-empty hand once more.  “Come with me.  You’ll be safe, I promise.”

“You don’ even know me name.”

“What’s that matter, you don’t know mine either?”  She covered her lapse quickly.  “Names are less important than getting somewhere safe.  Somewhere where they can’t touch you or hurt you anymore.  So?”  She asked again.  “What’ll it be, strange boy?”

“Tom.  My name is Tom Riddle.”  He told her.

Then he reached out slowly and took her hand.

And nothing would be the same in Wizarding Great Britain, ever again.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter One: Insurance

Then:

Rose Cottage, Wales; 31 October 1926

Dominic Edward Rosier, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Rosier, was a dutiful wizard.

He followed the plan set out for him from birth.  Learned magic and politics and how to run an estate hand-in-hand with his letters and numbers and history.  He attended Hogwarts and sorted Slytherin, upholding the proud history of House Rosier.  He succeeded in gaining an excellent academic record of eleven OWLs and ten NEWTS, making connections with other young wizards of appropriate birth and station along the way.

Upon graduation, he joined his father in running the family estate and overseeing the family affairs.

At twenty-one, he married the witch chosen for him from birth and then officially been betrothed to once both parties had shown acceptable magical potential.

And it was there, unfortunately, where his duties ultimately left him divided.  Torn, for many years between his duty to his wife, who was his partner in the shark-infested waters of pureblood society, and the future (and survival) of his House.  A House that trembled on the edge of glory or disaster as his cousin Vinda threw in her lot and bound their name inextricably with that of Gellert Grindelwald.  A French cousin, it was true, but if this German Dark Lord was unsuccessful, then even that distinction may matter little to the leaders of Wizarding Britain.

Steps would have to be taken to mitigate consequences, not matter which way the wheel of fate eventually turned.

In time and with much debate, after ascending as Lord Rosier, Dominic was forced to give way and precedence to his duty to his house before anything else.

Despite over thirty years of marriage, several years before a message had him visiting a tidy cottage in the Welsh countryside, his wife had never given him an heir.

Any heir.

Constantina Rosier nee Bulstrode, for all her good breeding and acceptable magical strength, was barren.

No magical intervention available was able to quicken a womb that was utterly averse and hostile to bringing forth new life.

Were Lord Rosier any less dutiful a husband, he would have quietly dealt with the matter of his wife, as one of his father’s contemporaries Corvus LeStrange had reputedly done.

But such rumors left a stain, and Lord Rosier couldn’t have that with other issues brewing on the Continent.

So it was that he struck a bargain with Rose de Wynter, a muggleborn which would help mitigate said other issues, and so it was that he was summoned on Samhain to her childbed to see what his practicality had purchased him where his duty to his wife had failed him.

“Milord,” the mediwitch specializing in midwifery that society preferred for handling more scandalous births than those attended by in-demand healers, bobbed a precise curtsy to the strong figure of the Rosier Head.

A bundle wrapped in white was sheltered in her arms, the material chosen specifically by Lord Rosier himself and imbued with magical enchantments to protect and comfort the babe.

His insurance - for more than one potential catastrophe.

Constantina will never give him a child of his bloodline to continue the long history of House Rosier.

Cousin Vinda’s obsession with her German may yet cast a shadow over their shared name.

And so, Lord Rosier had made arrangements of his own.

“The child?”  He asked, even as he held out his arms in wordless demand.  He had no care for the woman laying in the smaller of the two bedrooms the cottage possessed.  Her duty had been fulfilled adequately, and as soon as he sent the missive to Gringotts she would receive the final installment of her payment.

The squib wetnurse and nanny had already arrived, set up in the nursery the week prior to the surrogate’s expected labors.

A woman without the lacking moral character that too much interaction with his insurance might taint the child, if he were to employ Ms. de Wynter any further.

He would not utterly separate them for he wasn’t heartless, but contact needs-must be limited or else he risked causing a scandal far worse than siring his spare heir on a woman of non-wizarding heritage despite her noted magical strength in comparison to many pureblooded witches of her generation.

Unfortunately for Rose de Wynter, magical strength alone would not take a mudblood witch far without the correct sort of patronage, and it was telling of her character that she chose the faster route to independence over the more socially-acceptable ones.

Still.

Her loss of reputation and potential prestige was his gain.

“A girl, your lordship.”  The midwife replied.  “What name should I send the Ministry for her birth records?”

Spying the documentation of live birth that was already laid out and ready on the table in the sitting room where the midwife had received him, Dominic gave an absent wave of his wand, even as he stared down at the sleeping, birth-reddened face that guaranteed - barring some tragedy - that House Rosier would live on.

The information for the mother was wiped away in the wash of the spell and Dominic calling up the latent magic of the binding contract between himself and the witch, leaving a simple Surrogate instead.

A second spell that only he or the Head of House Rosier could lift ensured that his own name in the “Father” portion was concealed - which was certain to cause some consternation in the Ministry, but was hardly without precedent.

Then in the same elegant hand that spelled out his own name, albeit hidden as it was, the name of his insurance was decided - barring that she should ever be legitimized, then it would likely be changed.  It wouldn’t do, to have a direct correlation between his House and a harlot after all.  If he claimed his insurance fully and brought her into House Rosier, changes would have to be made.

But, for the moment, the name he decided on allowed a reminder of who she was, without any direct connection to his House.

“Well met, little Rose.”  Never let it be said that Lord Rosier was utterly without humor.  “Well met, indeed.”

Rose remembered far too many things and far too many stories to immediately dismiss the realization that not only had she been born again, but that she had died in the first place.

And, it had to be said, that this seeming second go-around, she’d been born into both a situation and a world that was both alike and starkly different to that which she remembered.

It didn’t take her long to realize (once she was old enough and her brain developed enough for things such as realizations and remembrance) that she hadn’t been born into a family.   Not really.  The woman taking care of her with warmth and affection wasn’t her mother.

No mother called their child things like Miss Rose, and Little Mistress.

Granted, her mother - her first mother - had been a loving and affectionate woman so Rose could have been wrong in that assumption.

But when, some time after Rose woke up and was capable of more than just crying or having her basic needs met, another woman arrived at her home who called her little lady, and sweetheart, she knew she was right.

Whatever the strange, fucked-up arrangement she’d been born into, it wasn’t the nuclear American family she’d once known.

And then there was Ginsy the house elf, and that was just…fantastic.

Not only had Rose been reborn, but she’d been born into a world fashioned after the Wizarding World of Harry Potter…house elves, wands, and (once she’d met the man responsible for her birth), pureblood bullshit and all.

Great.

Just.  Fucking.  Great.

Now, don’t get her wrong.

Magic was awesome.

Terrifying in many ways, but awesome.

It was everything else that came with it that had her swearing in every curse and language she’d carried over from her first life.

Not only did she have to grieve for those she’d left behind, including herself, but now…now she genuinely had concerns about her own survival.

Especially once she was old enough and aware enough both to spot the date on her nanny’s Daily Prophet subscription and put that together with her own rather ambiguous blood-and-social status.

Some god or quirk of fate had dropped her ass over teakettle into the heyday of the Grindelwald Era.

A fact which shortened the life expectancy of everyone around her significantly, not just her Nanny Emma who she discovered was a squib due to the kind woman counting on Ginsy the House-Elf for any magical task, but also her…elder Rose, who was clearly not a pureblood or at least not a proper one.

By the time she was five years old, Rose knew that if she wanted to not only live through what was coming but thrive, she was going to have to slip a card or a dozen from the bottom of the deck.

Because, with the scandal of her birth - her mother who wasn’t her mother, and her father who was but wouldn’t claim her yet - and her blood status as not-quite pureblood but not a halfblood either, the deck was already stacked against her.

Lucky for her, if this was a world that played close to the background of Harry Potter, she knew just where to go looking for a wild card to have on her side.

And so, a few days after she turned six and convinced her not-mother to take her for an outing in London where the elder Rose lived, she struck gold.

After all, in her first life she’d always wondered what would have happened if Tom Marvolo Riddle had had just one person who was one his side and gave at least half a damn.

It seemed, like it or not, that she was going to find out.

Sincerely,

Your Ward

Rose Dominique Sheridan

Of Rose Cottage, Elan Valley, Wales

Now:

There was a lot that Rose regretted about her family situation in her second life.

It would be a horrible, isolating way to live and grow up - if she actually were a small child.

It was an isolating way to live even for a grown woman who loved a bit of solitude, living out her second childhood.

She had lessons with her nanny/governess.  She was mostly looked after by Ginsy the house elf.  Both of whom were kind, affectionate, but also detached as she was their charge but not their child.  

Then there was her…her benefactor she supposed, since he was too involved to be a sperm donor but far too aloof to call a father.  His Lordship came and saw her for a meal once a month and was likely getting reports on her education and how she was “coming along.”  He sent gifts and was a bit abrupt but wasn’t cruel.   Just…apart.

And the last bit of company she had, and the way she managed to steal herself a brother: once every month or two her birth mother - her surrogate, as she was mostly referred to by everyone else including the woman in question - was allowed to spend a couple days with her either at the cottage or in London.

It took Rose a few years to put together what was actually going on with her strange family circumstances.

That the woman she was named for was called her surrogate was the first major clue, along with hearing her benefactor referred to as “milord” by the governess and Master Lord Rosier by Ginsy.

But it was a bit of eavesdropping that filled in the final puzzle piece, when Nanny Emma sent him a letter after Rose performed her “first” feat of accidental magic when she was five.  “First” as it was neither the first time Rose had managed to make her magic work for her, nor was it entirely accidental.  Eavesdropping was a way of life when one was a transmigrator in a pint-sized body.

Information was a currency that she rather desperately needed.

And it was via eavesdropping that she realized Lord Rosier was growing more and more anxious regarding whether she had accessible magic at all, as well as why he cared:

Lord Rosier was her biological father, but rather than some shameful secret child fathered out of wedlock, she was a sort of planned, purchased, and facilitated insurance.

The head of House Rosier was otherwise childless, and if Rose was a squib…

She didn’t even want to begin to ponder what being chucked into an orphanage in the early 1930’s would look like for her.

Rose didn’t make it obvious - she couldn’t she didn’t have that kind of control yet over magic and it usually refused to come easy.  Instead, Rose practiced as much as she could to make levitation something she could control rather than just happening sporadically.  She thought it was a lost cause and would have to rely on Lumos that she could handle albeit it in an exhausting way, but then mere days before his lordship’s next visit she let herself become visibly frustrated over a book being out of reach when Ginsy was watching her, and floated the damn thing down.  Relief washed over her, if only because his lordship wouldn’t start wondering if his bit of hedging his bets wasn’t going to pay dividends after all.

Her life at the cottage was lonely, and isolated, but it absofuckinglutely could be worse.

So, so much worse.

A fact that was compounded and brought into focus for her after she slipped away when the elder Rose took her off to celebrate her sixth birthday in London, and managed to track down Wool’s Orphanage via a cabby who was more concerned with the coin she could pay him than how odd and/or unsafe it was for a well-dressed little girl to be wandering London alone.

Color her shocked to find a dirty, tiny, waifish boy with black hair and scabby knees talking to a damn snake in a hidden corner of the orphanage yard.

Rose honestly wasn’t sure to expect out of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

From some accounts he was “born bad” and a complete sociopath, if not an out-and-out psychopath.

In others, he was an abused kid afraid of death with far too much intelligence and drive to go with that particular clusterfuck of issues.

To Rose’s eyes, he was just a kid - at the moment at least.

One who hadn’t been completely and utterly fucked over by his supposed caretakers yet, or have someone who could have been a savior treat him with nothing but suspicion and disdain.

At five years old, Tom Riddle hadn’t yet lived through the Blitz.  He hadn’t been subjected to exorcisms.  He hadn’t started dealing out damage to his bullies, or killed any animals.

He was a child.

A smart one, a damaged one, a magical one: but a child nonetheless.

And by god, but Rose at least knew what to do with children, even if to everyone around her she looked like one herself.

8 November 1932; Rose Cottage, Wales

Rose was surprised that it took almost a week for her benefactor to arrive following her letter, but she also wasn’t surprised.

Owl post took time to arrive and added to that Lord Rosier was a busy wizard she imagined.

The cause of the delay she wasn’t sure about, though she supposed it came down to what he thought of her - and of her caretaker in Nanny Emma, for setting up the dict-a-quill in the first place.

Her nanny/governess didn’t own a wand and couldn’t use spells, but pre-purposed enchanted objects like Dict-a-Quills and the Floo worked for her just the same as anyone.  Which allowed a bit of how the magical world around her worked to slide into place for Rose: squibs weren’t magicless, but rather couldn’t use a wand.  They were still considered shameful, that much was clear to see by how Emma rarely spoke about anything but her duties, let alone family, but were still magical.

It wasn’t much, but it was something other than the bits and bobs Rose was able to piece together out of magical children’s stories, the lessons on manners and etiquette Emma had started teaching her, and the history that was age-appropriate that had been added to her lessons.

Rose was hungry to understand how the wizarding world actually worked rather than relying on assumptions and stories from another life, but given her age, sating that hunger was a slow, frustration-inducing endeavor indeed.

For her part, Nanny Emma had been less than impressed when the elder Rose whirled back into Rose Cottage with an extra child, but the older women both knew when to pick their battles with their charge by now.

The fight they’d each had on their hands with her over the years had taught them well that Rose couldn’t be handled the same as an ordinary young girl.

Her mind - and tongue - was too quick for that.

No, the only one who made much headway against the child when she set her mind was her father, and as a result after the brother-acquisition escapade both of them had given Rose scolding looks, but also ones that were resigned and to the tune of “we’ll let his lordship handle it.”

Ginsy had simply taken one look at the waif-thin, clearly starved, but polite figure of Tom Riddle and set to work.

Within a day the difference was like light and dark.

Tom was clean, had clean good-quality clothes that Ginsy had whipped up out of a bolt of cloth reserved for Rose’s next growth spurt, and had been tucked into Rose’s room - at the young lady’s own insistence when she’d noticed Tom eyeing both Nanny Emma and Ginsy with deep suspicion.

Three solid meals had done a lot to take the edge off of any lingering suspicion regarding food safety, and that they hadn’t taken away his snake had buffed off more edges yet.

But Tom was an abused, neglected, and often scorned child.

He would be wary for a long time to come.

Though he certainly was as clever as he’d always been credited in the stories, as he had obviously picked up that everyone - barring the elder Rose who’d disappeared back to London - was waiting on something when it came to him.

Both of them felt a wash of relief mixed with anxiety when the fireplace lit up green and out stepped Lord Dominic Rosier, who removed any traces of ash from his impressive person with a flick of his wand all whilst eyeing the pair of children who were seated at the kitchen table doing their lessons with a hard stare.

The cottage being as modest as could be, the kitchen doubled as a dining room with a large blocky table at one end, and as a school room for lessons.

As it was also the only room in the house with the space for it without resorting to expansion charms, it also held the hearth connected to the Floo network, rather than utilizing the smaller fireplace in the sitting room.

“Young lady.”  Lord Rosier’s voice was deep and sonorous.  “I believe you have some explanations to make.  Now.”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Two: Truths and Consequences

Emma McKinnon, squib of a pureblood line by birth and a nanny by trade, knew within the first year that her most recent charge was no ordinary young witch.

The first six or seven months progressed as was normal for a wizarding child.

Infant Rose was a happy baby.  Often giggling and cooing when she wasn’t fussing for feeding or in need of a change.  And she slept quite often, which as any nanny or hands-on parent knew, was a blessing.

No, there was little Nanny McKinnon had to worry about in the early days of little Rose’s life.

After all, despite what some people, might think or even the boldest among them might say, there was no real difference between a magical or non-magical child until the actual onset of magical development, whenever that might strike a particular case.

And if there was one benefit to the child’s, ah-hem, mixed parentage, it was that no one would truly begin to worry over the status of the little witch’s magic until she was seven or eight years old.

It was hardly spoken about in polite society, of course.  Nonetheless, anyone who was in the profession of rearing magical children knew that in the vast majority of such mixing - whilst ostensibly disliked by the old-blood purists - the child that resulted would be magical.  It wasn’t even a question unless the mixing in question was the particularly disdained and outright scandalous sort involving muggles.

When it came to the continuance of lineage, few were so scrupulous as to refuse an infusion of new blood - whatever stories they might spin for society.

As a result, Nanny McKinnon had little to worry about when it came to her newest charge.

And then, little Rose learned to speak, and Nanny McKinnon learned that the average, ordinary babe she had watched over wasn’t quite that ordinary after all.

November 1932, Rose Cottage, Wales

When Dominic received the message from his ward, he had been both baffled and bemused by the contents.

It had not escaped his notice - either in person or forwarded via her caretakers’ reports - that his ward was decidedly not average in some respects.

Her looks and manners were as expected.  Her magical development whilst not as precocious as some was acceptable.  Her temperament could be as stubborn as any young child.

But when it came to her mind, there was nothing average about his ward, which was both a boon, but also at times as illustrated by their current straits, a hindrance.

Rose Sheridan was not a child who could be patted on the head and placated away from difficult or complex matters.

That she knew enough - and found enough - to even reference the contract between himself and her surrogate was worrying, though it was clear that whilst she understood it existed in concept, she did not know the particulars.

It seemed discussions were required, but first he had to research just who it was that had convinced young Rose into a blunder such as kidnapping.

Though as he stared at the pair carefully aligned before him in the small sitting room of the Welsh cottage home of his ward, he had to reevaluate a few of the assumptions he himself had made regarding the situation following his research into the boy.

He’d taken care of the matter, naturally.

The cretinous muggles running that slum disguised as an orphanage, along with their charges, had all been Obliviated of all knowledge that a boy named Tom Riddle had ever resided there along with the memory of his disastrous birth.  Lord Rosier had taken possession of the paperwork regarding the child, and in exchange for a one-time payment had Rose de Wynter sign yet another secrecy contract.  A contract that Ms. McKinnon would have to be subjected to as well, along with appropriate recompense.

Inside the memories of the muggles, memories that were now utterly destroyed, laid a secret that could either kill the neglected child before him or be his salvation.

The secret of a parselmouth, a descendant of the line of Slytherin, and the child of a House that would sooner see him dead than extent with a muggle for a father.

Left to his own devices, Lord Rosier was unsure of what path he might have taken in regards to Tom Riddle.

Only, his ward had made the decision for him, and he was loath to turn that clever mind against him when this was clearly the act of a lonely, if intelligent, child.

They were already united in less than a week.

He would have to test it, of course, but there were worse choices his insurance could make than to make an ally of an heir of Slytherin - however he came to be in the first place, or how diminished his maternal line had become in the current era.

“First,” Lord Rosier announced, having finished his inspection of the children.  Rose unrepentant with her little chin high and firm.  Young Riddle who was standing straight and tall but silent at her side.  Yes, he could work with this.  “We shall examine what I have learned of your charge’s origins, young lady.”  His tone was stern and unforgiving.  “And his options, now that you have chosen so recklessly to interfere with his life, shall be explained.  Then we shall have a discussion of our own, do you understand?”

“Yes, Lord Rosier.”  

Both children answered immediately, as was proper, even if there was still a trace of a most unfortunate East End accent marring the boy’s mirroring of young Rose.  Expected, though it would have to be corrected.  Lord Rosier would have no trace of a muggle urchin linger to taint the boy’s association, however nebulous, with House Rosier.

Still, he was clearly capable of learning and that was what mattered most in the end.

“Mister Riddle,” Dominic turned his cool blue gaze on the boy, ignoring his ward for the moment.  “What do you know, if anything, of your origins?”

“I was born at Wool’s, milord.”  Tom answered softly, taking care to shape the words properly.  This was the decision-maker he and the others had been waiting to meet.  His Rose was certain that his lordship would allow him to stay, but Tom had been sent back enough to know that she could be wrong - and that making this man pleased with him, was likely key to Rose’s promise of safety away from Wool’s being kept.  “And my mother died.”

“Yes,” Dominic nodded, unsurprised by the lacking background that had been granted to the child.  Whether maliciously - as he, like many magical children, unsettled the muggles around him without being able to speak to snakes as Dominic had clearly seen in the matron’s memories - or otherwise.  Not that the matron and minders knew much more than the boy, but nonetheless, he was clearly intelligent enough to understand the little they did know.  “That is correct.  Your mother’s name was Merope Gaunt,” a fact that Dominic had discovered with a modicum of research into the current remnants of Slytherin’s descendants.  “She was one of the last members of the House of Gaunt, a magical house with a long and storied history in Wizarding Great Britain.  Most notably, they are the last known descendents of Lord Salazar Slytherin.  Do you know who that is, Mister Riddle?”

Tom slowly nodded after an encouraging glance at his Rose.

“He founded Hogwarts,” Tom enunciated the strange name clearly.  “He could talk to snakes, like me.”

“Correct on both accounts, young mister Riddle.”  Dominic arched a brow at his ward, clearly catching the byplay.  She was already working to educate the boy.  Good.  “He was.  As you are a parselmouth, you share his blood.  Therefore, I am inclined to uphold my ward’s offer of patronage.”

Tom narrowed his eyes carefully on the stern lord before him.

“Why?”

There had to be a catch.

There was always a catch.

“Because there is power in certain lineages, Mister Riddle.  No matter how diminished they may seem in the modern day, a connection to the bloodline of the Hogwarts Founders is not something to dismiss.”  Dominic studied the boy carefully.  That wasn’t the entire story.  He’d uncovered far more than the boy’s parselmouth abilities when he’d been investigating the matter.

But none of it was appropriate for a child to learn, even one who was clearly intelligent like the boy.

“You have a choice to make, young wizard.”  Dominic informed him.  “There are options before you that will change the course of your life.”

“I don’t want to go back to Wool’s.”  Tom blurted out, before his mind caught up with his fear and he stiffened, waiting for punishment for speaking out of turn.

Dominic pursed his lips at the first sign of lacking manners he’d seen from the boy, but allowed it to pass without comment.  This whole… affair wasn’t without stress, and allowances must be made for youth.  However, his cold glare at the boy made it clear just how little he appreciated being interrupted.

“That was never a choice, Mister Riddle.”  Dominic scoffed at the mere idea: leaving a young and potentially powerful wizard in the care of filthy muggles.  Outrageous.  “However, there are well-maintained homes for magical orphans in the wizarding world as they await adoption, if you wish to seek out a family of your own.”

Tom merely shook his head, bone-deep distrustful at the thought of a home after his experience in the muggle world.

And understandably so.

“No, I thought not.”  Dominic nodded genially.  “In which case, two more paths lay before you.  First, you may remain with young Rose as your patron.  You will live with her in this cottage, receive the same education which she is provided, and in time have access to whatever opportunities she provides for you.”

Tom felt his heart leap up into his throat, just barely restraining himself from beaming at his Rose.

He could stay.

His lordship would let him stay.

And still, he waited to hear the catch.

“Or,” Lord Rosier continued, carefully baiting the trap that would allow him to take his own measure of the child’s character.  “You can come fully under the patronage of House Rosier.  You would live at the Rosier estate, have access to the finest tutors that my wealth and status could provide.  You would be given entry into the most exclusive echelons of wizarding society.  You would become a member of our family.  The choice, Mister Riddle, is yours.”

Rose felt her face freeze as her benefactor’s offer rang through her mind.

Torn, down to the bone, over what she should feel.

And she knew that this was part of the way Lord Rosier had chosen to punish her for her actions, though it didn’t sting the way it would if she really were a small child.

Logically, she knew what he was doing.

That didn’t make it any less fucked up.

The Gaunts, if they weren’t currently in Azkaban, would epically lose their shit at the mere idea of their half-blood relation not only being recognized but uplifted to the care of an Ancient and Noble House and all the wealth that came with it.

Wealth that the Gaunts haven’t enjoyed for who-knew-how-long.

If any of them ever met Tom while he was still young and vulnerable, they would try and kill him.

Honestly, if they met him when he was older, they still might depending on how batshit insane they were at that point or if their sense of survival outweighed their prejudice.

The Gaunt name likely still carried weight even if the current generations of people were disdained for their poverty, lacking magical ability, and too-close inbreeding.

Rose stared blankly into those frozen blue eyes, not allowing one iota of her inner turmoil show in her expression.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Though the offer Lord Rosier made did put things into perspective for her.  He was a pureblood wizard of high rank and wealth.  And no matter the blood link between them, he would not take being backed into a corner with any kind of grace.

Rose couldn’t let herself forget that again, no matter how otherwise generous he might be.

Men like Dominic Rosier were dangerous, even to those closest to them.

Rose was many things to Lord Rosier, but close wasn’t one of their number.

Tom darted a look between the pair, knowing that there was an undercurrent, sensing that there was a trap, that the catch he was waiting on had made an appearance, but not knowing enough to know how or why or even what.

And lacking information, he went with what he wanted most in that moment, for good or ill.

“I want to stay with my Rose.”  He said firmly, his soft voice breaking the tableau between Lord and ward.

“Very well.”  Lord Rosier nodded elegantly, unsure even to himself how he felt about the boy’s choice, but willing to honor it nonetheless.  “Then here you shall stay.  You are dismissed, Mister Riddle.”

“That was a reckless, foolish, irresponsible decision, Rose.”  Lord Rosier pronounced upon his ward as soon as the door had closed behind the young form of Tom Riddle and left them alone, a silencing spell springing up around them with a flick of his elm wand.  “It could have ended with terrible repercussions not only for you, but for us all, do you understand?”

“I understand, Lord Rosier,” Rose bowed her head in false contrition.  Hell.  She understood far more than Dominic Rosier could ever fathom the risk she both took by whisking Tom Riddle away from Wool’s and that she was actively taking by bringing him into her home.

But it was worth it.

She had to believe it was worth it, that saving even one kid from that hell hole was worth the risk.

Even if it all went FUBAR in the end.

“Something tells me, that you do.”  Dominic let out an un-lordly sigh, lifting one hand to rub over his forehead.  “You understand far more than you tend to let on, don’t you, young lady?”

Knowing a rhetorical question when she heard one, Rose stayed silent - even knowing that at a supposed six years old, that too was telling.

“Hmm, as I thought.”  Dominic eyed her warily.  “It seems your caretakers are insufficient to handle a young witch of your intelligence.  Perhaps a companion will do you some good and curb any further acting out.”

Rose heard the warning loud and clear: behave, or the consequences were as likely to fall on the heads of those around her as on Rose herself.

Dominic nodded, pleased that the child was as clever as he was starting to believe her capable of, once he stopped being blinded by dint of her age.

That was a Slytherin witch in the making, or Dominic was a Hufflepuff.

“Now,” Dominic put an end to the discussion of the boy, for the time being, and moved on to other matters that apparently required handling.  “You have made a few assumptions regarding yourself and your wardship that are in need of correcting before you make an irrevocable social gaffe.”  He informed her succinctly.

“How so, Lord Rosier?”

“There is no extent contract between myself and Ms. de Wynter.”  Dominic clarified.  “She served as a contracted surrogate under a secrecy clause and that is all.  Do you understand what that means, Miss Sheridan?”

Rose rapidly revised her assumptions about her situation as she gave a slow nod before giving the verbal answer Lord Rosier was waiting for.

“Ms. Rose has no legal or magical authority over me or my custody.”

“That is correct.”  Lord Rosier nodded sharply.  “She does not.  Her visitation is an allowance that a young witch needs a feminine influence in her life, outside of those provided by paid caretakers.  She fulfills a role and a purpose, nothing more and nothing less.”

“I’m an investment.”  Rose voiced the thought that had occurred to her more and more often over the last year.  “Insurance, to ensure that House Rosier doesn’t fall to a branch line or extinguish altogether.”

“You are a clever young witch.”  Dominic nodded in approval, impressed despite himself that she’d put that together though likely didn’t fully understand the nuances of the situation.  “Yes.  If by the time you receive your invitation to Hogwarts, there is not a legitimate heir to House Rosier, you will be legitimized as my daughter and brought into our House.  Though as a necessity, should I ever have an heir born through lawful marriage, then they will come before you in the line of inheritance.”  He paused, prepared to simplify his explanation of her place, when he saw not one bit of confusion on that sweet face.

That was both better and worse than Rose had assumed.

Honestly, while it was where both the power and money resided in the wizarding world with few exceptions, Rose wouldn’t freely choose to be embroiled in pureblood bullshit more than she already was by birth.

But she may not be able to choose.

Fuck it all, but she was going to have to pray that Lord Rosier got some lawful heiring on and fast as the idea of being chained down by the expectations of Wizarding Society sounded more like a life sentence than a privilege.

Hmm.  Lord Rosier mused as he watched her process his words.  If this whole situation had made one thing apparent, it was that he had been underestimating his ward.

Something would have to be done about that.

“All of which aside,” he made new plans based on what he’d discovered that day.  “If you have time to plan and execute a kidnapping, you have time for additional lessons.  Your Ms. McKinnon will receive an updated schedule by next week, including appointments with a tutor for placements tests.  One would imagine it will be quite some time before Ms. de Wynter is able to be worked into your new schedule as a result.”

He arched a brow when she wrinkled her nose at having her former freedoms curbed, waiting on any childish protests or temper, only to find himself once more bemused when instead she took her punishment calmly, before dismissing her back to the care of the nanny.

Baffling creatures, children.

Intelligent ones were perhaps especially so.

Lord Rosier rose and took his leave, already mentally searching through his known contacts for appropriate tutors and lessons that would keep his insurance busy.

And, hopefully, far from additional trouble.

“Did he hurt you?”

Tom waited until they were alone that night, both tucked under the covers of his Rose’s bed to ask the dreadful question.

His Rose had been stiff after talking alone with Lord Rosier.

Which in itself was suspicious.

Tom was thrilled to his bones that he was allowed to stay.  That his lordship wasn’t taking him away from Rose.  But he didn’t like the tone of his voice or how he looked when he studied them.

There was something off about that toff, like Tom and Rose were things to him, not kids.

“Not really.”  Rose had to admit.  “He told me a couple things, that’s all.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’ ‘urt you.”  Tom winced in the dark as he felt his words slip back towards Wool’s and the East End.  A place he was going to leave so far behind him he would never even have to think about it ever again.

Rose’s smile in the shadows of the room was twisted.

Perceptive little arsehole, wasn’t he.

“We have to be careful, Tom.”  She warned him, having been debating whether to say anything at all before coming down on the side of trying to keep secrets from someone as sneaky as Tom Riddle - a fact that she knew now and not just an assumption - would figure her out eventually.  “If we cause too much trouble, he might switch out Nanny Emma for someone not nice, or Ginsy or something.”

Tom was horrified at the mere idea.

Ginsy was a strange creature, but she was mothering in a way that all the false-mother’s who’d taken him back to the orphanage could have only hoped to be.

And adults were untrustworthy to his mind, but Nanny Emma didn’t seem too bad - and didn’t smell like gin or have pinching fingers besides.

No.

The cottage was perfect.

Tom would do anything to make sure it stayed that way.

Anything at all.

The first couple months of fitting Tom Riddle into life at Rose Cottage were an experience.

He was - rightfully - a paranoid, suspicious little bastard.

But he was also a touch-starved, affection-starved child.

It was one hell of a dichotomy.

Tom watched Lord Rosier, or the new tutors who came to the cottage and set up at the kitchen table with a look of superiority mixed with disdain, like a hawk.

None of them were free from his perfect-cherub act or his watchfulness, with both the manipulation and the suspicion being classic signs of a survivor.

But with Rose, he dropped all that, showing more and more of himself the longer he stayed and the less he feared being chucked back to Wool’s.

He was still calculating, still clever and hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with being raised in deprivation.

Under it all, he was just a boy.

One who’d been starved and beaten, who months later was still wounded and slow to heal - if he ever truly did.

Rose had hope, that even if he didn’t grow to become what most would see as a good man, he at least wouldn’t become some nightmarish figure either.

That he - that both of them - would be allowed to live and thrive.

Though she had to admit, seeing a true, wide genuine smile bloom over that face that was slowly rounding out with regular feeding?  Spying a dimple that rarely showed itself?  And all because of a simple cake and a couple presents for his birthday…

Seeing all that?

Her hope for Tom Riddle grew just a little bit stronger.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Three: Five Years Gone

Rose watched the owl winging its way towards her humble home in the early morning hours of her eleventh birthday with a sinking feeling deep inside her.

Today, Rose Sheridan was turning eleven.

Tomorrow, barring the extremely improbable likelihood that Lord Rosier’s second wife managed to pop out a living, breathing, legitimate heir despite not being pregnant anywhen within the last year since their marriage (which took place as soon as socially appropriate following the death of Lord Rosier’s first wife to a legitimate illness and not murder despite the worst rumors) before morning, Rose Sheridan would cease to exist.

Legally speaking, anyway.

For the past five years, ever since her fateful meeting with Lord Rosier where the terms of her very existence had been spelled out for her, Rose had been praying for two things to whatever powers-that-be were responsible for her fucked up round of transmigration - when she wasn’t wishing Gellert Grindlewald would conveniently drop dead:

First, that both her and Tom would manage to survive his adolescence and her second round of being attacked by hormones intact (and, not gonna lie, there had already been some close calls due to both their tempers.)

But second, and far more frequently, that Lord Rosier would get the damn legitimate heir he rather desperately required and thereby free Rose from having to play the dutiful heiress and noble daughter.

The powers that be, it had to be said, were cunts.

Yes, she had successfully pulled off stealing herself a little brother, which had in turn kept her from going stark-staring-mad over having to endure childhood twice.

She lived in relative luxury, if mostly isolated save from Tom, her caretakers, and tutors.

She knew everything could be so much worse.

That didn’t stop her from longing for things that she knew could not be.

“Is that it?”

Glancing over her shoulder as Tom scrambled - far more gracefully with his longer limbs than Rose could ever manage, the fucker - out of their bedroom window and onto the roof next to her, Rose just nodded and burrowed a bit further into the crocheted blanket draped over her petite form.

“How do you know?”  Tom prodded his sister, determined to at least try and pry her out of her brooding.  It was a tendency he’d noticed cropping up and overcoming her more and more the closer they got to her birthday without a legitimate Rosier heir arriving.

Not that he could blame her.

The wealth was nice, but he knew if they wanted together they could make their own money.  Neither of them were fools like most children he saw.  Like the foul little urchins from the orphanage, or the children they would very rarely be allowed to play with when the elder Rose took them to London or Bath or Swansea.

Between them, they were more, were better than most people.

They were intelligent, had looks that garnered admiring glances, had magic.

They could do without the patronage of House Rosier - if they had to.

With the way his Rose’s eyes often dimmed and darkened the closer that her birthday came, Tom wanted to, but…

But.

His Rose was practical and often advised playing the long game.

She held out hope that Lord Rosier’s new wife would provide an heir and free her from the expectations - and worse, the control - of House Rosier.

Tom didn’t know at times whether to admire that or curse her for it.

Other than the money, and the implied power that came with having Lord Rosier’s full backing and not the shadowy, half-aloof thing that she had now, he couldn’t blame her for wanting nothing to do with being a pureblood heiress.  If he was a witch and not a wizard, he would hate it too.  Especially after the idyllic childhood they shared in the Welsh countryside.

He’d done his research when he first found out the…particulars of his sister’s situation.

She wasn’t an orphan, not precisely.

But one would be hard pressed to deny that she also was one in spirit if not fact, regardless.

Those who gave her life were also alive and at least nominally involved.

However, if one was considering the ephemeral notions of parentage and orphaning and not just the rigid exactitudes, Rose’s life was as barren of parental love and affection as effectively as Tom’s was.

And yet, that wouldn’t stop Lord Rosier from making demands on her, such as arranging her marriage, or forcing her to fulfill the duties of being the Rosier heiress.

As a daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Rosier, Rose would have no agency of her own until she was seventeen - and even then, the expectations of wizarding society could very well chain her down afterward.  If another heir did not appear, her marriage to an appropriate pureblood would be arranged.  She wouldn’t be allowed a profession.  If she was lucky she would be allowed to attend Hogwarts for the full seven years instead of being made to marry after completing her OWLs.

As a daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Rosier, Rose couldn’t be his sister.

And that made Tom hate in a way that he used to think he left behind in a muggle orphanage.

It was only the fact that Lord Rosier was actively working at gaining a legitimate heir from his legal marriage that stopped him from acting.

Rose counseled patience - and a lack of opportunity for true success rather than a pyrrhic victory resulting in either Tom’s own death or being carted away for murder when it seemed patience wouldn’t suffice on its own.

Tom didn’t know how she could stand the uncertainty when it made him want to tear and rip and maim like some feral thing instead of a well-educated young wizard of ancient heritage.

“It’s coming from the northeast,” Rose explained her thought process on the incoming owl’s provenance, lifting her hand she traced the imagined flight trajectory in the air between them.  “If it were the papers, it would come from the southeast,” she pointed towards the mountains that were a smudge on the lightening horizon.  “The same if it was Rose writing one of her rare letters.”

She didn’t need to say anything in regards to Lord Rosier.

He never wrote.

As she lowered her hand, Tom took in within his own, marveling as always that such a strong force as his Rose could be contained in such a tiny body.

The older they grew, the more he realized just how thoroughly she’d saved him - and what it cost her.

With a soft hoot, the post owl gently landed on the arm Tom uplifted in wordless offer before extending its leg towards Rose.

Meeting Tom’s dark blue eyes with her own soft violet, Rose took a deep breath and untied the letter from the owl.

Glancing down as the owl took flight once more, she studied the tightly-sealed envelope that would confirm her status as a potentially powerful witch in magical society.  Hogwarts, contrary to popular belief, didn't accept just everyone.   Magical children had to have a certain potential ability - or a certain level of wealth and influence - for the infamous institute to welcome them.  Not receiving a letter in the circles that Lord Rosier dwelt within would be seen as a significant source of shame and ridicule.

It would mark her as either not powerful enough to be one of the top five percent in the Isles, or not connected enough to be invited regardless.

“Don’t let him ruin this for you, Rose.”  Tom told her seriously as he watched her run one thumb over the Hogwarts crest impressed on black sealing wax flecked with the colors of the founders: red, yellow, blue, and green.  “Not this.   You’re a witch, you’re going to Hogwarts.  Everything else we can worry about later.”

“When did you get so smart, Tommy?”  Rose cast a weak, teasing smile at her brother.

Tom scoffed, rolling his eyes extravagantly at the immature nickname.

“I’ve always been smart, Rosie.” He shot right back, pleased that she was at least trying - even if it was for his sake.  As far as he was concerned, it was trying nonetheless.  “Everyone says so.”

“Everyone,” she mimicked mockingly, even as she ran her thumbnail under the Hogwarts seal and popped it open.  “Doesn’t have to live with a great prat and his inflated head.  Or seen him shrieking in dismay over spots on his chin.”

Despite his annoyance over her referencing his current embarrassing encounter with growing up, Tom was glad he’d jostled her out of her darker thoughts and worries.

Even if only for a moment.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Armando Dippet

Dear Ms. Sheridan,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

(Head of Gryffindor House, Professor of Transfiguration)

“It’s real, Rose.”  Tom gently brushed the tips of his fingers reverently over the Hogwarts Crest printed beautiful and bold at the top of the letter.  “Hogwarts, it’s real.”

Looking up from where she’d chosen to bury herself in the book and supply list rather than goggle over the invitation, she gave him a slow nod.

Yes, yes it was.

She’d never admit it, too used to being a rock for Tom, but it shook her in a way that little else ever had in this new life.

A Hogwarts letter.

She’d gotten a Hogwarts Letter.

It was a mindfuck.

Yes, she’d met Tom Riddle.  Yes, magic was real.   Yes, magic was not only real but something she had inside her and could actively use (with a ton of practice and Tom alternately encouraging her or poking and prodding her into using it out of sheer irritation, the talented little shit.)

But Hogwarts?

Hogwarts was dreams and fantasy wrapped in terror and the unknown.

It was childhood wishes that’d been tainted by adult realizations of just how fucked up a lot of the events and plot points of the Harry Potter series were.

All magic wands, mystical arts, and unicorns mingled until they were impossible to separate from prejudice, bullying, and abuse.

Where most everything else she could potentially dismiss as the product of a deathbed feverdream, Hogwarts was something both tangible and utterly undeniable.

Rose was a wee bit fucked up over the entire thing, to say the least.

On the bright side however were two points: she wouldn’t be going alone, and she had the better part of a year to come to terms with this latest round of mental fuckery her rebirth had thrown at her.

“It’s real.”  She eventually agreed, though thankfully before Tom got any notion as to the sheer amount of mental flailing that was going on inside her head.  “But,” she snaffled up the invitation letter from the table, tucking it along with the supply list back into the official envelope with plans to secret them away and epically lose her shit over them later.  “So is the elder Rose coming for tea and cakes later, and the Samhain rite that Nanny Emma will be leading tonight.”

Ushering him along, despite him being a good bit taller than her by now, Rose guided him towards the bathroom, both of them all-too-familiar with the elder Rose’s distaste for the “dross and stickiness” that came along with contact with children.

And she meant it of course.

For Tom’s sake, she would indulge in all the daydreaming about Hogwarts and going away to school that he’d like.

Later.

Hopefully, much much later.

“Will you bring the child here?”

Lord Dominic Rosier paused, his quill hovering for a flicker of a heartbeat before continuing at the quietly voiced accusation couched in soft tones and an unassuming demeanor.

Miss Florence Brown hadn’t been chosen for her cunning or powerful magic.  She didn’t have the connections of his first wife, and was not a member of an ancient dark-aligned magical family.  However, if there was anything he had learned from his lack of heirs and the power of his insurance, a departure from what was expected of a wizard of his station wasn’t without benefit.

What Florence Brown had was a pureblood lineage that wasn’t enmeshed with either his paternal or maternal lines within the last ten generations, a respectable performance at Hogwarts albeit one that was decidedly average save for an Exceeds Expectations in Charms, and a mother who had produced four healthy and decently magical children for her husband.

Unfortunately, for all the reasons that had influenced his decision in her favor, he was struggling with a reason that would have otherwise precluded her in less dire straits: Florence Brown was of a lesser pureblood house, one that was neither ancient nor noble, and as a result had not been raised with the expectation of becoming a Lady.

His peers cast him pitying sideways glances for his choice, one that everyone chalked up to desperation.

That in place of a firm, powerful partner in the late Lady Constantina, Dominic Rosier had been diminished to a mere wife in the fair-enough faced Florence.

That Florence felt the need to demand such an answer from him at all was merely another sign of how whilst Florence may benefit his bloodline, she was no great lady in the making.

“No,” he finally deigned to answer after a long, piercing look at the lovely strawberry blonde figure of his young bride of a year or so.  “My daughter will remain as she always has: with her caretakers, companion, and tutors in the countryside aside from her equestrianship instruction that will continue apace here at the estate.”

“But-”

“Fulfill your duty to our marriage, and you need never worry over my daughter’s place in House Rosier - or your own.”  Dominic cut her off sharply.  “She will be cared for and supported as any daughter of House Rosier, but that is all.”

Provided Florence did her duty.

Snapping his account books closed as a firm end to the conversation, Dominic returned them to the locked and warded drawer of his desk where they otherwise resided.  Desk tidied with a sweep of his wand, he plucked the parchment folder with the documents regarding the new status quo within House Rosier from the air as it floated towards him.

Stopping before his wife, Dominic gave her a clipped bow before taking his leave via the Floo.

Abandoning behind him his wife’s girlish daydreams of what being a lady of an Ancient and Noble House would be like, images of wealth and prestige and respect, in ashes and dust.

“And this clause?”

If Rose really were eleven years old, she would surely be bored out of her mind as she went over the legal documents that wiped away the nebulous nature of her connection to House Rosier and brought her fully into the fold of noble pureblooded assholes as the nominal - but not confirmed - heiress of House Rosier.

Merlin, if she really was eleven, she probably never would’ve thought to go over the parchment-work in full, instead merely agreeing to sign on the required lines that turned her in law and magic from Rose Dominique Sheridan, into the heiress of House Rosier the apparently named Lady Enora Rose Dominique Rosier.

Though she supposed she was able to keep her name, even if it was shoved to the side with the other middle - afterthought - names in preference for one not quite so “common” as Rose (or that had a direct connection to her muggleborn surrogate.)

For the first time in her life, she had seen her birth documentation, and watched with more curiosity regarding the spellwork than real interest as Lord Rosier lifted the secrecy enchantments on it to reveal his name - after her own name change was secured, of course, which had been the first piece of parchment she’d signed.

With a ruddy Blood Quill.

Because - of course it was.

“Details the increase to your trust vault and subsequent allowance as an acknowledged daughter of House Rosier rather than a mere ward.”  

Dominic didn’t know whether to be impressed or irritated over his daughter - his daughter, who per pureblood convention he now could actually claim as such - insisted on going over every section and every clause of the contracts that would forevermore change her status and position in the wizarding world.  Not quite a blood adoption - as she was already his child by blood - but also not quite a matter of filling out a few legalities either.  The parchment work covered the financial and legal implications of acknowledging a child of his blood as his blood.

The magical process of elevating her as a Rosier daughter and ensuring her magical inheritance and rights to the family magics and predispositions of House Rosier would occur on the next power day - which was rather providential as Yule was a celebration of both death of the old and birth of the new.

Brows arching in shock as she took in the numbers written in stark black on the parchment, Rose shook it off and initialed in the spot indicated beside the sizable increase to her financial means.

It was nothing compared to the dowry that she was apparently entitled to as a daughter of House Rosier - that number when she converted it to pounds sterling and then took in the time period was stunning.

And still apparently far less than what the elder Rose had gossiped the latest debutante of House Black had brought into her marriage to the Potter Heir.

If nothing else, her birth-giver could always be counted on to know the gossip surrounding wizarding society as well as teaching Rose and Tom alike - an equal-opportunity kinda witch was Rose de Wynter - to have a dab hand with cosmetic and hygiene charms despite neither of them having a wand yet.

They were hardly the first children to practice simple spells with a family member’s wand, even if that family member had more resemblance to a boozy aunt than a parent.

“Next?”

“The budgetary guidelines of your household maintenance, including…”

“I hate the way he treats you.”  Tom admitted in the shadows of their bedroom - though that was due to change as soon as he received his own Hogwarts letter.

Apparently it wasn’t “proper” for young wizards and witches of their age to share bedrooms - at least not among the toffs.

Though he supposed there was some wisdom in it: even if he and Rose sorted in the same House at Hogwarts (which he firmly believed they would) the dormitories surely would be separated between boys and girls.

A slow introduction to sleeping alone would do them more good than an abrupt change among all the other upheavals of going to school.

But that was logic.

And his greedy, possessive heart wanted none of it if it meant he wouldn’t be there to wake up Rose from a nightmare, or to fall asleep with the scent of her honey and lavender hair potion in his nose.

“That makes two of us.”  Rose admitted, even if the last thing she wanted to do after having to spend the better part of a day around her benefactor - she was not going to start calling him father now that it was apparently allowed by whatever fucked up metric the purebloods used to govern themselves - was discuss him with her brother.  “I’m an investment to him, Tom.  I’m not…I’m not anymore a person with my own wants than a kneazle would be.”

Tom turned over, vaguely able to make out the edges of her sweet, heart-shaped face in the dark.

“Is there any legal hold he has on you after you’re of age?”  Tom asked, knowing that she’d planned to go over every last section, clause, and addendum of legally becoming Lord Rosier’s heiress before signing anything.

Her signature was a formality in magical law and they both knew it.

Especially at her young age.

All the control, all the power laid with Lord Rosier.

But conventions still had to be observed - and if there was anything they’d learned about that exacting bastard of a man over the last five years, it was that he lived and died by convention.

“No.”  Rose’s smile was white and flashing in the dark, more a wild thing than an expression.  “Not so long as I haven’t been married off.”

Tom’s answering smile was vicious.

“I suppose we have a goal then, sister.”

“I suppose that we do indeed, my dear brother.”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Four: Wandlore Revelations

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

1938-1939 Academic Year

Supply List for Witchcraft First-Year Students

UNIFORM

Students will require:

Three sets of ladies’ work robes (black)

One set of ladies’ dueling robes with split skirt (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One plain witch’s belt with chatelaine and leads (black, with silver or pewter hardware)

One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupil's clothes, uniforms or otherwise, should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

Basic Charms and Incantations; by Gregor Grimoire

An Introduction to British Magical History; by Aengalhardt Spiric

Intermediate Magical Theory; by Seraphina Shafiq

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration; by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi; by Phyllida Spore

Basic Brews: The Fundamentals; by Almidius Dagworth

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them; by Newton Scamander

Basic Dueling and Defense; by Vindictus Veridian

The Witch’s Helpmate; by Euphrasia Paxton

Witchcraft: Culture, Lore, and Etiquette; by Lady Magistern Prewett

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

1 trunk with identifying information

Sufficient quills, ink, and parchment for assignments and notetaking

If a student wishes to participate in Magical Art or Music, they must provide their own supplies and/or instruments.  

Note: The Student’s Supply Package, or a list of recommended supplies can be purchased/found at any art supply store located in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. 

Students may also bring, if they desire, a pet off of the approved list found in the Hogwarts’ Charter or a magical familiar that has been appropriately registered with the Ministry of Magic.  Requisite proof of registration and required vaccination status certification must be received by the school for all pets or familiars no later than 23 August.

Yours sincerely,

Beauford Pocus

Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions

Tom studied the supply list carefully one last time before tucking it into his robe’s inner pocket and securing it.

He’d noted the language of the list - as well as that Rose had been surprised by it - and concluded when his own arrived that he would likely have a few different texts and supplies as a wizard than Rose’s required supplies as a witch.

It was odd but also not.

They didn’t spend much time in the magical districts in London or the smaller one that was closer in Cardiff, but he’d never noticed witches being treated much different than wizards.

Not like how muggle girls were treated far differently than boys.

Maybe it was nothing.

Until his own supply list arrived with his Hogwarts invitation, there was no real way to tell.

They simply didn’t know any other magical children to ask.

Still, Nanny Emma hadn’t seemed to find anything odd at all about Roses’s supply list, and had swiftly scheduled time to take both her charges to London for their course books - and in the case of Rose, her wand.

Tom could hardly wait.

Years of tutoring and private instruction, and the next step in their lives was almost set to begin.

A wand was only the first step in gaining enough power to grasp independence - for both of them.

Because, come hell or high water, Tom would become powerful enough that no one - not even a toff of the likes of Lord Rosier - would make his sister feel less than ever again.

“Are you ready, dear ones?”  Emma asked her charges after a last check that they were properly turned out, reaching up to snag the pot of Floo powder from above the mantle.

“Yes, Nanny Emma.”

“Good good.  Remember, the address is Pragma Receiving Hall: Vertic Alley.   Well.”  She made sure both her own and her little lady’s hats were properly secured with pins to keep from losing them in the Floo, then motioned for young Tom to go first.  “Off we go, we’ve much to do.  Quickly now.”

If there was anyone keeping a close watch on the public floo and apparition point in Vertic Alley that day during the gloomy first week of November, they might have seen what at first glance was a quite common sight:

A young wizard, likely just under the cut off age for that year’s incoming Hogwarts class, stepped smoothly out of the floo with a graceful pivot before extending his hand.  His robes were of the younger styling that were buttoned firmly against his upper body but open and cut away at the hip to allow for movement - and ease of alteration as a young wizard grew.  Both the robes that were tight to the wrist and base of his neck and his trousers were in a sedate, appropriate navy for the time of year, and his boots were polished to a high shine that matched his ink-black hair - clearly a young wizard of at least some means.

Next came a young witch, who based on her dress was of an age with her male companion - a brother, most likely, or a close cousin despite the lack of shared features between them - despite having a petite frame that might otherwise put her younger.  In an equally sedate and proper dress and robes of dove grey to match her companion, with a matching hat set at a jaunty angle and white lace gloves on her tiny hands, she was a lovely young witch of good breeding.  And her braided golden hair was a delicate contrast against the improbable violet of her eyes.

Last was clearly the children’s carer, in a staid set of brown robes several degrees of quality below that of her charges, but still quite fine nonetheless.

After a momentary inspection, the nanny dusted off any traces of soot from her charges - a squib then, to some looks of distaste but no outright disapproval - with a few brushes of her hand, then off she led the pair, the young witch graciously taking the politely offered arm of the wizard.

All in all: a decidedly average scene for a decidedly average autumn morning.

Albeit it, with a notable exception for those canny-eyed to spy it.

As, rather than dangling from the waist of the woman, it was the young girl who was attired with a witch’s chatelaine: a belt attachment either ornamented or plain, from which the symbols of a witch’s station and/or occupation hung from leads - keys, needle cases, scissors, a coin purse, even, at times, a wand in lieu of an arm holster.

Including, most often, at least one key belonging to a Gringotts vault.

And from that particular young witch’s - not even of age to attend Hogwarts - belt, hung not one of those quiet signs of wealth, but two.

Their first stop on their trio of destinations following the auspicious arrival of Rose’s Hogwarts letter was to the wandmaker.

A fact that filled Rose with both glee - her own wand, a wand and Hogwarts, she really was part of the Wizarding World - and dread as there was no way to know what sort of wand she would have, or what it might say about her, until the thing was done.

Wandless magic had never come easy to her, no matter the amount of training and will she applied to it, though with tenacity and Tom’s relentless poking at her, she was capable of it and had a small repertoire of reliable spells tucked away along with a few far more sporadic successes.

Not like her powerful little brat of a brother.

Magic came to Tom Riddle in a way that almost defied belief - even for Rose, who had something of an idea of what he was capable of.

It was awe-inspiring, it truly was.

The more she got to know the magic that Tom was so prodigious with, the more she understood just how he was able to build a cult of personality with his power as the base before anything else.

She wasn’t about to let him lead some bloody, culture-sundering guerrilla war in her lifetime, but she could see how someone who hadn’t taught him how to tie his shoes could be overwhelmed by what he was capable of.

To Rose, he was just her snot-nosed younger brother with a protective (and possessive) streak a mile wide and a mind that just didn’t stop asking why.

Unless, that was, he was asking why not?

Nanny Emma could always be counted on to follow Lord Rosier’s instructions to the letter, and so it was that she led her charges on that cloud-laden autumn morning not to the often-bustling environs of Diagon Alley and Ollivander’s wand shop therein, but to another wandmaker entirely:

Blackwood’s, to be precise, on Vertic Alley not far at all from where they’d arrived via floo, Nanny Emma ushering them into the clean brick detached building that stood apart from its neighbors.

It was night-and-day from the crowded, dim atmosphere Rose had expected at Ollivander’s - but then, Blackwood’s was located in Vertic Alley.

And that was a higher-scale shopping and residential area than the more pedestrian Diagon.

Crisp, bright white trim framed the simple window that looked into an empty consultation area with red oak flooring, a wooden desk painted white, and a white cushioned waiting-bench in the window.

Blackwood’s was etched into the glass of the door, no other displays or ornamentation required.

At the sound of a bell tinkling quietly, both Tom and Rose turned their heads away from studying the plain shop to the curtain in the back to take in the newcomer.

Entering the consultation area was a stern-faced witch with fine lines etched around her mouth and the corners of her eyes following the cheery jangle of the over-door bell.  The wandmaker wore a long dress in the same style as what Rose knew was considered fashionable for witches in working professions with a straight skirt, buttons marching down the length of it, and a tailored top in an almost men’s style in a subtle grey and black pinstripe with an overrobe in black on top.  All of it combined to be not quite Edwardian but also not anything like the muggle fashions of the 30s either.  

The name of the shop was once more present in the stitching over the witch’s left chest, a simple motif of crossed wands underneath the white embroidery.

“This must be his lordship’s young ward.”  The stern witch inspected the golden-haired child from the top of her hat to the hem of her robe, then nodded crisply before directing her companions over to the waiting area.

Much to Tom’s disgruntlement, even if most wouldn’t know it from the slightest tightening around his eyes.

Rose wasn’t just anyone, and imagined he would be keeping an even sharper eye on the wandmaker and the fitting process than he would otherwise as a result of the implied dismissal.

“Yes, ma’am.”  Rose nodded sharply, neither bobbing a polite curtsy or offering her hand to a hissed “Young lady!” from Nanny Emma.  “Enora Rosier, ma’am.”

“Hmm.”  Rather than offended, Rose would wager the wandmaker had come down on the side of being entertained at her pettiness.  “I am Master Wandcrafter Mercuria Blackwood.  Here, in this shop, we create only the finest of custom wands for our customers and bond them using blood magic.”

Even without being fully versed on what differences this world might have from the one she expected, she could hear the disdain for Garrick Ollivander’s three supreme cores and intolerance towards Dark Magic.

Including, of course, even the most benign uses of blood magic such as wards, protection spells, and binding magi foci.

“First,” Mistress Blackwood tapped her wand on a drawer in her desk, opening it to reveal a piece of cloudy crystal of some kind about the size of an occamy egg which she then levitated onto the simple white leather desk pad between the two of them.  “A reading on your magical core.  Everything revealed will be kept in the strictest of confidence and secured via contract,” she assured her at a look from skeptical violet eyes.  Interesting.  Quite the unusual customer Lord Rosier had sent her in his ward.

“I just pick it up?”  Rose asked, studying the seemingly-simple crystal with both curiosity and suspicion.  

Especially in regards to the secrecy, she wasn’t entirely certain just how confidential Blackwood’s would be - especially as it was her benefactor and not Rose herself that was footing the bill.

“Quite.”  Mercuria nodded her head regally.  “And focus on your magical core whilst you’re about it.  It may take a moment to settle, you’re young yet miss and not fully settled into your power for years yet to come.”

Rose held in the urge to sigh – though Tom didn’t quite manage behind him to hide his snort but turned it into a cough to maintain the pretense he wasn’t blatantly eavesdropping on their consult – at that but followed Madam Blackwood’s directions anyway, allowing her eyelids to slip closed as she focused.

It took several long moments of deep breaths and focus, but eventually she felt the place inside her - her magical core, she’d long thought - that pulsed with quiet light tingle and warm.

And so did the crystal clasped gently between her hands.

Opening them like a flower and showing the softly glowing crystal in steady pulses of silver and true marine blue, she watched the light play for a long moment before setting the crystal gently down on the leather blotter, feeling a bit saddened as it eventually dimmed back to its resting state.

Madam Blackwood seemed a bit surprised if only for a moment before she marshaled her wits and scooped the egg-shaped crystal back up with a piece of cloth and dropped it back into the drawer.

“You’re a rather powerful young witch, my dear.”  She summed up the lovely light show after taking a considering breath.  “Quite disciplined for a newly turned eleven year old without a wand.”  Far too disciplined for an entirely untrained child in fact, but what the nobility got up to under the Ministry’s nose was none of her business.  “And with an equal propensity for protective magics and enchantments, though not to the exclusion of other fields.”

“Which is which?”  Rose could almost feel Tom’s burning curiosity behind her, and asked the question lest he pester her for months over it until he had his own fitting.  Even though she got the idea she was interrupting Madam Blackwood’s flow of thought a bit – she’d noted that like many inventors and creators from her first life, Madam Blackwood spoke aloud as much for herself as for her audience.  Madam Blackwood could handle herself.  Rose had no intention of wrangling a rabidly curious Tom Riddle for the next two months.  “Protection and enchantments?”

“Protective magics are almost always silver in composition.”  Madam Blackwood enlightened her - well, them really, showing no sign of irritation at the disruption as she summoned the woods from the more powerful end of the spectrum she kept in stock regardless of their nature.  Depending on the core used, wood could, at times, be bent one way or another even if it isn’t its natural state.  Cores weren’t nearly so accommodating.  “At the base at least, while enchanters are often known for their truest works having deep tones of the blue end of the color spectrum, at times dipping either towards indigo or teal depending on the work.”

Rose was rather entertained that her big sister habit of protecting those younger or simply those more vulnerable than herself showed itself in her magic.

Though the idea that magic was present on a vast spectrum was an interesting one, especially as most often it was referred to in more dualistic terms: light and dark, being the most prevalent.

That was a thought she’d have to look into more deeply - when she wasn’t hip-deep in a wand fitting.

Following Madam Blackwood’s instructions for the woods she’d summoned from her workroom behind the curtain – all unvarnished lengths of wood between eight and a half and eleven inches Rose estimated, which she thought was about average –  she focused on bringing her magic forward.  Whether Madam Blackwood suspected that Rose had some practice at it or not, Rose and Tom both knew that it was one of the steps to wandless magic.  After all, if want and intent were enough on their own, no one would ever need magical instruction at all.

As Rose called up her magic, she began to notice several of the wood blanks begin to - for lack of a better term - appear on the edges of her notice.  Warm or cold.  Inviting or rebuffing her and what the wandwood sensed of her magic.

A flick of Madam Blackwood’s wand had about two-thirds of the blanks she’d originally brought out disappearing back to her work room, and all at once Rose found those that remained both far more noticeable - and far more abrasive as several of them seemed to clash.

At least, that was what it seemed like to her.

She had no idea what was happening from a wandmaker’s perspective.

But the lessened field - even with the increased magical tone from the wandwoods - helped clear out what Rose was sensing significantly, and it was less than a minute later what she found herself reaching out and grasping one piece of light toned wood in particular with her left hand.

About nine or so inches long, it wasn’t as pale a honey as the blank that clamored at the end of Rose’s mind, or as icy as the near-black piece that attracted Rose’s attention as much as it repelled it.

Instead, it was warm and subtle and perfect all without unnecessary bells and whistles for her attention.

Judging from the knowing look on Madam Blackwood’s face, Rose’s choice - or perhaps that of her magic - wasn’t as surprising to the wandmaker, though the hint of a look towards the near-black piece Rose left behind made her wonder if Madam Blackwood hadn’t expected Rose to choose that one instead.

“Aspen,” Madam Blackwood enlightened her as Rose set her choice down on the leather blotter, the others being sent off.  “Known to choose those who are strong-minded and determined, a wandwood infamous for dexterity in martial magic, which often outshines its excellence in charmwork.”  The wandmaker studied the young witch once more.  For a young girl who on the surface appeared to be the same as every other pureblood miss who marched through her store, she had some interesting depths - and they were only half finished.  “This piece is particularly supple: it will bend before it will break.”

Another spell sent away the few remaining and unchosen wandwood blanks, replacing them with an assortment of potential wand cores that could be paired with aspen and complementary to both the young witch’s current power as well as her potential growth, a far trickier task than some wandmakers might have one believe.

“These are the more powerful cores I currently have in stock that might suit a witch with a protective spirit and an enchanter’s mind.”  Madam Blackwood motioned towards the small cases and vials that appeared on the desk between them.  “With the wood blank in your offhand and focusing on your core, for this step you will coast your dominant hand over the potential cores without touching them or their containers.”

Picking up her future aspenwood wand in her right hand - and noticing that it was pleasant to the touch rather than too hard but it also didn’t feel like it would dissolve in her hand - Rose decided to be methodical about it, starting with the core on her left and nearest her before moving onto the one beside it until she’d tested the entire first row, then moving directly back and over, zig-zagging in this way over all of the presented potential wand cores.

As she studied them, she couldn’t help but notice that many of the materials used in wandcrafting were quite morbid: heartstrings and bone and even retinas in some cases.

Naturally, because she’d been thinking on it, she ultimately found herself drawn to one of the “morbid” wand components in turn: a curl of what looked like bones that didn’t seem quite like anything else around it.

Though at least she knew her wand wouldn’t contain part of a magical creature’s heart, for all that dragons hadn’t been slaughtered for parts in ages.

Plucking the vial up from amongst its fellows, Rose registered that Madam Blackwood’s brows lifted in surprise for a brief moment before lowering once more into her placid, professional mask.

“The spine of a white river monster, from the Americas, a core whose spells are known for both force and elegance.”  Mercuria enlightened the young witch.  Oh yes, this would be one to watch indeed.  “The only one of its kind in all of Wizarding Great Britain, I would wager, as Quintana is notoriously stingy with sharing his materials with other wandmakers, and has never granted another his secret to catching the elusive magical beasts.”  Mercuria tapped the crystal vial with one clear-varnished fingernail.  “That one cost my mother quite a pretty galleon back when Quintana was still experimenting with the White River Monster parts for wandcrafting.”

Based on the amused eyes of the young witch before her, Mercuria was going to venture that something about her core was funny to her, though she couldn’t even begin to guess what it might be.

At a look from Ms. McKinnon, the girl who had been a somewhat genial customer was distracted by her young wizard companion, who darted over as soon as Mercuria was all through collecting the wand components, and watched her take a small vial of blood to bond the wand to her like a hawk.   Lord Rosier had already signed the contract regarding said-wand and its creation, as well as handling the payment via invoicing with instructions, all that was left for Ms. Rosier to do was return in an hour for collection of her new wand.  And all the while Mercuria became certain that the young witch’s new wand’s composition had given her quite a bit to think about even if she didn’t know enough of the child – though she could make some guesses based on the wand – to posit exactly why.

Still, it wasn’t her business.

Mercuria was a wandcrafter.

What a young witch – or anyone – did with one of her creations was for them to decide, and live with, not her.

As she joined Nanny Emma in their walk to the bookshop, Tom asking her all kinds of questions about what the process felt like as well as sharing his observations, Rose couldn’t help but indulge in a mental chuckle.

A wand core native to the Americas.

Of course it fucking was.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Five: Status Symbols and New Acquaintances

"With the Severing Charm, cutting or tearing objects is a simple matter of wand control. The spell can be quite precise in skilled hands, and the Severing Charm is widely used in a variety of wizarding trades."  Tom read out in his precise, upper-crust pureblood accent that had taken a year of elocution lessons and repetition to come naturally.  He had in his knowledge-greedy hands his copy of Basic Charms and Incantations by Gregor Grimoire, and was reading aloud to distract Rose from her anxiety-filled agitation.  Even if, for a text that was supposed to be the foundation of their wandwork education, seemed rather simplistic and was failing to distract as a result.  “This is in contrast to the Mending Charm which will repair broken objects with a flick of the wand.”

It was a decent attempt and Rose appreciated the care it showed, but it didn’t help, the words fading to background static.

Lord Rosier had sent word the prior evening that he would be arriving to take Rose - or properly Lady Enora - on an important errand.

Just Rose, which in both of their experiences rarely meant anything good.

Or at least, it wasn’t good from her perspective, and as a result utterly repugnant from Tom’s as there was little he hated more than sending off a perfectly intact sister and getting her back with cracks and chips in her veneer.

Despite herself, Rose was entertained by the fact that Tom was filled with pithy insults for the “basic” texts and saw several of them - particularly the one in his hands, but there was plenty of vitriol for the potions manual as well as the text for Rose’s “ladies’ culture” class that was little more than lessons in deportment and manners and showing her neck to those of higher status and power (the tome for magical home economics at least contained useful spells) - as wastes of the parchment they were printed on.

Rose had a hard time arguing it, seeing for herself a divide already playing out in action that she’d assumed existing in a story:

Children who’d been tutored in magic and the wizarding world culture from birth being held back in their studies to account for the lack of early education on the part of muggleborn students.

As the elder Rose had clearly illustrated by example, even the most uninvolved wizarding parent could and would provide the beginnings of understanding in their children - by osmosis if nothing else.

It was the foundation of a cultural divide that would only grow worse as time went on, not better.

It was a nightmare to come in need of neutralization, but damn if Rose had a solid plan of how to manage it, other than knowing that neither Voldemort’s or Dumbledore’s solutions were effective in the long term.

Subjugation never was, no matter which portion of society was in what role.

A derisive snort from her companion put an efficient end to Rose’s musings as she lowered her wand from where she’d been practicing the aforementioned severing charm, Diffindo, on stalks of wild grasses in the field bordering the cottage’s garden.

Rose Cottage was both a deceptive and accurate title.

It accounted for the actual structure quite tidily - all whilst leaving out the fact that that cottage was the centerpiece of more than a hundred acres of land.

Land that was kept safe and concealed by either muggle or magical interference due to Lord Rosier’s efforts to keep Rose’s existence as his ward, let alone his daughter, a secret until it was proper to do otherwise.

A fact that Tom and Rose had been taking advantage of to practice magic or simply hide from their minders for years - and absolutely would continue to do so for years to come, the Trace be damned as the wards should block it given Lord Rosier’s paranoia.

Though perhaps thinking too deeply about problems for future!Rose wasn’t the best idea while practicing a severing charm, as with the next slash of her wand and a mental call of Diffindo, rather than the spiky purple thistle flower she’d been aiming for, an entire four-foot stretch of grass and wildflowers tumbled to the ground from Rose’s shoulder height on up.

Rising his head with lifted brows, Tom eyed his sister for a long moment as she stood there red-faced and embarrassed over overpowering the spell.

That had been an adjustment.

With wandless magic, they’d had years to learn that Rose had to really push her magic at first to get any results from their practice.

But with a wand in her hand, she was far more adept than without, even if Tom would never let either of them fully rely on something that could be taken away.

Including having to worry for the first time about overpowering her spells.

Softly closing the textbook and setting it aside, Tom sat forward and held his hand out in front of him.  A flick of his fingers had the newly-cropped detritus rising into the air, and then a twist of his wrist separated the flower blossoms from the grasses and twigs.  Then with a sweep, he spun the blossoms in the air and set them down gently on Rose’s golden head, the mix of thistle, daisies, and an odd wood violet that had climbed up a stalk of grass only to meet an early end to Rose’s distraction.

A spin of Tom’s pointer finger had the flower stems twisting into her hair to secure the blossoms, and Rose gave him a fond but exasperated glance.

So sweet.

Such a fucking show off.

“I adore you, you prat.”  Rose told him with a quirk of her lips.

“I adore you as well, hellbeast.”  Tom replied right on cue with a haughty air, then flopped back down in a distinctly ungraceful display.  The sort of behavior that would shock Nanny Emma down to her starched combinations to see, as he only shed his “proper, polite lad” skin with his sister.  “Remember that.”  He commanded regally as he snaffled the disappointing text back up and cracked it open once more.  “My sister is a hellbeast complete with claws and fangs and a terrifying temper.  Not some simpering, demure little witch to let an arsehole toff w’at needs ‘is knickers pinked to get under ‘er skin.”

Rose hid a grin at the deliberate dip back into his East End origins.

That little punk.

He always knew how to make her smile.

“I play a demure little witch the same reason you play the proper, polite wizard.”  She reminded him with a roll of her vivid eyes, even as she lifted her wand and used a spell learned at the elder Rose’s knee to secure her new hair accessories and keep them from wilting.  “A young woman’s - muggle or witch - best defense is to be underestimated.  Especially when dealing with men who believe they have power over them.”

“Yes, yes.”  Tom waved a hand even as he refused to lift the nose he’d nearly glued to the index of spells in the back of Grimoire’s work, looking for something that wasn’t a variation of the magical theory they’d learned before simply reframed for wanded magic.  He was ecstatic to know that Hogwarts was reputed to have one of the finest collection of magical texts in Wizarding Britain, if not all of Europe.  Otherwise, he’d likely have found at least their first year of official magical education dreadfully dull.  “Might want to use a freshening charm, sister dear.”  He reminded her after using a wandless tempus to check the time.  “Lord Rosier should be here within a quarter hour.”

“Blast.”  Rose hissed a mild curse, even as she spun and made for the cottage, Tom snickering behind her as he lolled in the grass and eyed her flapping skirts smugly.

Hah.

At least now she was too aggravated to be worried.

He’d consider that a job well done.

Now.  Tom turned to the newly-sheared grass speculatively before lifting his hand once more.  About that severing charm…

Knowing, even if the girl herself did not, that their outing that day was to be the first time his daughter was exposed to any form of pureblood society, Dominic studied Enora from the top of her golden curls - held properly away from her face with a crown braid decorated with wildflower blossoms - to the tips of her polished dragonhide walking boots.

Yes, yes she would do quite well.

So long as she remembered to hold her tongue anyway, as his reports from Ms. McKinnon painted his current heiress was sharp witted and scathing when her companion or some random, if unlucky, child in the magical parks the nanny took them for socialization sparked her temper.

Perceptive, and occasionally unkind with it, were the squib’s exact words, though it was of little matter.

Such traits would benefit her well in Slytherin, especially as while he had been hearing for years from his reports of exceeding intelligence, perception, and stubbornness, the child was clever enough to never show her hand to him.

A fact which spoke not just to cleverness and intelligence but understanding, and that was a rare thing indeed to find in the young.

Coupled with the patience to sit through an entire reading and explanation of her legitimization and inheritance parchment-work and legalities, and Dominic felt quite securely smug that while the acquisition of his current heiress was on the shadier side of convention, it was and had been for years proving that it had been the correct choice.

Siring a conventional heir was still Dominic’s ultimate goal for the continuance of his line, but he could rest safe and secure in the knowledge that the penultimate goal regarding the future of House Rosier was already well in hand.

Well in wand as well, given the invoice that had crossed his desk from Blackwood’s to the extent of a truly extravagant seventy-seven galleons and thirteen sickles.

From that alone, even if the wandcrafters held too rigid to the oaths of secrecy regarding their clients, Lord Rosier knew that his daughter’s wand was one of both power and rarity, as a standard wand from Ollivander’s was a mere seven galleons.

Custom work was always more expensive, it was true, but there was a vast difference between an expected cost and one that bordered on obscene.

Even for a magical tool as important and vital as a wand.

Dominic nodded in approval when he saw that rather than hanging from her chatelaine on a lead-holster, his daughter had instead chosen a forearm holster that was visible when her summer-weight light robe sleeve fell back to her elbow as she reached out to touch the Portkey as instructed while Dominic was inspecting her.

“MacGregor Manse.”  He gave the password to engage the transportation spell, and left his musings about the future behind along with the cottage.

The present demanded his attention, or else everything he’d yet done would be for nought if his daughter failed to be accepted by pureblood society, and especially the wizards and witches of her generation.

To that end, and to remedy isolation demanded of the secrecy surrounding her, steps had to be taken.

The first of which, already awaited them in the Highlands.

It was a little known fact outside of the closed circles of the ancient and most ancient houses of the wizarding world, but the bond between a familiar and a magician was one that was both desired and most honored.

Any common magician might claim that their post owl or part-kneazle pet was their familiar but that was self-gratifying inanity.

Or pure ignorance, which was arguably worse.

The chance to find a familiar was so important that purebloods would flock to the annual faire hosted by the Most Ancient and Noble Clan MacGregor and sponsored by more than a dozen breeders of magical creatures.  Creatures that due to their specific breeding standards were always the utmost examples of their kind in all aspects that were important to a pureblood of taste and refinement: magic, bloodline, intelligence, and aesthetics.  Only the most magical of creatures could form and sustain a familiar bond with a complementary magician - it was a rare magician indeed who could merely walk into Magical Menagerie or some other common pet store and walk out with a familiar.

There was status attached to having a familiar - any familiar - though the more powerful or unique the creature the more respect a familiar brought to their bonded magician.

Like many fathers of his station, to MacGregor Manse did Lord Rosier bring his daughter.

Lord Rosier was determined that if it was at all possible, his daughter would have a familiar to ease her way and raise her innate standing amongst others of her future social hierarchy at Hogwarts.

And as Rose well knew, what Lord Rosier wanted, Lord Rosier tended to get.

“Greetings,” the deep, cultured voice of a young man had Rose turning from where she’d been standing studying a gamboling basket of kneazle-mix kittens that based on their appearance had been cross-bred with magical Egyptian Mau cats.  They were adorable, that was unquestionable, but while Rose liked cats none of them called to her beyond the instinctive aww that she had for any soft, vulnerable creature.  “I’ve never seen you here before, are you visiting from abroad?”

It was an unobjectionable question, even if it would steam Lord Rosier to hear it.

Thankfully, he was nowhere near.  Like the other parents and guardians and caretakers or even spouses or friends who’d accompanied those seeking a potential familiar, Lord Rosier had stayed back after charging the entrance fee to the faire to his Gringotts account and ensuring that Rose’s entrance token was of the highest level possible.  While he remained speaking with his acquaintances or whoever else was around in the “gentlewizard’s” waiting parlor, she was free to roam the faire.

All the faire, even the most restricted and controlled parts of it with the most exotic or unique - and therefore expensive - potential familiars to be found.

Before they’d arrived and Lord Rosier had explained the event, Rose honestly hadn’t the foggiest notion that such a convention existed.

Though as she had been learning almost from birth, there was more to this complex magical world than even she had imagined back when she read her first Harry Potter book in her first life.

Both in good ways - from her perspective - and if not outright bad ones, then ones that were proving to be terribly inconvenient.

Such as the idea that while a witch could be as skilled and powerful as any wizard, those few who actually tried were considered rarities if they succeeded and foolish at best if they failed.

Rose didn’t intend to fail.

The idea that she could have all the magic that she’d ever dreamed of literally at her fingertips and then be expected to simper and lower her eyes and spread her legs to produce heirs for a wizard’s “noble” bloodline as her life's purpose was infuriating.

And Rose’s temper had never been a thing to joke about, but a real and at times vicious thing.

In her first life learning how to manage her emotions appropriately had been a challenge requiring age and experience - as well as therapy.

Stepping up to raise a ruthless little blighter when she was only six years old in her second life hadn’t really helped that, as while she might mentally have the capacity for patience and empathy, physically she still had a lot of hormonal changes and mellowing to undergo before real consistent serenity was possible.

Instead of a damn good facade of it.

Honestly it was one of the real subversive joys of having to deal with Lord Rosier: that look he always got whenever he had to deal with her at her most bland and non-confrontational affect instead of managing to provoke a reaction.

“Well met,” Rose chose a tact in a split-second, able to spot fine robes and traditional - boring - cuts and tailoring at thirty paces thanks to Wine-Aunt Elder Rose’s teachings, and ignored the question.  “Lady Enora Rosier, of the Ancient and Noble House of Rosier, mister…?”

The young wizard - somewhere in his early teens, maybe, Rose would guess, but couldn’t say beyond that, blinked, tilting his head a bit to the side in interest.

There was a story behind why this was the first time he was meeting an heiress of House Rosier, from the mainline at that given her title of lady.

And he meant to tease it out.

It would make an excellent distraction whilst his younger cousin searched for a familiar that she wasn’t going to find.

Little Eileen was too sullen to have interest in animals beyond potions ingredients, but their shared grandmother seemed insistent on the idea that a familiar would help with the girl’s severe social reclusion.

“The Honorable Elias Selwyn, Lady Enora.”  Elias bent slightly at the waist, as it wasn’t a formal affair requiring a full bow, his short cropped wavy brown hair shifting in the Scottish breeze with the motion.  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And you, Mister Selwyn.”  Rose returned the nod, feeling a spark of curiosity about the name Elias Selwyn mixed with pleasant enough looks - that was the family Umbitch claimed to be descended from, wasn’t it?, glancing back towards the kneazle-mix kittens one last time before turning away.

Adorable, but not for her it seemed as Lord Rosier wanted her to search for a familiar and not merely a pet.

With Tom’s birthday and invitation to Hogwarts approaching in less than two months, it wasn’t a good time to test where the current limits of Lord Rosier’s patronage and patience were set - however tempting it might be.

Looking at who appeared to be an average young wizard, if a bit sharp from the calculating look in his eyes, from a wealthy or at least well-off pureblood family, Rose had a brief moment of what the fuck run through her very soul.

And then she moved beyond it, not about to get bogged down in living her life due to things she thought she knew because of a story from another life entirely.

When it came to a gamble like Tom, it was absolutely worth taking the chance on slipping a wild card into the deck.

But who appeared to be a regular wizarding child?

Nah.

Not worth the time to figure out where things went wrong or what might have happened fifty years down the line from the present.

Though as he’d introduced himself as the honorable Elias Selwyn, that at the very least meant he was in House Selwyn’s direct line of inheritance, the grandson or great-grandson of the current lord being most likely.

Fuck but she was out of practice spending time around children other than Tom - who was the furthest thing from normal, even for a wizard - and the random kid at the parks Nanny Emma or the elder Rose took them to when they had the odd free moment from their studies and the weather cooperated.

“Are the kittens not to your liking, Lady Enora?”  Selwyn asked as the young witch turned away from the sweet sight and began to walk further into the faire.  “Kirkwilde Kneazlery is one of the finest purveyors of both pureblood and mixed-breed kittens in Britain.”

Falling into place despite not being asked to accompany her - though he was interested to note that neither did she cut him off - Elias couldn’t help but give into his curiosity.

Young witches always tended to fawn over the kneazle kittens and puffskeins the most out of any of the pets and potential-familiars present from what he’d seen both at the fair and at London’s magical shopping district, as well as his own cousins, aunts, and younger sisters.

It had only been moments of observing her, but Elias was already starting to believe that young Lady Enora was far from ordinary.

Not in the least that she was raised apart from the social circles of young purebloods that tended to get thrown together as if their family alignments and standings meant that the children would of course be friends.

“The kittens are adorable.”  Rose answered, flicking a confused glance up at and then immediately away from the older boy.  “But none of them are my familiar, and that is what Lord Rosier brought me here to seek.”

Elias nodded thoughtfully.

That was understandable.

As he didn’t recognize her from Hogwarts, Elias assumed that she was still too young to attend, which fit with her slight height and petite form, if not her mature manner of speaking.

Elias himself was only present as it was an off-grounds weekend, as the fair always fell on, and his grandmother had wanted him to come encourage and support Eileen rather than visit Hogsmeade again with the other third years.

“Cats are fine animals,” Rose said, as it seemed Elias Selwyn was determined to talk to her, even if she didn’t understand why beyond the potential allure of newness.  “But I’ve always been a dog person.”

“Really?”  He smiled brightly, offering his arm.  “Then could I escort you to where the kennels have been set up?”  

At her slight smile and nod, he beamed.

Oh, this was marvelous.  

Grandmother couldn’t even be wroth with him if he spent his time squiring around a young Lady rather than hovering with the rest of the family around Eileen and his sisters, the latter of whom were well occupied with a litter of Persian-Kneazle crosses at another booth.

And if he brought her information about the new Rosier heiress, who before he didn’t even realize existed, all to the better.

Elias Selwyn, Rose learned within a few minutes of conversation, was indeed in line for the inheritance of House Selwyn, a proud Hufflepuff - which rather explained the friendliness - and rather surrounded by witches in his family with only a single male cousin for help.

It explained quite a bit about how quick he was to jump in and talk to her, despite Rose being a stranger and not the warmest when he approached her.

Short of being outright hostile, Selwyn was the sort who - for whatever reason - would see a young witch alone and insist on assisting her.

Even if the last thing Rose actually needed was assistance from some strange wizard not much older than herself.

From his perspective, he was only being a polite gentlewizard.

From hers, he was one step away from treating her like a toddler rather than a witch of Hogwarts age - but the potential connection was worth the youthful condescension and white-knight playacting.

Selwyn did actually know where the various kennels had set up, however, so at least if he was proving somewhat useful.

That he didn’t say any of the thoughts she saw written on his face about young witches and appropriate pets was a mark in his favor - even if the fact that he clearly had opinions about the matter was a strike against him in the first place.

Opinions fostered and indoctrinated by the culture around him, but extent nonetheless.

All that faded from her immediate concern as soon as Rose clapped eyes on the series of dog runs that Selwyn had led her to about a hundred yards away from where the smaller magical creatures were kept nearest the fair’s entrance.  Eyes wide with joy and a beaming smile on her face, Rose looked one way and then another, completely uncaring about whether it went against her carefully-cultivated public mask or not.  Sure, there were purebloods and as a result purists all around her, but dogs.

If they judged her harshly for being excited to see dogs in close quarters - other than the odd stray or pet at parks or on the street - since she’d been born into this world, then that was their problem.

Rose loved dogs.

All dogs.

Yes, even the hellrats masquerading as chihuahuas…so long as they weren’t trying to bite her.

And all around her in every direction she looked, were magical breeds of dogs.

Finally after having Lord Rosier’s demands come crashing down on her, things were starting to look up.

“What.  In the name of Merlin.  Is that?”

Tom could be excused for the blunt, rude tone of his question.

His Rose had left perfectly fine and sane - and returned with some slobbering beast and apparently absent a good portion of her mental faculties.

Rose laughed in his face, even as her monster panted at her feet, staring up at both of them with liquid - stupid - puppy eyes in an icy blue.

“Lord Rosier took me to MacGregor Manse, where they hold a sort of annual magical creatures matching convention.”  She explained to both Tom, who had a deep frown on his face - complete with puffed out cheeks that made him too cute to take seriously, though she’d never tell him that - and crossed arms as well as the wide-eyed Nanny Emma and Ginsy.  Thankfully, it seemed that their caregivers at least were only surprised, not frightened of the new member of their household.  “This is Geron,” she introduced her new friend who despite his young age was well-trained already.  “My familiar.”

There was a thrill inside her as she said it, even though it wasn’t the first time, and she felt Geron’s response inside her.

Friend, love friend, my Rose.

He was young, only four months old, and very much still a puppy with a limited understanding.

But he was a magical breed with a familiar bond - he would learn, and quickly or so the kennel master had assured both Rose and Lord Rosier once he was informed that his daughter had matched with a familiar.

Though not the expected or conventional sort for a young witch of good breeding that he would have preferred.

Geron was no house-crup.

To Rose’s muggle-trained eye, Geron looked like the unholy crossbreed of a Great Dane with the longer legs and spine of an Irish Wolfhound - and the shaggy, wire-type coat to go with it.

Not the dainty and proper familiar Lord Rosier had had in mind - the expression on the wizard’s face like he’d been forced to interact with (or worse: touch) a muggle made that clear - but Geron was Rose’s familiar nonetheless - which meant even if he could, Lord Rosier wouldn’t do anything about their bond, as it was so respected in wizarding society.

Rose passed the spell-shrunken shopping bag filled with Geron’s supplies over to Ginsy, who popped it away before returning to her duties, Nanny Emma slowly coming over and presenting a hand to Geron to much tail-wagging after Rose assured him through their bond that the “smells-like-bread-woman” was safe.

Meanwhile, Rose herself bearded a different dragon altogether: that of her jealous little prat of a brother who was still standing all stiff and disapproving as far from Geron as Tom could get without actually leaving the kitchen.

“Here,” Rose handed a slip of parchment to the sulking boy who was eyeing the puppy with disdain.

“What?”  Tom snapped, even as his hand darted out with excellent reflexes to snag the envelope from his sister.  “How did you get that thing anyway?”  He demanded to know, not yet opening or inspecting the parchment from Rose.

Likely a bribe over the new intruder no doubt.

As if having to deal with Lord Rosier whenever he deigned to visit them wasn’t bad enough now there was a mutt taking up space in their well-ordered world.

“I told you the expectations from Lord Rosier would increase dramatically, and they’ll only get worse once I’m fully inherited into the magics of House Rosier.”  Rose sighed, leaning her head on Tom’s shoulder and - predictably - smiling to herself when his arms uncrossed and Tom wrapped one arm around her shoulders.  “Anything that raises my worth in society will be coveted by Lord Rosier.”

“Including a familiar.”

“Including a familiar, though I would wager failing that I would’ve been strongly encouraged to select an appropriately rare and well-bred pet to take to Hogwarts.”  She huffed a laugh when Tom snorted inelegantly at the idea.

“What breed is he?”  Tom sighed in resignation.  The mutt was her familiar, there was nothing to be done about that.  (Though he didn’t know it - and would be furious if he did - that was the precise conclusion that Lord Rosier had come to as well.)  “Something suitably horrifying no doubt?”  He asked, wry.

“Iceni Trollhound.”  She said sweetly, smiling smugly up at her brother, cackling when he shoved her away in exasperation.

“Of course he is.”

His Rose had to choose - and be chosen by - an Iceni Trollhound - a creature that in time, could very well grow to be larger than his mistress, as Rose had always been quite petite in stature, and trollhounds could be over six feet from nose to tail at maturity.  It wasn’t an entirely useless beast, Tom supposed.  They were one of the more magical breeds of canine, able to track anything, even magical creatures that were otherwise resistant to being found like unicorns and demiguises, though were used far more often in mountainous areas to track and/or guard against trolls.

Tom eyed the creature currently panting with joy as Rose crouched to scrub her hands vigorously through his fur.

And they made some of the best protection dogs in the magical world, according to his readings.

It could be worse.

A guard and protector that could be with his Rose at all times and have it accepted, even revered by magical society wasn’t anything to sneer at.

Even if it did from in a furry package with a potential shedding problem.

At least a trollhound’s fur was useful in a few potions.

Though he would be certain to crack open the slightly-less-awful of Rose’s two “witches” textbooks for a fur-repelling charm.

Having come to a reasonable conclusion, Tom nodded.  He wouldn’t stoop to befriending the furball.  But he wouldn’t be cruel or alienate it either, if only for Rose’s sake.

At last he deigned to open what was certain to be Rose’s latest bribe for going along with one of her plots he didn’t agree with - only to come disastrously close to swallowing his tongue in shock as he read the information neatly printed on the business card inside the envelope.

Sayre & Singh

Magiherpetologists

10578 5th Ave, New York City, New York

Client Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle

Appointment Date: 13 January 1938  Time: 01:30 PM, EST

“Rose…”  Tom breathed out at last, feeling weak with emotion.  “What…?”

Violet eyes shot him a sly, knowing look from under dark lashes as Rose just barely lifted her head from where she was lavishing Geron with attention and basking in his affection through their bond.

“What?”  She smirked.  “You didn’t think I would go to an event that specializes in the rarest and most magical creatures in the wizarding world and forget about my baby brother the parselmouth did you?  I mean, honestly, Tom.”

It wounded him to admit it but…

“I didn’t even know there were magicians specializing in herpetology.”  He said, chagrined at this lack in his education.

Especially as a parselmouth.

“I didn’t either.”  Rose shrugged.  “But from the gossip I picked up wandering through the various sections, more and more specialized fields and careers are springing up following Newt Scamander’s book.  They,” she tipped her head towards the appointment card that Tom was gripping in one white-knuckled hand, threatening to crinkle even magically-reinforced cardstock.  “Didn’t have the largest selection, but their quality made up for lacking quantity.”

“Thank you, Rose.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”  Rose’s expression turned rueful.  “We’re going to have to convince Lord Rosier to arrange an international portkey for you to make that appointment.  Or bribe them to make a house call.”

Tom waved that off, eyes intent - and intense - on his sister.

Details.

“Rose.  Thank you.”

“You’re my brother, Tom.”  Rose looked away from that expression on his face, burying her nose in Geron’s still puppy-soft coat.  “You chose me, over all the advantages that Lord Rosier could’ve given you, being brought fully into the protection of House Rosier, you chose me. ”  Having enough of the schmoop, Rose let her expression turn wicked, safe in the knowledge that Tom wouldn’t see it and get suspicious.  “If you weren’t so obviously a Slytherin, I’d say you were a Hufflepuff with that kind of loyalty.”

Tom’s jaw dropped in sheer affront, eyes wide.

“You take that back!”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Six: Family Matters

The next six weeks sped forward in a blur, so busy were the residents of Rose Cottage.

Nanny Emma was preparing them for their upcoming entrance to magical society - particularly having to meet and make connections among the purebloods who might scorn either of her charges for their less-than-pure origins.  Their tutors were harder on them as their performance in their first year would be a direct reflection on them - and could either raise or ruin their reputations as a result.  Even Ginsy would get teary-eyed whenever the house-elf spied the wand either in Rose’s hand or the holster on her arm.

Geron learned, and grew, and grew to many complaints from Tom.

And then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, Yule approached - and with it, the ritual to accept Rose as a full member of House Rosier in magic as well as law and contract.

Rose was led not into a ritual room deep within the Rosier manor, but out onto the grounds.  Her hair was bound back in a simple braid.  Her robes were pure, undyed silk and rather than actual shoes she was wearing slippers made of felted, undyed wool that did little to protect her from stones underfoot but managed to keep her toes from falling off of cold nonetheless.

She’d never participated in any kind of ritual before - she was all-too-aware of where her own knowledge ended and actively avoided screwing herself over before she could even enter Hogwarts.

Holiday rites didn’t quite count, from what she understood.

Yes, those were rites, but they weren’t purposeful magical rituals tooled and designed for a specific replicable outcome.  They were far more inline with spirituality and paganism than spellwork.  And while they did often have an effect, allowing (in Rose’s experience at least) practitioners to feel a deeper connection both to their own magic and that of the world around them, that was more of a side-effect than an intentional outcome.

Rituals were different, more science and arithmancy than matters of faith and personal practice.

Her benefactor led her to the open-air ritual circle out within the manor’s woods personally, and Rose was honestly surprised to find that rather than being an empty space with maybe a stone circle or natural wooded grove, there were more than a score of other people waiting on them.

(She wasn’t surprised that her benefactor’s new wife wasn’t among them.)

Due to the prevalence of golden curls - unless the other’s hair had turned white or silver with age - and familiar features in eye shapes and noses, etc. she thought that these strangers might very well be the entirety of House Rosier.  Not everyone was blond, there was a striking witch with a dark bob who almost seemed ostracized by the others as well as a man with a tied-back black mane, but for the most part these strangers were familiar.  Family strangers, as odd of a thought as that was, given how she’d been raised and the circumstances of her birth.

Lord Rosier ushered her to stand in the center of the ritual space, and the others closed ranks around her at various points of a septagram, or seven-pointed star, based on some cue that made sense to them and none to her.

For his part, her benefactor took the topmost point facing her, and the whispers of conversation faded out as he led the casting of the ritual circle and lighting of the candles through wandless magic.

Kinda impressive, and more magic than she’d ever seen him used in the past, like… ever.

“I call forth from space and time

Spirits of the Rosier Line

Mothers, Fathers, Daughters, Sons 

Brothers, Siblings, Sisters, Friends

Our family spirit without end.

To gather now, in this sacred place

and help us bring this child to grace.”

Rose nearly had a heartattack as Lord Rosier cast what amounted to a necromantic summoning.  Dark arts, but not, as it was a call and not a command, but with the bloodletting as he opened his hand and made the summoning whilst bleeding over the large pillar candle before him definitely on the borderline.  Holy.  Fuck.

Lord Rosier was not playing around.

From the soft susurrus of surprise that swept around the circle, he also wasn’t entirely playing by the book but given the givens, Rose had nothing to compare this ritual - her ritual - against any others welcoming children into a family.

Rather than feeling the cold, or have it get worse as a glimmer appeared in the air behind and around Lord Rosier, Rose herself started to feel…warm.

Comfortable, even.

Somehow, as she became surrounded by the shades of the dead, she felt a part of something in a way she hadn’t known since her first life, even with having her little brother around to keep her on her toes.

Wispy forms of ghosts, some more visible and clear than others, surrounded both Lord Rosier and Rose, even as the living shifted and twitched around them.

Lord Rosier waited for long moments until the candle flame burned from red to black and back to the soft yellow of pure flame before continuing.

It was an old ritual he’d chosen, and from some of the looks he was garnering - though from the living and not the dead, it was worthy of note - not everyone approved.

Not that it mattered.

His daughter would be welcomed within House Rosier in the fullest manner possible.

He would make it so.

"The next generation has been born into our family, our legacy. We pledge to be with this child. This beautiful girl always. Apart but never separate. Free but never alone. She is one of us and because of that, we will bless her with all that we are.”  His tone was firm, unyielding, as he stared over his child’s golden head at his cousin Vinda.  She stared back implacably for long moments, eyes flickering over the shades of past Rosiers who had gathered around his Enora, even laying their transparent hands on her head or shoulders, then gave a slow, conceding nod.  Mudblood mother aside, Enora would be one of them.  “Welcome to House Rosier, Enora Rose Dominique Rosier. Blessed be."

“Blessed Be.”

As even the spirits of past Rosiers welcomed her into the fold, Rose felt a rush of warmth and what she could only call power sweep through her.

It was nothing like the gentle warmth and tingle of her core.

It was like a tidal wave, but one that somehow didn’t threaten to pull her under as she was anchored by the ghostly hands pressing into her and the eyes of House Rosier upon her and holding her up.

Like a support, a real support, for the first time instead of a shackle only meant to keep her down and in place.

The ghosts rushed past her, either disappearing of their own accord or banished by Lord Rosier when she was distracted by the rush of magic settling into place within her.

Holy fuck: no wonder purebloods were so confident all the fucking time.

With that sort of knowledge and grounding as a part of a greater whole, it would be hard not to be, even if the pressures that came with it were severe.

Though it seemed, as the living shifted around her once more into a new configuration, it wasn’t over yet.

Godparents.

Lord Rosier wasn’t playing games: he’d actually chosen and magically bound her to motherfucking pureblooded godparents.

What.  the Actual.  Fuck.

Though he’d actually been amenable to bargaining for Tom’s portkey to New York to cash in his birthday present, given her performance through the Yule rituals, so there was that.

Tom was less than thrilled for Rose to return home with a schedule that had been filled almost to the brim for the remainder of their pre-Hogwarts days - for both of them, at that.

And even less enthused than that, that Rose had another pair of pureblooded toffs now thinking that they had a say in how she chose to live her life, no matter the power that came with at least one of their names.

Even if she also brought with her an international portkey, a hotel reservation in New York for Tom and Nanny Emma, and a guarantor from Lord Rosier that would cover literally any pet or familiar Tom might match with at Sayre & Singh.

Rose in turn was ecstatic that Tom wasn’t.

Call her crazy or optimistic or even a masochist, but any moment where Tom was putting another’s wants and/or needs above his own was silently celebrated - despite those moments occurring exponentially more often when Rose was directly involved than anyone or anything else.

They still happened.

And as far as Rose was concerned, that was worth whatever frustration or discomfort she might suffer to continue proving - if only to herself - that Tom Riddle wasn’t some hopeless psychopath who’d been born a monster.

Yes, he had flaws.

No, he wasn’t perfect.

Alright, he may never be what overarching society considered a morally upright and wholesome person.

But he didn’t have to be.

All Tom had to be as Rose’s brother was himself - even the ugly parts of his personality, how he could be selfish, manipulative, and cold.

So could anyone.

What mattered to her was that he didn’t tear himself to pieces - literally or figuratively - in some bloody-minded pursuit of utter superiority as a defiant response to any-and-everyone who ever made him feel less than.

Madam Blackwood arched a brow at the familiar sight that entered her family’s shop on the 2nd of January, 1938.

Only this time, being familiar themselves with the routine of a Blackwood wandfitting, both the intriguing young witch she’d created a powerful tool to match her powerful core for less than two months prior and the uniformed nanny went to occupy themselves in the sitting area immediately, leaving the young wizard to approach her alone.

And she wondered, as he took the seat in her client chair with nearly-feverish blue eyes, just what kind of challenge this child would be.

Less than an hour later, taking a series of deep, steadying breaths in the privacy of her workroom, surrounded by the wand elements that had chosen and been chosen in turn by one Tom Marvolo Riddle, she wondered the same all over again.

Albeit for vastly different reasoning.

Before her on her crafting bench was the ten-and-a-half inch blank of unyielding ebony wandwood that she’d been certain would suit young Lady Rosier before she’d taken up the supple aspen instead.  Beside it was a phoenix tail feather, the most lush - and powerful - that Blackwood’s had ever received.  Together, they would combine to make one of the most powerful - and combative - wands Mercuria had personally ever crafted.

And the boy was only eleven.

Eleven years old, with the most powerful juvenile magician’s core Mercuria had either seen or heard of from her mother’s and grandmother’s tales.

Combined with the comparatively subtle power of his companion, they would make a truly formidable pair.  She was tempted to side-step the vows of her profession for one of the first times in her long career.  If only to warn her grandchildren who would be at school with the two.

Though it was unlikely to matter as both Magnolia and Marcus were older than Riddle and Rosier, and as proud members of Ravenclaw probably wouldn’t have much to do with them as they were almost certainly bound for Slytherin.

Merlin help the staff of Hogwarts, however.

They were going to need it.

Rose didn’t know whether to be baffled over the changes to Tom’s wand from the story she once knew or to revel in them.  She wasn’t surprised that he’d still been drawn towards a phoenix feather core - he was so bloody powerful that barring some kind of basilisk wand core, there probably wasn’t anything else that could handle him.  Especially at his current age and maturity.

Years from now something even rarer than phoenix feather might match him - but then again maybe not.

That was the trick of wandlore, she thought: there was never any guarantee that a fitting when you’re older and your core had fully formed and matured would net you anything over a tried-and-true magical foci that had partnered you for years.

Ebony, however, was quite a different wood from yew and with a much better reputation among the superstitious.  Less connotations regarding death and the Dark Arts, at least.  She wasn’t surprised in the least that Tom’s wand came out unyielding.  Even as the five-year-old kiddo she’d plucked up out of an orphanage, Tom had already been very much himself, which was probably why he had an ebony wand this go-around in the first place.

Still, she thought that people might put too much stock in wandlore, insofar as using it to make determinations about others.

Nobody was ever just one thing.

Rose and Tom were both proof of that.

Less than a fortnight later, Rose bid Tom and Nanny Emma goodbye for the night (given the time difference) as they were whirled away to New York City for Tom’s appointment to potentially find a familiar.

Rose slept poorly that night, as not only was the cottage too quiet, it was in a different room than she had grown accustomed to over the years.

Nanny Emma had followed through on her threat and Rose and Tom had been separated, complete with having a magical contractor come over after the new year to add an addition onto the cottage.  There was a full master suite now, taking up a new floor.  But as much as she liked the space and ensuite bath, she missed Tom.

Even Geron didn’t quite quell the ache that grew with having to sleep alone for the first time in years, though he helped.

Tom wasn’t adjusting well either, for all that he was being all male about it with his stiff upper lip.

Ah well, that was what sleeping potions were for.

With the appointment Rose had the following day, one of many payments towards her agreement with Lord Rosier to acquire Tom’s familiar, she couldn’t afford to be droopy-eyed and slow-witted.

After all, it was her first real meeting with her godparents - and it wouldn’t do to be anything less than her best.

Lord Arcturus Black watched as Lady Heloise Delacour circled their new goddaughter like a vulture surveying a carcass for the finest tidbits to feast upon.

He had to give Dominic credit: his old friend hadn’t pulled his spellwork an iota when it came to giving his slightly scandalous daughter the greatest chance of success.  He’d spared nothing in either power or thoroughness in her welcoming ritual.  It had been a true pleasure to behold, especially as given that the Rosier ancestors had blessed the girl as powerfully and thoroughly as any father - let alone lord - could have wished.

The old ways yet stood strong despite what some detractors and catastrophizers predicted.

Arcturus had never quite agreed with his oldest and closest friend - outside of his siblings - when it came to Dominic’s scheming to acquire an heir.  Infertility happened.  It was a fact of life.  Even those of the finest and highest breeding weren’t exempt.

There was a reason why most magicians weren’t betrothed until their bodies were finished maturing and their magic had settled in their late teens.  A gentleman’s agreement between families was one thing, but a magically binding contract was another - and no one wanted to risk betting on a barren match.  Even so, Dominic’s wife Constantina had been perfection itself, a true helpmeet and partner.

Except in her inability for unknown reasons to produce a child.

Even a girl.

Without an heir, a lord could be pushed to extremes, though it was a fate that Arcturus himself had never had to face with his beautiful and strong children in his son and daughter.

Together with his brother’s three children, the main line of the House of Black was well secured, though he would never deny any of his other siblings if they found matches that suited them should they choose to add to the family tree.

Family, to Arcturus and everyone he knew, came before everything save for magic itself.

To that end, he couldn’t blame Dominic for his choices, even if they’d seemed extreme at the time and were currently causing him a bit of drama in his second marriage - or so his friend complained now and again over a decent dram of firewhiskey.

Arcturus had known for years that if Dominic’s daughter reached Hogwarts age without another heir appearing for House Rosier that his friend would task him with being her godfather and had agreed with some reluctance.  

The girl, strictly speaking, wasn’t a pureblood.  It was an understandable choice on Dominic’s part, given that it was nearly impossible to find a pureblood girl willing to serve as a surrogate, even at the substantial fee a lord could pay for the service.  Whereas a canny mudblood or halfblood might not have the same scruples - and with a fertility that often purebloods couldn’t match, loath as Arcturus was to admit it.  However, her mother was a witch, Dominic had assured him of that much, for all that his friend had never spoken a word on the subject of the woman’s actual identity.

First generation pureblood was better than the alternative - either a muggle the way a blood-traitor would solve such a problem, or worst yet having no heir at all - despite not being ideal.  A true stickler might still decry Arcturus’s goddaughter as a halfblood however, and that was where Arcturus himself along with Lady Heloise came in.  With their backing, and the influence they carried each in their own countries of Great Britain and France, even if the likes of Caractacus Nott lifted their noses at their goddaughter, they wouldn’t dare say anything regarding her blood status.

Everything else, any concerns that perhaps the oldest generations might have about the newest daughter of House Rosier might bring to bear, was manageable.

And for his oldest friend, Arcturus was willing to help manage them.

“Your deportment, face, and form are good.”  Lady Heloise declared regarding her young third cousin, raising an imperious brow as she came around to face her once more having finished her visual inspection of the girl.  “How is your French?”   She asked in her mother tongue.

“Instructed from the cradle” came the answer as Arcturus continued to observe rather than engage, his silver eyes catching all - even the slight narrowing of that pretty violet gaze.  A unique trait, but one thankfully that didn’t point towards any specifics regarding her mother’s identity.  A blessing, that.  “Though my accent is very formal as a result.”

“Good.”  Lady Heloise nodded, though she pursed her lips in silent commentary on that very formal, educated accent.  Yes, no one would confuse the girl with a native speaker, but better an educated and learned accent than something uncouth.  “And your Latin?”

“Five years instruction,” came the next answer, this time without so much as a blink as Lady Enora switched languages.  “In the Classical dialect.  Two years in the Low and Vulgar dialects for scholarly use.”

Arcturus arched a brow in surprise, rather enjoying the taken-aback look on Lady Heloise’s face.  She was a lovely woman, well-bred and educated.  But by Merlin was she a snob, and Arcturus thought that as a Black.

But then: she was French.

Damn Dominic and his familial connections on the continent anyway.

Couldn’t he have had a nice, modest female cousin in a Dane or a Swede?

Why did they have to be French?

“Your father has educated you as a wizard.”  Lady Heloise gave voice to the object of her surprise, as while it was the standard that a lady be educated in French and Latin, it was generally for conversational and school usage rather than for scholarly endeavors that required multiple dialects of Latin.  She wasn’t disdainful, but she also wasn’t not either in her tone.  “Rather than a lady.”

“On the contrary, Lady Heloise.”  Arcturus approved the lift of her little chin very much as she faced off against the old dragon, who was the closest female cousin to Dominic in age who wasn’t embroiled in ill-advised affairs with a German revolutionary.  Lady Heloise was of their parent’s generation rather than being of an age with them or perhaps an elder sibling.  As a result he was rather certain this was only the beginning of a power struggle between the pair of Lady Enora and Lady Heloise when it came to what was proper and appropriate and what was not.  “Lord Rosier educated me to exacting standards to potentially serve as his Heir as well as a Lady of House Rosier.  However, the duties and expectations of his Heir have always come first.”

To his surprise, Arcturus thought he might genuinely grow to enjoy his goddaughter on her own merits rather than as an extension of her father.

How novel.

Lady Heloise merely sniffed, her back seeming to through some strange magic straighten even further from its already poker-straight posture in light offense over being so handily refuted.

“Cheeky.”  However, was all she said, and Rose rightfully took it as a win.  “You’ll have to be careful with that tongue in society, my dear.”  She softened, if only infinitesimally.  “With your circumstances, minor slights and offenses that under other circumstances might be forgiven or overlooked will likely be held against you.  You must be perfection to avoid censure.”

“Even then,” Lord Black spoke for the first time rather than observing through what seemed to be an all-seeing gaze, his voice smokey and dark.  “Those thus inclined will still seek to find something no matter how perfect you are in manner and deportment and behavior.”

“If offense is impossible to avoid,” Rose spoke slowly glancing carefully between the old battleaxe of a witch - who was wearing a frankly gorgeous afternoon gown that was distinctly Late Victorian rather than the almost-Edwardian fashion Rose was used to seeing - and the stately, handsome lord.  “What would you suggest, godfather, godmother?”

The smiles she received for her question had far too many teeth showing to be anything but vicious.

“That it be calculated rather than left up to lesser magicians to discover for their own.”  Lord Black announced as he rose to his rather tall height and strode over to her, easily taking up one of her tiny - comparatively - hands and pressing a swift kiss to the back.  “You are ours to guide in both magic and manner.  Trust in us, my dear, and we will make you a terrifying creature indeed…”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, she was so fucking in.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Seven: Hogwarts Bound

If six weeks seemed to pass in a flash, then nine months could seem to last forever and then end all at once in the run-up to entering Hogwarts.

On the advice of her godparents, Rose thankfully found her social calendar pared down significantly from what Lord Rosier originally planned - they needed time, or so they said, to fashion her into an appropriately ferocious creature.  One worthy of both her new name and her new connections to House Delacour and the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.  They didn’t want - or so it was suggested - the rabble of young children to ruin their hard work by trying to lead Rose astray, either intentionally or simply by example.

After they were certain of her ability to prevent any major social gaffes, she was introduced - and thereafter expected to socialize with - a small selection of purebloods from her generation.  Which meant, naturally, she spent far too many afternoon teas at Lady Delacour’s home with snooty French witches.  Still.  It could be worse.  Her godfather might be attempting to force a friendship between herself and his niece Walburga who was two years her senior - a scheme destined for failure before it even began, though as a dutiful daughter of her House, Walburga wasn’t likely to openly shun Rose - so that was something.

On the other hand, his own children in Lucretia - who was older than Rose by several years - and Orion who had just finished his first year at Hogwarts were far more genial.  To the point that when Hogwarts began, Rose had hope that Lucretia would keep Walburga in line as the eldest Black at Hogwarts now that their cousin Dorea had graduated.  Even if only to show a unified front now that Rose was Lord Black’s goddaughter, a lack of ostracism was perfectly acceptable compared to the potential hell both Rose and Tom might face at school given their less-than-pure origins.

Rose found herself having to put in work with these pureblooded assholes on how to both hold her tongue and keep her face from saying things that were no longer allowed out of her mouth, but she couldn’t deny that it was potentially worth it.  Potentially.  Maybe.

Honestly the main bright side of her torture was that Tom was right there with her.  Except he sucked it up like the manipulative little sponge he was inside.  The fucker.  They were basically getting “How To Slytherin: 2.0” from two purebloods who’d written the damn book on the subject.

Because let’s be real: neither Rose nor Tom needed the 1.0 version and it took Lord Black and Lady Delacour approximately ten seconds to clock that.

But they did need the intermediate lessons since while Nanny Emma had raised them “properly” they hadn’t had the social exposure to the pureblood social circle from the cradle and would be one step behind once they got to Hogwarts if it weren’t for Rose’s godparents taking their duties very seriously.

It paid off, however, in the form of a distinctly pleased Lord Rosier over what he was seeing during the now-required weekly (or sometimes even more often than that) meals he shared with them.

When at one of those shared meals led to an announcement by Lord Rosier that his new wife was pregnant and due at the end of the year, Rose could not have been more effusive in her congratulations.

Finally, finally, an end to her being in inheritance and duty limbo was at hand.

Between the Slytherin lessons, meals with Lord Rosier - and his personal tutelage of Rose which she had not signed up for and she would appreciate it if he spent a little less time with her and a little more focusing on his wife and unborn child.  Honestly.  Wasn't the man meant to be ignoring her now that the future heir was secured?  What the hell. - and their actual lessons, plus a small amount of social requirements overseen by her godparents, time whipped by in a hurricane of preparation for Hogwarts.

Geron grew swiftly, seeming like he was all legs by the time Rose was packing all of his supplies in one of her trunk compartments, and Tom’s familiar was nipping at his heels when it came to growth.

Kali - who was probably the most inaccurately named snake ever given her lazy tendencies and overall laid back personality from what Rose could tell - was a magical species of constrictor who as a result had the addition of a very mild form of venom.  She was also a gorgeous dark green on black pattern.  And liked to ride around on Geron’s back as if the trollhound was her personal conveyance, which had Tom up in arms over his snake being a traitor for liking the “mutt.”

Then they finally got some freedom when August came and for a pretty typical reason: school shopping.

Most of it was utterly mundane.

Gathering the correct supplies: reams of parchment, plenty of quills and ink, telescope, scales, potions ingredients - really the whole lot with two exceptions that had them excited over their mild form of freedom.

They didn’t get freedom to do what they wanted and visit stores and buy what they actually wanted, not even Tom.  There was always someone watching, always the expectations of Lord Rosier to conform to.  Before their official Hogwarts shopping in August, only time they’d gotten even a little personal freedom besides running wild on the Rose Cottage grounds, was when Wine Aunt Rose took them to London.

But even then they had to be careful or else Nanny Emma or Ginsy would find something that toed the line of “allowed” and it would be taken along with their trips with the elder Rose curtailed for a time.

It was restrictive but from what Rose could tell based on the very carefully curated “visits” with other children under the auspices of either Lord Rosier or godparents, it was normal for pureblood culture to keep tight leading strings on their children away from their estates until they reached a certain age.

From that perspective, Rose and Tom were the outliers.  No, they didn’t have the chance to make friends with other children either within their extended families or the friends of their parents.  But on the other hand…they had Wine Aunt Rose.  And Wine Aunt Rose had no problem taking them to parks in muggle cities to play with other children or the seaside, or whatever.

Mary Rose Sheridan didn’t give two shits for pureblood bullshit when it comes to sequestering their children, and as a result Tom and Rose actually knew how to interact with other children - just not necessarily pureblood children, and therein was the rub as far as Lord Rosier and her godparents were concerned.

However, the work that Rose and Tom put in with both learning and minding their manners paid off, and when it came time to buy their school supplies they were allowed to do so without having Nanny Emma lurking.

And while for the most part Rose honestly didn’t care about most of their school supplies - what was there to care about, it was just school supplies - other than ensuring that they had enough things of good quality, there were two shops that snagged her attention.

(She wasn’t counting the tailor, as they had a family tailor contracted for House Rosier who came and did their fittings privately.  Her station may come with strings, but every now and again it also had benefits.  The main one of which, having grown up poor in her first life, was the money.)

Both Rose and Tom went a little…wild in the bookshop in Vertic Alley, especially once they found the secondhand section that was filled with out-of-print and annotated volumes.  Books had never been part of her life that she had to bargain with Lord Rosier over.  Even after Tom came along and proved to be even more of a voracious reader than Rose was.  Of everything Rose did, her thirst for knowledge was a trait he heartily approved of, and as a result Rose Cottage had a running tab with Flourish and Blotts via their owl order business.

They already had two sets of first-year books, including the gendered editions that each had listed differently from the other.  They’d had them since Rose got her letter, and then duplicates and the “wizard” books added after Tom received his own.  They, strictly speaking, didn’t need to visit a bookstore during their August shop.

They absolutely did anyway and gave no fucks that they would soon be living in a castle with an expansive library to utilize - or for the state of Lord Rosier’s vaults, as their outfitting was on his tab and not from Rose’s allowance or the cottage accounts.

It was simple math on their parts for the small mountain of books that ended up stacked on the bookseller’s counter: the school year contained three terms of thirteen weeks each, totalling out to thirty-nine weeks total.

At a reading rate of only a single non-school book a week, that was thirty-nine books each.

Realistically, both of them were capable of reading more than that, but that was where the Hogwarts Library itself came into play, as well as the ability to swap amongst each other.

To round things out, both Rose and Tom chose a total of forty books to take along with their school texts, and despite what some might think they weren’t all non-fiction either but included both fiction and compilations of poetry.

The clerk manning the counter was bemused, but Rose thought they probably made their day - especially if they got any kind of commission.

It wasn’t entirely as simple - if large in volume - as it might sound, as it didn’t take long for either of them to realize that there was a considerable amount of overlap of about a third of their choices.

Leading to a frantic tallying of their books and new choices being made.

“Next?”  Rose called, glad that none of the adults in her life - who would judge, except for her namesake - were present to see the two of them so unhinged and definitely frazzled.

So far they’d combed through half of their individual stacks and set aside eight titles that they’d doubled up on.

“I have Myth, Monsters, and Demigods: Traces of Magical Rites and Rituals in the Ancient Near East.”   Tom reported dutifully to his Rose who noted down the title on a piece of parchment that the shop clerk had been more than happy to hand over to help with their sorting process.

Rose made an interested sound, glancing up and over at the tome, but a quick scan of her own pile showed that she didn’t have anything with a similar title.

Taking the next book from her own stack, she already knew at a glance at the title that Tom wouldn’t have a match in his own books, but announced it anyway to keep in rhythm.

“Sheep to Shawl: Magical Preparation and Use of Wool in Fiber Arts?”

Tom wrinkled his nose and shook his head quickly, finding that title dead boring though he knew Rose probably was far more interested and hadn’t simply grabbed it on a whim.  She liked all those handicraft things that she’d pestered Nanny Emma and Ginsy to teach her - at least what they could.  That there were magical forms of things like knitting and weaving and sewing had had her far more excited than Tom thought rational when she found spells for mending and cutting fabric in one of her witch’s texts.

At least their music and art lessons were skills that they were expected to have given the patronage of the House of Rosier and the social circles they were expected to traverse.

But Rose would be Rose, and that she liked to make things was far from the worst weird trait she could have.

“An Introduction to Cursebreaking, Shafiq and Veridian?”  He offered rather than comment.

“Duplicate.”  Rose sighed, moving her own copy from her pile over to the center so they could negotiate on which books they would actually buy in duplicate and which ones they would trade off time with.  As well as see if any of them were first editions or annotated.

Eventually however, they managed to finish at the bookseller and moved on with their day, which led to Rose having the time of her life - and Tom burying his nose in one of his new books - at the art supply store.

Because it was an art supply store but not strictly a fine arts supply store - they had everything from fine art to fiber and fabric crafts to calligraphy to even photography supplies.

It was a treasure trove.

And she was unsupervised with her benefactor’s vault key.

Life was good.

“Here loves,” on the last visit Mary Rose could arrange before the kids were swept off to Hogwarts for their first year, she quietly passed over a pair of scrolls and small boxes to them.  “It’s not a traditional gift or going away present, but it’s one that’ll stand you in good stead if you ever have need of it.”

Blinking in curiosity, Rose swiftly unwrapped her gift box while Tom - true to form - opened his scroll and started to peruse the contents.

It was a simple silver chain, fashioned with flat links to sit snug and discreetly against the skin - but even without actively feeling for it, Rose could sense the magic it carried.  Too large for her wrist but far too small to wear as a necklace, Rose thought it might be…

“An anklet?”

“Mmm.”  Mary Rose nodded in approval.  “Spelled for comfort and security and embedded with a shield charm.”  She shared casually.

As if people handed over enchanted jewelry every day, even as a gift.

“Lord Rosier might have something else for you.  But you’re beautiful children heading to a place far from home and filled with strangers.  Each and every one a potential danger to you.”  Mary Rose told them honestly.  Even a bit brutally.  But…they were beautiful children.  They needed to know.  “The shield isn’t much - it won’t stop a curse.  But a stunner and minor hexes are within its range and should buy you time if you need it.”

“You’re expecting us to be attacked.”  Tom noted shrewdly, holding up the open scroll - an open scroll that detailed several interesting defensive charms as well as a unique hex he’d never imagined might exist.  Though given Mary Rose’s…everything, he wasn’t surprised she knew it.  “Why?”

“The world is dangerous for beautiful children.”  Mary Rose told them resolutely.  “Lord Rosier’s patronage will get you far, but there’s always those who are too stupid to be afraid.  Better to have and not need, than to find yourself in need and helpless.  Lord Rosier and his ilk will never tell you, so it’s up to me.  The less pure the blood of the witch or wizard, the less use purebloods will have for you.  Neither of you are muggleborn, so you’ll likely escape the worst of it.  But it exists.  Never let them tell you it doesn’t.”

Rose glanced over the hex that Tom silently pointed to, brows raising and heart dropping as the details of it sank in - along with edifying exactly what it was Mary Rose feared happening to them.

Why she gave them scrolls with theoretically advanced but practically rather simple charms and a vicious hex.

One designed to send stinging hexes of increasing severity at the target - but only if the target was actively touching or laying hands on the caster.

“Were you…?”  Rose couldn’t help but ask, even knowing she was likely jabbing at a sore point for the older witch.

“Not me.”  Mary Rose refuted at once, with a firmness that was filled with truth.  “But I know several muggleborns and a halfblood during my time at Hogwarts who were subject to predations or coercion, and I will not have it happen to either of you if it can be prevented.”

Rose blinked, taken aback for a long moment, but then found herself markedly unsurprised.

Hogwarts was a co-ed boarding school.  It was the late thirties.  Lady Delacour found it uncouth, but there were people among that social set that Rose had heard use the word mudblood in casual conversation.

Bullying she’d expected, sexual assault hadn’t occurred to her but it made an appalling amount of sense.

Powerful people often felt entitled to things.  To having what they wanted.  To enforcing or exerting their power on those they saw beneath them.

She could see why and how Mary Rose would fear Rose or even Tom being assaulted at Hogwarts even with the protection of House Rosier and in Rose’s case House Black.

“Show us how to cast these spells?”  Rose asked instead of continuing to press the issue.  “I imagine they take a bit of repetition to get right, especially the hex.”

“I would like nothing more, my dears.”

When Lord Rosier presented both Rose and Tom with a dainty diamond-flecked bracelet and a wrist watch - respectively - embedded with protective enchantments, neither of them said a word about the simple silver anklets they wore against their skin.

Or again when Lord Black gifted Rose with a stunning pair of simple round diamond stud earrings that had to be at least a quarter carat each if not larger.  Or the rose-gold hair comb studded with pink and white sapphires in the shape of a rose from Lady Delacour.

They were protected.

Their bodies would be safe.

At the end of the day, that was all that mattered, even if the reality of it being required at a school was infuriating and heartbreaking to Rose.

1 September 1938 came over the residents of Rose Cottage like a whirlwind, with Nanny Emma and Ginsy as the eye of the storm.

The stalwart pair would be staying on at the cottage as its caretakers - Rose had the idea that Lord Rosier was simplifying matters so that he didn’t have to wage a war regarding chaperones when they returned from school - while their charges were away at Hogwarts.

Ginsy oversaw efficiently packing their trunks for them after Rose and Tom each were responsible for setting out the supplies and miscellany they wanted to take with them.  Like everything practical, Rose hadn’t seen a reason to spare Lord Rosier’s vaults when it came to choosing their trunks, and as a result they had top of the line models for both space and organization as well as security.  Barring an adept staff member or an Auror, no one would be getting into their things.

Which was important, given that their trunks each contained a library compartment that contained books that might not be banned or outright illegal, but certainly wouldn’t be found on any approved list for first years.

(That was a lie.  Some of the muggle fiction Rose tended to acquire and hide from Nanny Emma to Tom’s bemusement was absolutely banned.  Just, you know, not in Wizarding Great Britain so it therefore didn’t count.)

Neither Geron or Kali were pleased about having to suffer the indignity of carriers no matter how well supplied and spelled, but eventually were bribed into compliance.

And then they were off to Platform 9 ¾ via the Floo, ready for the next stage of their lives to truly begin.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Eight: Opinionated Headgear

1 September 1938; Kings Cross Station

No books that Rose had read - in either life - had effectively prepared her for the true crush of humanity that awaited them when they stepped out of the Floo and onto Platform 9 ¾ to board the Hogwarts Express.

“This way, children.”  Nanny Emma hustled them over towards the rear of the train, where a wizard in a fancy red uniform top and crisp black trousers - no robes, likely due to the physical nature of his job - was loading crates and cages of pets and familiars alike onto one of the baggage cars.  “Quickly now.”

Geron gave a soft bawoof in distress at being both kennelled and separated from his person, but Rose simply crouched down and gentled him.

“It’ll be alright, Geron, I promise.”  She assured her faithful companion of nearly a year.  “The train attendants will take good care of you and Kali on the way to school, bubba.”

“Species and breed, status, name, student name?”  The attendant asked crisply but not unsympathetically at the sight of the tiny first year witch and her mournful companion.

“Magical canine,” Rose answered, ensuring one more time that the magical luggage tag was properly affixed to Geron’s kennel, Tom doing the same with Kali’s travel terrarium.  “Iceni Trollhound, familiar, Geron, Lady Enora Rosier.”

The attendant nodded, his dict-a-quill swiftly filling in the information then he tore the baggage claim slip in two, one half sticking with a spell to the kennel and the other fluttering over for Rose to take.

“Put the claim slip in with your trunk and then after you’re sorted, miss, the Hogwarts elves will send your familiar up to your dorm.”  A spell had the kennel slipping onto one of the baggage cars with ease.  “Next?”

Tom went through the same process, though he noted that Kali was placed in a different car than the mutt - likely due to being a reptile rather than a mammal, which pleased him that such needs were being taken into account.

They traded hugs with Nanny Emma, the squib unbending enough from the stern caretaker/charge dynamic to give them firm hugs and wish them well with damp eyes, and then they were tugging their featherlight-charmed trunks up onto the train behind them in search of a compartment.

Rose and Tom didn’t get far before they found themselves scooped up by an eagle-eyed Lucretia Black.

“There you are.”  The young lady entering Fourth Year spied them, having been keeping watch for them near the end of the train - given that both younger children had familiars to drop off at the baggage cars - on her father’s orders.  The House of Black had already made a firm declaration when it came to Lady Enora and her…companion, but often what was known outside of school could fall to the wayside when they’re secluded for nine to ten months a year at school.  Reinforcement of the status quo beyond the school was at times required.  And as the oldest named Black rather than simply one of their blood, it was up to Lucretia to enforce the will of Lord Black inside the school.  Circe knew Orion was too busy reveling in being freed from Lordship Lessons during the school year to bother.  “Come now, let’s get you settled for the ride.”

Lucretia ushered the pair up much of the length of the train away from the more unruly environs near the baggage cars and towards the unofficial pureblood territory nearest both the Prefect car and the car used by whichever teachers were tasked with keeping order on the train that year.

The latter at least weren’t often needed, but that at least two teachers - one of each gender - were present for each run of the Express was a standard safety precaution nonetheless.

Just like the actual train attendants and workers at the rear of the train who more often than not saw more activity keeping the more reckless students from trying to access either the kitchen car or the baggage cars than anything.

As a result of falling under Lucretia’s care, Rose and Tom ended up in compartment on the smaller end but that was still perfectly comfortable for the length of the ride - and well ensconced in what in later eras was known as “Slytherin Territory” - but she was sympathetic enough not to force them to share with her cousin Walburga who Rose could hear farther up the same car.

And she honestly hadn’t the foggiest idea where her brother had already disappeared off to.

“If you need anything, Enora,” Lucretia gave a final instruction after levitating both of their trunks up onto the baggage racks, but left them with their bookbags that Tom had charge of.  “My compartment is the first on the left towards the front of the train.”

“Thank you, Lucretia.”  Rose told her formally.  “Have a pleasant trip.”

“And you, Enora, Tom.”  With a final nod, Lucretia Black took her leave, well-pleased that she would be able to write to her father and report a duty discharged with grace on both of their parts.

Rolling his eyes once the compartment door shut behind the Black, he handed Rose her bookbag and settled in at one of the window seats, Rose taking the spot across from him.

“I don’t know how you handle how officious that lot are.”  He grumbled.

“Well,” Rose smirked at him, eyes dancing.  “I put up with you don’t I?”

A scoff was her answer, and the two settled in to enjoy a last bit of peace before anyone tried to sit with them or they arrived in the chaos of a busy boarding school.

Neither Rose nor Tom were all that surprised to find their quiet little compartment disturbed as more and more students arrived on the Platform and boarded the train.  Rose imagined that the Hogwarts Express was set up with a certain amount of room based on the year’s census with maybe a little cushion built in to account for both cliques and those who genuinely preferred to spend the trip alone.  But even so: no doubt part of the reasoning behind using the Express instead of something like timed portkeys or Floo slots was to encourage socializing among the students before they actually arrived at the school so there wouldn’t be too much extra space on the train.

Tom found himself handily outnumbered as two other first year students in the forms of Julia Flint and Pandora Malfoy asked to share their compartment.  The two girls were cousins as they were swiftly informed and escorted by a taller, lean figure that Rose couldn’t quite see but was most likely an older sibling or cousin.  Someone charged with seeing them safely settled, not unlike what Lucretia had done for Rose and therefore Tom by extension.

They brought a bright, easy chatter to the compartment, one that Tom kept up with more than Rose, the boy easily charming the eleven year olds.

Rose did enjoy having a partner in crime, as of the two of them unless there was a direct benefit to it, Tom was much better and more at ease with social situations involving other children than Rose.

An unfortunate - but very real - consequence of being an adult mind stuffed into a pint-sized body and having to go through that whole childhood and - shudders - puberty thing again.

Honestly, half the reason she thought she got along with Tom so well was both that she got her hooks into him early (so he was used to her quirks) and that he wasn’t exactly normal himself - he was just much better at faking it around their own age group rather than adults like she was.

Some others came and went, all “good” pureblood names that Rose recognized even if she’d never met them before, as the hours passed.

Even Orion Black poked his head in at one point to greet them despite being well-occupied with his friends in another car entirely.

But clearly Tom’s social magic was working at full strength as neither Julia nor Pandora - despite a nose wrinkle or two when they first heard Tom’s last name - moved to another compartment once more of their “normal” social circle found them with Rose and Tom like second-year Pamela Parkinson or third-year Walburga Black, or even Aldwin Carrow or Octavian Rookwood from their own year.

Which meant in turn that by the warning announcing their arrival in thirty minutes - which was actually far faster than Rose was expecting as it was only two-thirty in the afternoon, meaning that they were arriving at least a couple hours earlier than she thought they would - at Hogsmeade Station, they’d been introduced to a steady flow of likely future Slytherins.

Which was all to the good, as at least their future housemates wouldn’t be total strangers given how isolated their childhood had been prior to the last few months.

Tom, having been raised a gentleman, stepped out of the compartment after lowering the blinds and securing them to allow the girls to change in peace into their uniforms, standing guard at the door so they wouldn’t be bothered.

His own uniform kit was much less of a to-do than the layers and layers he’d seen - and heard - Rose grousing over, and he could easily change in the loo.

Not so much for the girls, as despite their young ages to keep the Hogwarts “look” as unified as possible they had the exact same uniform as the older girls with only a couple of variations to take into account their ages and what was socially appropriate for them to wear.

Thankfully Rose had chosen expanded and featherlight bookbags for both herself and Tom, as otherwise there wouldn’t have been room for anything else but the yards and yards of fabric and accessories that made up the girl’s uniform in 1938 - and that was taking into account that she had several pieces that she didn’t have to wear yet due to her age as well as that her skirts were shorter than the older girls.  According to the family tailor, first and second year her skirts fell precisely two inches below the knee, then they would get progressively longer as she aged until they hit the floor.  Strictly due to her body development, at some point she would also start having to wear a corset and corset cover under her blouses along with her other underpinnings.  And then someday when she was ready to be considered “a woman of courting age” she would have to start wearing her hair up or half-up instead of in tight and proper braids.

All of it was what Rose thought of Edwardian-adjacent dress standards, but if it kept her from having to wrestle with yards and yards of skirts for another two years, she’d take it.

As she got dressed on the train, Rose found herself glad that she’d thought ahead and didn’t have to strip down to her combination underwear and black stockings to change into her uniform.  Her slip with its warm wool skirt only came to the knee and wouldn’t show under her slim black uniform skirt.  It was high-waisted with a thick waist band, and had a wide hem that allowed for the skirt to be lengthened as she grew to prevent having to rely on tailoring charms that would thin the fabric in order to make it longer.  The skirt itself was a plain black, but according to her family tailor both the waistband on the skirt, the trim of the student overrobes as well as the crest on the breast pocket, and the thin ribbon tie of the blouse, were all charmed to change colors once the house elves activated the spell after Sorting.

Rose had chosen the fanciest of her long-sleeved white uniform blouses to wear to the sorting, with its several inches of lace from the high collar down the bosom in a sort of waterfall effect.  Her ribbon tie was simple, and overall it was missing a cameo or brooch, but there was nothing she could do about that until she knew what House she was sorted into and could write to the family tailor.   Her penultimate layer came in the form of a tidy cropped jacket due to the warmish early fall weather in the same inky black as the skirt whose bottom hem just hit her waist, with piping and a crest that like the student robes would change to her House colors once she was sorted.

A grooming charm had her braid and its hair bow tidied, and over everything went the standard black Hogwarts robes that were older than dirt in styling.

At least the layers upon layers would be good for allowing her to adjust as needed based on how warm or cold she was, but fucking Merlin was it a lot even compared to the simple dresses and cloaks she was used to in this era.

Her cloak was tucked away in her trunk, as once she was all adjusted she definitely didn’t need the additional heavy layer to stay warm, especially since it was only the afternoon in Scotland.

She fastened her belt and chatelaine over the actual robes to hold them in place, fussing only a little with the fall and placement of the fabric, then checked to make sure that the other girls were presentable before retracting the blinds and relieving Tom of his guarding duties.

Just in time too, as the ten minute warning went off and he still had to rush into his own clothes.

Though he got trousers.

Lucky prat.

Tom cut a tidy figure in his Hogwarts uniform and robes, one that looked much more practical than Rose’s configuration of underlayers and skirts and blouse and jacket and robes and and and and… - as they made their way off the train, bookbags tucked back into their trunks, and over towards where a tall, weatherbeaten wizard was calling for “First Years, here!  First Years, form a line!”

But it was as she glanced over at the carriages that were filling with a rather orderly stream of students that she got a shock:

Apparently, when it came to Thestrals, what mattered was the state of a person’s soul rather than their body.

As, despite never having seen a person die in her second life, Rose could see the deathly creatures pulling the carriages.

And holy Circe were they cursed with a terrible beauty to go with their reputation.

Rose didn’t have long to think about that, let alone fall into an existential crisis, as the cluster of first year students lining up in ranks on the instruction of their guide grew and grew to a substantial number she hadn’t expected - and as a result answered a question regarding the Express timing.

At a quick glance - which was actually a bit difficult for her to manage given that she was one of the shortest students, fuck it all - there were at least a dozen or so lines of first years, and each of those lines had around ten or twelve students each.  Some quick and dirty estimation, as well as another glance over at the line of students that was still streaming off of the Express and over towards the carriages, put her year alone at, at least a hundred strong in number.  If each first year took a minute to be Sorted, that meant they were looking at probably a couple of hours to complete the entire year and start the Beginning of Term Feast.

No fucking wonder the train went faster to arrive in Scotland, otherwise everyone would be hangry by the time the food arrived at seven or eight in the evening.

Logistically, it made sense.  Adjust the length of the train ride depending on how many first years there were to Sort.  Sure, some years it meant that students had more time than others to socialize on the train, but when it came to getting the school year started on an even keel every year rather than some years having an early feast and others having the feast not end until nearly curfew, Rose imagined it was worth it.

That it meant she got screwed out of seeing Hogwarts all lit up against the night sky because of how large her cohort was, she was only a little bitter about.

She still loved that scene from the books, and not getting to recreate it personally sucked, but Hogwarts and the Black Lake with the sun hanging low in the sky and painting everything with gold was beautiful nonetheless.

One thing she was starting to find more and more as she left the secure little isolated bubble she’d been raised in was that while her mere presence ensured that the world around her wouldn’t be in line with the little she’d thought she’d known about Tom Riddle Era™ Harry Potter Canon, it was starting to feel more and more like she was living in a Harry Potter adjacent world rather than one that strictly adhered to the rules of a story.

She couldn’t - necessarily - rely on what little she thought she knew about this era and culture - mainly because the sources were suspect and the narrators unreliable.

And now that she was entering Hogwarts, what she thought she knew was sure to be put to the test.

She was honestly looking forward to it, for the mental challenge if nothing else.

The weatherbeaten wizard introduced himself as Ogg, the groundskeeper and keeper of the keys, and led them down to the edge of the Black Lake and towards a small armada’s worth of rowboats that once they all clambered in - “No more than four to a boat, if you please!” - with Julia and Pandora joining Rose and Tom, set off via spell towards the castle.

Rose took a series of slow, steady breaths, bracing herself, but even so couldn’t help staring at the massive, stately castle fortress that would be her home for the next seven years.

Hogwarts.

It was just as beautiful as she’d ever imagined.

And twice as nerve-wracking as they came to a gentle stop in the cavern dock off the lake and found themselves ushered up through a maze of corridors where they were handed off to a patiently waiting redheaded wizard, who was one of the tallest men Rose had met in her life.

One none other than the Deputy Headmaster: Professor Albus Dumbledore, all of fifty-some years old, and looking like a bit of an eccentric ginger take on a relatively good-looking wizard.

Well, she wasn’t going to complain about that bit.

Magicians were supposed to age well from everything she’d learned, and Mary Rose for instance didn’t look a day over twenty-five despite being well into her forties or fifties (it was hard to say with cosmetic spells in play.)

Albus Manipulative Asshole Dumbledore could still be a babe even before he entered his silver fox years, it was fine.

(But if he stuck his crooked, obviously broken and poorly set nose into Rose’s business, let alone decided to alienate and ostracize Tom, it would be on.)

After the serenity of the boat ride, it was a bit anxiety-inducing to clearly hear the hustle and bustle of the rest of the school crowding into the Hogwarts great hall, but it was also a good noise.  One of children who weren’t afraid to make noise or talk or be children.  It was a good sign of the atmosphere the staff promoted even before Rose and Tom had sat in their first class.

“The First Years, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Thank you, Ogg.”

Professor Dumbledore had no issues making himself heard both over the hubbub from the great hall and the soft chatter of the first years, but as a result his voice was one step down from booming out over their heads as he took charge of them.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” the wizard greeted the students that were arrayed before him on the steps leading to the great hall off the side entrance.  He saw a good group this year, and a glance at Ogg who nodded assured him that they didn’t have any strays from the group of one hundred and twenty-three young souls who would be joining them at the school.  There were a few he could spot that had traditional well-known traits of wizarding families, but none he thought that were particularly troublesome, especially at this age.  “In a few moments you will pass through these doors,” he gestured expansively to the double doors behind him.  “And join your fellow students, however before you can take your seats you must be Sorted into your Houses.  They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.  While you study at this noble institution, your House will be like your Family, and your Head of House will serve as your Guardian for day-to-day affairs.  Your triumphs will earn Points for your House, and any rule breaking will lose Points as can be easily viewed in the hourglasses to the sides of the Great Hall.  At the end of the year, the House with the most Points will be awarded the House Cup in honor of their achievements.”  He cast a stern glance over the children, pleased to see that they were taking in his words with a minimum of visible confusion or discontent.  “The Sorting will begin momentarily.  Given the size of your year’s cohort, there will be benches found just inside the hall for you to rest upon as your fellows are Sorted.”

Rose and Tom paid no mind to the chatter that picked back up around them as Professor Dumbledore turned towards the doors and awaited the signal, instead focusing on each other.

“If we’re separated…”  Rose began to remind him of their contingency plan.

“We won’t be.”  Tom was certain of that much.  He was an heir of Slytherin, and Rose was one of the most clever, quietly ambitious people he’d ever met.  They’d be fine.

“If we are.”   She hissed insistently under her breath even as Dumbledore returned and led them into the Great Hall.  “We meet up at breakfast and plan from there.”

“It’ll be fine, Rose.”  Tom insisted even as he stared in quiet wonder at the floating candles and sunset sky of the Great Hall’s ceiling as the upper years all applauded them in welcome.

She wasn’t as sure of that as he was.  Not that she didn’t think both of them would thrive in Slytherin - she knew they would.  But that she didn’t think Tom was as set in his personality as he seemed to think he was.

For herself, she doubted that the Hat would place her anywhere but Slytherin, but nothing in life was ever truly certain except death and taxes.

Rose couldn’t help but smile as Professor Dumbledore brought out a small three-legged stool as the First Years all arranged themselves on the rows of benches lining the side of the hall, and placed a crumpled ancient Hat upon it.

And she felt a warmth in her chest and a smile cross her face as the other first years around her all let out surprised little gasps as the Hat opened up a mouth in its faded visage and began to sing:

“A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, a daring heart was

In most need of recognition;

While for Ravenclaw, a ready mind

Was most worthy of attention;

For Hufflepuff, loyal souls were

Most needing of admiration;

And cunning-minded Slytherin

Chose those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favorites from the throng,

Yet how to pick their worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!”

Professor Dumbledore allowed the round of applause for that year’s sorting song to fade a bit, then he called out the first name on his lengthy scroll:

“Adams, Prudence!”

The Sorting was rather monotonous, Rose had to admit, though it gave her plenty of time due to the size of her cohort to take in the great hall and the people populating it.

Including staff and students, there had to be nearly a thousand people held in just a single room, and was an argument for expansion charms to say the least as the room was certainly far larger than she expected.

Many of the students were paying the barest minimum of attention at the House tables as the sorting dragged on and on, likely listening by rote for applause to begin and then join in.

Which was interesting to note as the older students played quiet games at their seats or even read: they all applauded for every sorting, though there did tend to be an uptick in volume for their own Houses.

Perhaps house prejudice hadn’t fully set in yet, or was in a mild phase?

Still, after more than an hour with nothing to do but people watch, Rose was happy to hear:

“Riddle, Tom!” called out by Dumbledore, who had a glass of water beside him to help him get through the lengthy ceremony with his voice intact.

Honestly, she would’ve given a good galleon to hear what the Hat was saying to her little brother as he wasn’t an automatic or quick sorting like many of the others, but he wasn’t a true Hat Stall either despite taking at least a couple of minutes before the Hat called out:

“Slytherin!”

Rose clapped along with everyone else but with a massive smile for her little brother.  Despite his less than pure ancestry, she knew he’d do well in Slytherin.  Between his status as an Heir as well as the patronage of House Rosier and the support of the Blacks, she doubted he’d have to deal with any outright bullying over his blood status.

And given that she hadn’t recognized several family names - despite her training - of other Slytherin sorts, she’d wager that he wasn’t the only halfblood to join their ranks.

Though he had a thoughtful look on his face that she wanted to dig into the reason behind and made her genuinely curious regarding what other Houses might have been options for her little brother.

Still, she wasn’t able to zone out completely, as while there were likely students between Riddle and Rosier going alphabetically by last name, she didn’t actually know how many.

An answer which ended up being nine members of their class, as after the Sorting of one: “Rojas, Andreas” to Gryffindor and then “Rookwood, Octavian” to Slytherin, she at last heard the call for:

“Rosier, Enora.”

Rose was pleased that there wasn’t any more whispering or interest in her Sorting than there was anyone else’s, at least insofar as she could tell as she walked across the hall to the stool and found herself having to hop up onto it.  Damn tall people.  Not everyone was a beanpole, damn it.

And having to hop made it a little difficult to present the ladylike demeanor expected of her - and would likely be reported on - by Lord Rosier and her godparents.  Even so, she daintily crossed her ankles and moved them over to the side before fixing her skirt over her knees.  Rose straightened her back to the ramrod-firm-and-even posture Lady Delacour had worked on training into her and squared her shoulders, ensuring her chin was level to the floor below.

Then she was able to close her eyes and block out the entirety of the Great Hall as the Sorting Hat was placed gently onto her small head, threatening to slip down over her ears.

“Hello there my dear, my but you’re an interesting one.  A transmigrator, my my.  It has been some years since one of your ilk has come to these hallowed halls.”  The Hat whispered into her mind, Rose finding herself having to hold in a shiver at the strange sensation even as she paid attention to its words.

“You’ve met someone like me before?”

“Oh yes, my dear Rose.  Several times over.  Magic is a magnificent thing, and the magic of souls even moreso.  Though those like you do complicate matters in regards to my purpose my dear, I must say.”

“Not easy to break someone down to a list of traits when they’re not a child, I would imagine?”

“Not at all.”  The Hat countered her assumption.  “Everyone has a little of each house in them.  Finding which traits need encouragement can be managed easily enough even on the wisest of souls.  It is that you lot tend to have opinions and aren’t easily swayed that is more of a problem regarding my duty to Sort the students of this school.”

“I should be easy enough to sort, I would think.”   Rose thought back towards the Hat, a bit perplexed.  “I know people are more complex than simple traits, but surely…”

“Ah, there’s the rub my dear.”  The Hat responded as the Great Hall began to murmur the longer Rose was in conversation with the Sorting Hat, several minutes having passed and approaching a true Hat Stall, the first in many years.  “Easy isn’t always best as you know.  You’ve dedicated yourself to managing Tom Riddle, and I can see why.”   Flashes of Voldemort passed through Rose’s mind’s eye as the Hat searched her memories.  “But people are not sheep to be guided and herded along an acceptable path - or they shouldn’t be.  As an Heir of Slytherin there was no other acceptable placement for young Mister Riddle despite him having the traits for it.  Your goals are good ones, and you’ve no lack of ambition, but I think you need reminding that life is for the living, not just surviving it.  And that there is more to you than just a facility for manipulation however well-meaning at times.  Yes, yes…  A bit of separation will do you both some good…  Better be…”

“Ravenclaw!”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Nine: Settling In

The Sorting Ceremony wasn’t quite as clear-cut as it seemed, or at least that was Tom’s opinion after his own gave him food for thought and then his Rose’s seemed to stretch out forever - or at least far longer than anyone else so far that year.

Long enough that the words Hat Stall started to float around among the House tables, even the quiet and dignified students of his own Slytherin House.

One of Rose’s most infuriating and baffling traits was how often she was right.

For all that she joked about Tom’s loyalty making him a potential Hufflepuff…she hadn’t been wrong as far as the Hat was concerned.  The Sorting Hat had told Tom that he was a potential member of any of the Houses.  Loyal enough for Hufflepuff - at least when it came to his Rose - with enough smarts for Ravenclaw.  Bold enough for Gryffindor though his good sense - or Rose’s - often outweighed any brave desires to beard the dragon of Lord Rosier on Rose’s behalf.  Though he would, if she ever asked him to.

Ambition and cunning, however, he had in spades and he didn’t need a scrap of enchanted millinery to tell him so.

Being an Heir of Slytherin, made it so despite his potential for other Houses, there was no real place he could belong more than Slytherin.

Now the Hat just needed to hurry up and stop arguing with his Rose.

It never worked out well for her opponents.

Though as the Hat opened its mouth and crushed Tom’s plans with one announcement of Ravenclaw sending his Rose away from him for the next seven years, he was genuinely shocked.

His Rose had run into an obstacle she couldn’t overcome.

Merlin’s knickers.

He didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.

Or to light the bloody Hat on fire for keeping them apart when they’d been living in each other’s pockets since he was five.

Tom knew that Rose was probably livid, despite being cautious enough to plan for just such a contingency as this and also being unwilling to break character and show it to the eagle eyed purebloods surrounding them.

They’d had plans.

Now…he didn’t know what they had.

Other than a breakfast meeting in the morning.

Maybe by then he’d manage to scrape his heart up from where the fucking Hat had shattered it all over the Great Hall floor by sending his best friend and closest confidant, his sister in all but blood, to a place he couldn’t follow.

Rose held back the desire to curse out the Sorting Hat by the skin of her teeth.

Damn nosy opinionated bit of moth eaten fabric.

How dare it try and know her?

(She didn’t want to admit that it was right.  That she’d focused so much on Tom and trying to survive in this new life that a lot of things she used to enjoy have either become means to an end or fallen to the wayside.  Even when she’d picked up the books and supplies for magical crafting and arts, that had been about motivations other than pure enjoyment.  She’d become the sort of person who had to pack purpose into everything.)

At least in Ravenclaw no one would look at her funny for being a bookworm so…bonus?

And maybe they might put less importance on the pureblood etiquette bullshit, at least in private, than Slytherin probably will with Tom.

Sorting away from Tom and Slytherin wasn’t the end of the world.  It was just a detour.  An adjustment to her existing plans.  Nothing was ruined.

Not even the status quo with Lord Rosier and her godparents, as while Lord Rosier himself and his late first wife had both been Slytherins, they weren’t Blacks who tended to strictly sort Slytherin as a point of family tradition and pride.

His new wife was even a former Gryffindor.

With a new potential heir on the way, Lord Rosier was sure to care even less now about what Rose got up to at Hogwarts, including her sorting, so long as she didn’t out-and-out embarrass him or the family name.

Hell, Lady Delacour went to Beauxbatons, as did the entire French branch of House Rosier - they wouldn’t give two fucks about her placement at Hogwarts as long as she didn’t start behaving in a way to bring shame on the family.

By the time Rose had mentally recalibrated and pulled her head out, the sorting was nearly finished and she had something new to focus on, which she’d already started noticing with her people watching but now that she was at the Ravenclaw table with Slytherin and Hufflepuff flanking her, she could really see:

The Houses weren’t perfectly quartered.

Or rather, while a quick glance over the four house tables showed that the tables were the same length and had about the same amount of students, she could tell from her own house and year mates that there was fluctuation in the numbers by year.  Which like the changing arrival time for the Hogwarts Express made sense.  Not every year's cohort was going to be an even four way split if the Hat was genuinely taking into account what houses would best help the students thrive at Hogwarts.

Her year’s cohort looked like it was Gryffindor and Hufflepuff heavy, given that a quick look for plain robes over at Slytherin showed only seventeen students from first year, with Ravenclaw only having twenty.  Which totaled only thirty-seven students out of well over a hundred.  Though it looked like the NEWT-level Slytherins were a large cohort, the same with the students in the middle of the Ravenclaw table who were probably fourth and fifth years.

So it all balanced out, but not as exactly as it might do in a story.

Rose focused on introductions once all the remaining first years were sorted, trying in particular to put names and faces together among the other first year Ravenclaw girls - when she wasn’t glancing over to try and see how Tom was doing at the Slytherin table behind her.

Pandora Malfoy she already knew, and had been a little surprised to see sorted to Ravenclaw rather than Slytherin given that there was a head of platinum hair already seated there, but she’d been pleasant enough during the train ride so Rose wasn’t worried about her.

Rose managed to catch and reliably name Prudence Adams as the first person sorted their year and Jesmynda Patil since she thought that name in particular was quite pretty.

The other five girls were a work in progress, along with the eleven boys, but she’d get there eventually - she had seven years after all to get to know them.

Then the rabid curiosity of Ravenclaw kicked in, and Rose found herself the subject of note as she filled her plate with salad to start with.  She knew the value of second chances in more ways than one, and didn’t want to ruin her health now that she actually understood how important exercise and nutrition were to growing bodies.  Exercise would probably be handled for the most part by endless sets of stairs, but the hearty English fare that mostly filled the table around her wasn’t exactly the easiest for weight management.

“You’re the first Hat Stall in years, Rosier.”  One of the boys - Shacklebolt, maybe - commented after she was done serving herself but before she dug into the spinach, lettuce, and carrot mixture on her plate.  It didn’t even have tomatoes.  Honestly, feasts could be more than roasted veg, mash, and roasted meats with rolls.  Vegetables could even taste good if a body knew what they were doing.  “What did it say?”

“We talked about how everyone has traits of all the Houses.”  Rose told him simply, picking up her fork.  “And debated where I should Sort.”

“Were all the Houses an option?”  An upper year asked, though she waited until after Rose had finished her bite of food.  “Or just some of them?”

“All was the implication.”  Rose mused out loud.  “We only really discussed Slytherin and Ravenclaw, however.”

Whispers and conversation regarding Sorting and Hat Stall stats seemed to fly after that, allowing Rose to enjoy her dinner and talk to her immediate neighbors at the table before dessert arrived.

She was a little happier with the dessert options, as there were fruit, nut, and cheese platters present along with the puddings and cakes and tarts.

Rose managed to tuck away a couple unpeeled oranges in her robe pocket for snacks, along with the peaches and strawberries with a bit of double cream that she had for her actual dessert.

Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.

Nosy bookworms she could handle, and it looked like Tom was managing just fine without her.

She hated to admit it, and she wouldn’t without more data and evidence than a single meal, but maybe the Hat was right.

Maybe.

“First Years,” a pair of Ravenclaws wearing Prefect badges arrived after Headmaster Dippet made his closing remarks of the night - Forbidden Forest was aptly named, and that club sign-ups and quidditch tryout sheets would be posted in the morning - and dismissed the students to their dorms.  “Follow us, if you please.”  The pair, most likely the Fifth Year Prefects, gathered them up and did a quick head-count before leading them out of the hall, pointing out markers along the way to help them orient in the future.

Another quick headcount before a door knocker shaped like an eagle, and the satisfied prefects introduced themselves.

“Greetings First Years,” the boy, who was far too tall as far as Rose was concerned and as a result moved too fast for her to easily keep up with, started.  “My name is Marcus Blackwood, and I am one of your Fifth Year Prefects.”

“And I am Damaris Potter, your other Fifth Year Prefect,” the girl with long hair held back in a thick brown braid - maybe to control how messy it was, continued.

Rose couldn’t help but wonder if Marcus was related to the wandmakers, or if Damaris was one of those Potters, but knew that her mind wandering at the moment was a very bad idea unless she wanted to miss potentially vital information.

“We will be your first points of reference and contact during your first years here.”  Damaris gestured between herself and Marcus.  “Each year’s cohort is assigned to a pair of prefects for their first three years, and it is mine and Blackwood’s honor to serve this duty for you as you adjust and settle in to your Hogwarts experience.”

“In the morning you will meet us in the common room behind this door,” Marcus took over for the next bit.  “No later than seven o’clock sharp, to receive your schedule and map of the school before we lead you back to the Great Hall for Breakfast.  As today was a Friday, you lucky souls will have the entirety of the weekend to learn to navigate Hogwarts but if you have any troubles finding your classes you are encouraged to seek help and ask questions of any upperclassman if we are not available.”

“When we go inside the common room, you will calmly and orderly find a place in front of the fireplace to sit for your first Year Meeting and words from our Head of House Professor Renaldo Nott.  Now,” Damaris smiled brightly, as the prefects stepped to the side to allow the First Years free access to the door.  “Ravenclaw is the house of wit and learning.  As such, there is a bit of a trick to entering our common room, you have to correctly answer a riddle in order for the door to open.  Yes?”  She asked one of the firsties who raised her hand.

Elizabeth Cummings, she thought, as she was a blonde but definitely not either the Malfoy or Rosier girl.

“What if we don’t answer correctly?”

“If you’re in a group, someone else can try and hopefully get the answer.”  Marcus replied.  “But if you’re alone, you have to wait five minutes for it to reset while you think about the riddle.”  He looked over the first years.  “Any other questions?  No?”  He smiled.  “Then would anyone like to try it?”

Once the riddle had been posed and answered - Rose wondered if it just had a repeating set of riddles that is used regardless or if it had a way to judge difficulty based on age? - they filed into the common room and into the space left empty for them.  There were some older students spread out around the common room, but even with expansion charms Rose doubted that the entire house could cram into it for a House-wide meeting.  Logistically…yeah.  No.  They could probably do it in the Great Hall if necessary but based on numbers she could see why Professor Nott broke it down by year instead if a meeting must happen.

Or maybe there was another way information was disseminated and Rose was just overthinking literally everything.

Stranger things had happened.

Once they were settled, Professor Nott broke away from where he was talking to more prefects based on the pins on their uniforms - including one with a Head Boy pin, nice - and moved over to greet them.

He looked like an old-school academic - which absolutely fit, given the era - complete with a bit of self-neglect in his salt-and-pepper brown hair trying to escape from the ribbon at the base of his neck.

His voice was pleasantly mellow, though, when he greeted them.

“Hello, new Ravenclaws.”  Professor Nott beamed at the newest additions to his illustrious House.  “And welcome to the House of Wit and Learning.  My name is Renaldo Nott and I will be your Head of House and Professor of Magical Theory during your stay at Hogwarts.  Over the next years of education as a member of our House, we will strive to expand your minds and encourage your success.”  

“As Ravenclaws,” he smiled a bit ruefully.   “There is a natural expectation regarding your academic standing.  However, as any proud ‘Claw knows, there is more to intelligence and having a ready mind than what is found within the bounds of books alone.  If you find yourself struggling at any point or for any reason, it is always better to reach out and ask for help than to flounder alone.  There is no greater sin within this House than a lack of asking questions - even if that question is merely for help.  Part of life here in Ravenclaw Tower revolves around study and academic endeavors though it is the policy of Ravenclaw House to support all forms of intelligent inquiry.  Study groups proctored by a student mentor will be posted on the bulletin board,” he pointed towards the wide board to the left of the fireplace.  “Come Monday after classes.  Every Ravenclaw is firmly advised,” he stared them down with the utmost seriousness.  “To participate in at least one study group though it is not required.”  

“Additional study guides for every class and year can be found in the filing cabinets in the Ravenclaw Library on the next floor.”  He gestured towards the staircase at the back of the common room from the fireplace, not the pair that branched off directly across from the entryway.  “Books and materials from the Tower library must be signed out properly and cannot be removed from the Tower.”  His smile returned, this time with an almost boyish charm.  “Some enterprising student attempts to bypass the wards on the Tower library materials every year.  They have always failed, however, in the spirit of academic inquiry, I always look forward to new and ingenious attempts.”

“Curfew for First Year students is eight in the evening, you must be in your individual dorms no later than eight-thirty, and lights out is nine-thirty.”  He laid out the expectations so there were no attempts at using deplorable ignorance as an excuse for rule-breaking.  Though there was always one, regardless.  “While it is not an enforced rule, for reasons of safety every student is encouraged to remain in their House confines until six o’clock in the morning.  Every student is encouraged to familiarize themselves with the Hogwarts Charter and School Rules and Bylaws, both of which are documents that can be viewed in the reference section of both the Hogwarts and Ravenclaw Tower libraries.”

“All new students are required to undergo an intake at the hospital wing.  Each House will have an assigned time frame, ours is Sunday beginning immediately following breakfast, you are to meet your assigned Prefects in the Great Hall no later than eight o’clock to be escorted to the hospital wing for your exam.  Absence will not be tolerated and will result in detention as well as the completion of your intake at a time assigned by the hospital Matron.”

“As a last welcome to Ravenclaw,” he motioned for the fifth year prefects to step forward and start passing out the contents in their arms that they’d gathered from a crate placed on one of the central tables in the study area portion of the common room.  “Every year some of our most illustrious alumni come together and purchase the current crop of students academic planners.  While they may seem like simple tools, my students are strongly encouraged to become accustomed to using them as they are often life savers come OWL and NEWT years.”  He smiled once more at the bright, eager faces of the new students, lightening the mood after several serious topics, even as several of them were already flipping through the planners with interest.  “Welcome, once more, to Ravenclaw.  I look forward to seeing what you learn - and what you choose to do with it - during your stay with us.”

Down in the dungeons, Tom was drinking up every word of a similar speech - less focus on academics, more on achieving ambitions, but the core was the same.

Though rather than planners, Slytherin alumni chose to gift new students Slytherin scarf/gloves set to show House Pride.

Appearances mattered after all.

And outside of their territory, Slytherin always stood united.

With her planner tucked under her arm, Rose followed along with the rest of the first year Ravenclaw girls up the left-hand stair behind the patient form of Prefect Potter who was quietly answering questions from the other girls.

No, they weren’t limited to participating in only one study group.

Yes, Professor Nott was really very serious about their health intakes, even if they did happen to have a private healer.

And so on, up two flights of stairs (owing to the library, Rose would imagine) to the landing for the First Year dorm corridor.  There was a short sort of entry hall, but then it opened up into the actual corridor for the rooms.  It was rather long, despite only having three doors, and had a pleasing curvature that served as a reminder that they were within a tower, as did a pair of windows flanking the walls at the far ends of the long hall.

“Here we are,” Damaris said with no little satisfaction at nearly being done discharging her duty to the firsties for the night.  “Each year’s dorms are up the stairs sequentially, and as you saw in the staircase itself, the entry alcoves are marked with the year: first, second, third, and so on.  The rooms are assigned automatically alphabetically by last name, and are clearly marked on the name signs hanging on the doors.”

“Thank you for your help, Prefect Potter.”  Rose said politely with a nod of her head after clocking her name on the last door to the right along with Moon and Patil.  “It is much appreciated.”

The other girls followed her example, then as one they moved towards their rooms, all of them more than ready to shed their uniforms and wind down from the hectic day of travel and action.

“I should warn you,” Rose told the other two Ravenclaws a bit sheepishly.  “I’ve brought my familiar and Geron is rather large but well-behaved and trained.”  She said as she turned the handle and pushed open the door.  “If you’re allergic, I’m sure we can see Professor Nott about a room change.”

Striding in, she immediately searched for Geron who was sure to be out of sorts after the day even moreso than the humans were, and found him curled up on what was now her bed - even if it hadn’t been assigned that way - given what was sure to be plenty of wiry trollhound hair left behind on the coverlet.

All three beds were inset into what must be the interior left hand wall, making them enclosed and somewhat cubby-like especially if they closed the heavy navy velvet drapes.  Geron was curled up on the one nearest the far outer wall, which thankfully was hers given the trunk and his kennel set out next to it in the corner against the outer wall.  As it was a tower room, there was only three walls: one large curving outer wall, and the two interior squared walls. The panorama aspect of the exterior wall Rose thought would give fantastic views during the day.  Under the windows opposite the only right-angle corner of the room were three desks and matching bookcases in a pristine painted white, making each girl their own little study/homework area.  It wasn’t a large room, with what looked like wardrobe doors also inset into the walls: Rose’s to the right of her bed, then the rest between the beds.

Moon - Elenore?  Maybe? - opened the fourth door, which was a single solid piece and adjacent to the right-angle corner, set almost flush against the shared corridor-wall, and over her shoulder Rose spied out their bathroom.

Well, sharing a small dorm where the only furniture taking up floorspace were their desks and bookcases ensured they still had plenty of room to move, and while it wasn’t the roomiest but it was far from cramped.

Even with Geron and what looked like a kneazle-cross curled up on Patil’s bed to share with them.

“You weren’t kidding.”  Moon commented once Geron was done getting his attention and Rose was able to focus on getting his area set up in front of the window adjacent to her wardrobe and bed.  “He’s huge.   What breed is he?”

“This is Geron, he’s an Iceni Trollhound and my familiar.”  Rose formally introduced him to the others.  “And Geron, these are my roommates, Jesmynda Patil with her friend…”

“Chanda.”  Jesmynda picked up her ball of fluff with his tufted tail and showed him off to the others.

“Chanda.”  Rose nodded, then looked at Moon a little sheepishly.  “And I apologize if I don’t have your name correct yet…Elenore Moon?”

“Yes,” Elenore smiled agreeably, still looking a bit bemused at the dog who was large enough to outweigh any one of them and potentially all of them at the same time.  Then she frowned thoughtfully.  “How will he go out?”

This Rose already knew, having asked the same question of Lord Rosier after bonding with Geron as her familiar.

“There,” she pointed, having spotted the animal flap in their dorm room door.  “There’s animal flaps that are linked to enchanted tokens on their collars that the house elves give them when we arrive all throughout the school.  He and Chanda will be able to come and go as they need, but other animals won’t be able to access this room since their collar tokens are keyed to different flaps.”  Then she shrugged, leaving out that Lord Rosier had paid an extra fee to have Geron issued a token, the same as Patil’s parents no doubt did.  “There’s also an enchanted litter box that any animal can use in an alcove off the common room, which is easier for the smaller companions to manage.”

Geron probably wouldn’t for the most part, but when a dog had to go, they had to go.

Magic helped clean up any messes and keep things sanitary, but even with a magically bred dog with a familiar bond, emergencies and accidents happened.

With that burning question answered, all three of the girls set to unpacking - at least in part - and settling in.

They had two days before their first class after all to get to know each other and learn how to at least coexist if not become friends.

No need to rush.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Ten: Morning Surprises

Rose was glad that despite being a cubby-bed, her mattress was both comfortable and large enough to accommodate both her and Geron.

She wasn’t used to sleeping alone, not anymore.

Not since she rescued Tom from Wool’s.

And in a strange place with strange sounds and smells and everything really, wasn’t the moment where she tried to teach herself to adjust to such a change.

It had taken long enough as it was for her to adjust to sleeping with Geron rather than Tom, having to go from at least having a dog to nothing…

Yeah.

She was happy that her bed was a full size instead of a single or twin despite the relatively small size of her dorm room and the attached bath.  Not that she was complaining about that trade off.  The school could’ve easily made a single large dorm for all nine girls in her year and she could just imagine the sort of chaos that resulted.  *shudder* No.  She would absolutely take the smaller space and having to live with only two people rather than a much larger space and there being eight others instead.

Rose would be willing to bet that the dorms in Gryffindor for her year were chaotic.  That many students?  Crammed into a Tower?  Even with expansion charms, there had to be a bit of a sardine-like feeling.

Imagine trying to read or worse study in such an environment?

It sounded bloody awful, honestly.

The adults in her life outside of school had prepared her for several eventualities, but not that so she was doubly grateful that she hadn’t sorted Gryffindor.  The loudness.   Fuck.  She didn’t even like people all that much, add in making the majority rather loud and boisterous and she would’ve lost what remained of her sanity.

Different adults had taken on different aspects of preparing her - and in the case of Mary Rose and Lord Rosier, Tom as well, though Rose shared everything she learned from her godparents with her little brother anyway - for Hogwarts in various ways.

One way that all of them shared was in magic, starting as soon as she got her wand.

All of them were practical, to some surprise.  Rose had thought that the pureblood nonsense would be prevalent in what Lord Rosier and her godparents taught her as well.  And she could see in places where it crept in, like using spells that were ancient and a bit cumbersome where she was relatively sure newer, more efficient versions existed.  But despite her low expectations when it came to purebloods - and she was aware that it was a form of prejudice all of its own and she was starting to work on it now that she had a greater sample than Lord Rosier to compare - for the most part they were all quite practical in the spells they taught her.

Over the years of getting to know her surrogate as the fun, flighty Wine Aunt, she had had an expectation of the elder Rose teaching her the sort of magic that she thought a girl should know - and Rose definitely delivered on that both via the expected cosmetic charms and the unexpected scroll on self-defense.

But the spells the purebloods taught her weren't all grooming charms - though thanks to Lady Delacour there were plenty of those.

Instead, Rose found herself over the months between her birthday and beginning Hogwarts, enrolled in what amounted to a tutoring series on little magics.  The simple, everyday things that were taught from parents to children.  Or godparents to children.  The things that were handed down rather than covered in a structured class at school.

Not one of the spells that she learned at the side of Lords Rosier and Black or Lady Delacour were in any of her textbooks - they weren’t even in Latin.

Lord Rosier and Lady Delacour both taught her spells in Breton, as House Rosier’s ancestral lands were in the Pays de la Loire region between Normandy and Aquitaine.  The mainline might have moved to England during the Norman Invasion in search of increased wealth and influence the same as the Malfoys, but they kept their home in France regardless.  A branch family of House Rosier had always remained in their ancestral lands, and currently Lady Delacour served as the matriarch of that branch despite having married out.

Lord Black’s spells were in an old dialect of Scots Gaelic, given their own roots in the lowland marches.

It was like looking at fingerprints trapped in wet clay on a pottery shard that survived from hundreds of years before, but in a living, breathing magical form.

The history buff in Rose had squealed and jumped for joy at the lessons on House Rosier and the little on House Black that she was granted once she was brought fully into her inheritance as a pureblooded daughter.  It was more than the fullness to her magic now, as if a piece had slid home despite her never having noticed it was missing.  There was a tangible link to land and people and history that she’d never had, not even in her first life.

She started to understand purebloods more once her real lessons in being a daughter of House Rosier had begun.  It didn’t excuse their brutality towards muggleborns or halfbloods or creatures - or anyone, really, that they thought was lesser - by any measure.  But it certainly helped her understand where it was coming from.

To purebloods, especially the ones from old lines, muggleborns in particular were viewed as invaders.  Strange people from strange lands and cultures coming to change what had stood strong and proud for hundreds if not thousands of years.  It was an issue far more complex than a simple us vs. them.

With everyone else caught and trapped in the middle.

Both the elder Rose and Lady Delacour along with Nanny Emma had impressed on Rose the need for a consistent routine when it came to her hygiene and appearance, albeit for different reasons.  Mary Rose saw a person’s beauty as one of the finest weapons in their arsenal - and it must, as a result, be sharpened and honed and cared for.  Lady Delacour was very aristocratic about it, as a child’s appearance and grooming was a direct reflection on their House.  Nanny Emma simply wanted a well-presented charge both for Rose’s own sake as well as how her job and care were judged by her employer.

As a result, Rose found herself staying up later than her roommates despite being overstimulated from all the chaos of the start of the school year.

It was a bit OCD of her, but one thing she knew even without the lessons from the women in her life, was that being orderly with her possessions would save her a lot of time later when she didn’t have to engage in a frantic - and as Lady Delacour cared about, unladylike - scramble.

The other girls bustled around her at first doing their own unpacking - or starting on it - as first Rose cared for Geron, ensuring that his supplies were all removed from her trunk and set up in a tidy, organized manner.  She hadn’t been sure what, if any, organization the school would have in place in the dorms for pet care, so had brought her own.  His bolster bed was a thing of her own design, along with the alternating layers of separating fabric between goose down and cedar wood chips.

Geron was such a spoiled creature but Rose couldn’t help it.

He was such a smart, good companion, and he was learning so fast thanks to his increased intelligence as a magical breed and familiar.

That Clan MacGregor had purchased the rights to Rose’s design - as the clan trainer who Lord Rosier had hired to train and work with Geron had seen his bed when he visited the cottage - and earned her a tidy income was icing on the cake.

It wasn’t memory foam - as such a substance didn’t exist yet - but it was the closest thing she could fashion out of available materials in this era.

She’d purchased a simple storage chest for his toys, bones, and treats as well as his grooming tools and towels and set that in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, only leaving out his favorite bone to chew on if needed.

Geron’s food was another stumbling point for Rose.  Mass produced dog food wasn’t a thing - at least not yet.  Instead, there was a mixture of cooked oats, veg, and raw meat that she was given the recipe for by the MacGregors that Ginsy had taken over preparing and serving.  Now that they were at school, it would be up to the school’s house elves - and as a result, garnered another additional fee - to fill the dishes she set out on a mat next to his bed.

Those little fees - one for his collar charm, one for his feeding, etc. - that added up explained in one manner why the more care-intensive animal companions were rare at Hogwarts.

Kali was much simpler, as she didn’t require free access to outside or a special diet that couldn’t just be put under preservation charms in Tom’s trunk or owl-ordered from the pet store in Diagon Alley.

Of course, Rose didn’t have to keep a selection of vermin under stasis and preservation charms in her trunk to live feed Tom’s massive serpent, so…there were trade offs.

With Geron squared away, Rose opened up the wardrobe section of her trunk as well as the doors on her wardrobe itself, and then used the clothes unpacking spell that Lady Delacour had taught her.  She breathed a little heavy once it began at the significant pull it took of her magic.  Despite the ease with which her godmother used it in demonstrations, it was not a simple or easy spell and had taken her most of the summer to learn perfectly.

Especially as it was an involved spell.

“What language was that?”  Jesmynda perked up from where she was emptying her clothes and uniforms by hand onto her bed and then sorting them into her wardrobe.  “I’ve never heard it before.”

Elenore didn’t comment, but she was clearly listening from where her head was cocked to the side as she changed for sleeping, having only pulled her pajamas and clothes for the next day out of her own trunk.

“Breton.”  Rose told her as she waited for the magic to finish - well, it was bonding but it wasn’t since it was a terminus spell that would end when Rose’s unpacking was done - inspecting, maybe, the contents of her trunk compartment and the open wardrobe as she’d determined by tracing the dimensions of the wardrobe and open trunk top with her wand.  “It’s a Rosier spell.”

“Ooh.”  Jesmynda’s eyes gleamed at the information and Elenore hummed under her breath as she shuffled her dirty things into the laundry hamper that was built into the side of the wardrobe.  “What does it do?”

Rose didn’t have to answer, as then her spell finished its inspection of her things and the first pieces of clothing flew out of her trunk and hovered in the air for her to see and if needed hit with freshening or ironing charms before they were sorted away into the wardrobe.

Which wasn’t necessary, Ginsy knew her business after all, but it in the case of a longer time packed or a less careful person doing the packing away, the spell allowed for inspection.

A flick of Rose’s wand as the other girls gave soft gasps - both feeling more than a bit envious of the spellwork, especially since as a Rosier spell their roommate couldn’t share it with them to make their own unpacking easier - had her underthings flying off to sort themselves into the wardrobe.

Though as Jesmynda finished getting her clothes into her wardrobe while Rose was still working on her own, and was going to bed while Rose was still working away, maybe that spell wouldn’t make anything easier.

It was hard to say.

Eventually, Rose finished unpacking her clothes and hygiene items which found her giving the bathroom a once-over - bigger than she thought it would be, and with the toilets and a bathing tub with taps each in their own stalls - and she was able to work on her next set of spells (and the ones that she really didn’t want the other girls to see.)

Unpacking charms were hardly a novelty, what was interesting was that she already knew a comprehensive one but that could be dismissed as being a Ravenclaw Rosier.

The wards Lord Black had taught her for her belongings weren’t nearly so benign.

Having to share space made her have to be judicious with their use - she didn’t want to hurt anyone over an accident - but she was far too paranoid about sticky fingers and nosy parkers to go without using the wards.

In the end, she chose to ward her wardrobe, trunk, and the drawer in her desk before hitting her bed with a series of protective charms (also from her godfather) that would keep her safe while she slept and free from pranks.

Feeling drained - for real, both mentally and magically - she used Lord Rosier’s charms for her bed last: one to help “ease” the occupant to sleep, and another to “gently” wake them eight hours later if they didn’t wake on their own.  Those she knew worked.  Having experienced more than enough insomnia or trouble sleeping, she’d cast them on her bed at home and taught Tom how to cast them immediately after Lord Rosier was content with her progress.

With a heavy sigh and tired magic, she manually brushed her teeth and readied for bed, her wand tucked safe and sound in her wrist holster, then bid a snoozing Geron goodnight.

Tomorrow was a new day and she’d have to hear how Tom was doing in the snake pit.

As well as see if anyone was in need of a stout hexing.

She may not be right there with him anymore - the Hat had been emphatic about needing to loosen up the apron strings, the fucker, didn’t it know that codependency was a time-honored way to deal with trauma? - but over someone else’s dead body would she allow him to be abused on her watch.

Though at least he didn’t have Dumbledore immediately on his ass.

Small blessings.

Tom woke up from a sound and restful sleep down in the depths of the Slytherin dorms.  As a first year, his dorm was off a corridor at the very far reaches of the male dorms - which unlike he’d heard the tower dorms were set up, were all on a single floor of the dungeons.  Instead of being on opposite sides of a tower, for instance, the male dorms were one level of the Slytherin dungeons and the female were another.

Naturally, due to chivalry or some other pureblood toff nonsense, the boys had the lower level dorms and the girls had the higher level.

But also because there was more room even without architecture spells and expansion charms, all the Slytherin students no matter the year only had to room two to a room/bathroom suite.  And as they were proud and noble and all that highflying bullshit, they were luxurious.  Visiting Rosier Manor luxurious at that, not Rose Cottage vs. Wool’s Orphanage luxurious.

Tom’s roommate Rookwood was thus far unobjectionable - but he was no Rose.

He kept to his side of the room, didn’t bother Tom with an outpouring of meaningless chatter, and seemed appropriately respectful of Kali once he was assured that she wouldn’t try and snack on his familiar, a peregrine falcon who took up residence on a curtained perch next to Rookwood’s bed.

Tom had had enough lectures over the years about subtlety and leverage with Lord Rosier when it came to his status as an heir of Slytherin, that he didn’t speak to Kali about it - reinforcing that the animals at Hogwarts weren’t to be eaten unless they were common vermin without the scent of magic on them - until Rookwood was well asleep.

Kali didn’t understand why she would want to bother with something with feathers when Tom spoiled her with plump rats and mice, but agreed.

Protecting and charming both Tom’s bed and Kali’s terrarium took no time at all once he was unobserved, though Rookwood had seemed moderately impressed that Tom preferred using the levitation charm to help him unpack than simply doing all of it by hand.

Tom was almost offended given that Rookwood used an unpacking charm, and one that seemed less fussy than the one Rose learned and he had no patience for.

What did Rookwood think he was, a muggle?

Honestly.

The bloody pureblooded prat.

Just for that, Tom made a note to decimate the rest of his house year when it came to grades.

Fuck playing it safe and pandering to the purist arseholes.

He’d show them why being dismissive because of his name was a bad idea as he fucked the curve over and got them all in hot water with their parents over a halfblood kicking their arses in class standing.

After all, from what he’d seen both at the dinner table and in the common room of his house and year who were all far more concerned with posturing than that they were at Hogwarts to learn magic, it wouldn’t even be that hard.

Rose wouldn’t be mad at him, and really as far as Tom was concerned, that was all that mattered.

Rose woke up to the “gentle” nudges of the wake-up enchantment she’d put on her bed, feeling a little groggy after the travel and intense - at least for an eleven year old - magic use of the night before.

It was nothing a wash and some breakfast wouldn’t solve, so she wasn’t worried about it.

The Tempus charm was an easy cast, and the glowing numbers in the air were a soft red in concession to the low light of the dorm.  05:25, which meant she’d only just got to bed before lights-out the night before.  A glance at the other beds showed that both Patil and Moon still had their curtains drawn, and then she gave a happily-panting Geron who had a bit of morning dew dusting his coat a scratch behind his ears.  Gathering up her robe and towels, tucking her feet into slippers, Rose slipped away for the first bath of the morning.

Her magic still felt a little heavy despite responding easily to the time-telling charm, but that was to be expected - nothing she’d used the night before was all that easy or low-powered for a young magician just learning wanded magic.

She’d need to eat well and not overwork her core today to compensate for it.

Which, given the givens, rather explained how calorie-intense meals at Hogwarts had seemed both in the books and at the feast the night before.

There was actually a purpose behind all those heavy carbs and proteins as well as simple sugars, who knew?

(She still thought the table could use more greens, but that was very mom of her and nothing she would ever say aloud lest she offend the house elves.)

By the time she was refreshed and clean from the bath, properly turned out with her hair in a french braid and bow - she would be so fucking glad when she could leave the cutesy bows behind when she got older - wearing a simple light blue wool dress with short sleeves in concession to both the colder Scottish weather and that it was still early September rather than the depths of chilly autumn, her roommates were starting to rouse.

She had her thick white cotton stockings on and fastened, but her shoes and overrobe were only laid out as she sat on Geron’s bed with him and gave him a good grooming combined with some thorough pets and scritches.

There was more unpacking to do - school supplies to organize onto her bookcase and desk - but it could wait until later.

Now she was just enjoying watching the sunrise over the Black Lake as she cuddled with her familiar as she got used to the sounds of the other girls rushing about and getting ready for the day.

Jesmynda Patil watched with canny eyes as the more interesting of her roommates ran her wand over her clothes in a clear de-hairing spell that pulled all of the dog hair off of her into a compact ball that she then levitated into the rubbish basket next to their dorm door.

Enora Rosier was clearly well-groomed and in more than one way.

The mystery heiress of House Rosier, from the way others had whispered about her during her Hat Stall Sorting, before the beginning of the calendar year, no one had even known she existed.

And yet: here she was, the Lady Enora Rosier, using magic that even in the simplest spells was more the level of a third year - to say nothing of that unpacking spell.

A Family spell at that, so whatever scandal the noble house children thought there was - and there were a few of them in Ravenclaw, to say nothing of the buzzing happening at the Slytherin table beside them last night - Enora was a Rosier.

But she was also a puzzle - and just the sort of challenge that Jesmynda adored teasing apart.

Rose waited impatiently for Blackwood and Potter to complete their headcount and lead the first years back down to the great hall for breakfast.

She wouldn’t - couldn’t - settle until she saw Tom with her own eyes.

Knowing that he would not only survive but thrive in Slytherin was one thing, but seeing and having to live it for herself was another, especially since she couldn’t be right there to protect him.

He was her little brother.

She should be there to help him and support him and keep him safe.

Fucking Hat.

As promised once they were all gathered the prefects handed out their schedules and maps of the school, the former of which were promptly tucked away in pockets for later perusal when everyone was awake and the latter of which Blackwood encourage them to use to mark their path as they made their way back to the great hall.

Rose was so focused on her anxieties - hello, mental illness her old friend - that she had to stop and blink for several moments when she actually realized what was before her eyes as she cleared the entrance to the Great Hall.

Rather than four long house tables and the raised dais for the teachers, there was a scattering of smaller round tables of various sizes.  From larger ones that sat at a dozen students, to smaller ones more suitable for a pair, the massive long tables were gone.  There were still a couple long ish rectangular tables along the walls that sat more people than even the largest round tables, and the teacher’s dias had been split into four, one on each end of the Hall, but for the most part the seating was more communal.

More comfortable and even friendly than the massive House tables from the previous night’s feast.

She liked it, liked it a lot even as she realized that not only were the tables different but that the students were mingling across both house and year lines making it far less structured and regimented than she’d expected.

Though it made locating her Tom in the mass of humanity that were present for breakfast - which according to Potter ran on the weekends for an hour from seven to eight for a formal sit-down meal though toast, fruit, and hot cereal was available until an hour before lunch service began at eleven-thirty - difficult as it seemed all the Houses had the same idea about the prefect escort of the first years to breakfast.

Violet eyes flicked over the dark heads among the first year Slytherins, who were mostly drifting off in groups as cliques already began forming, then she spotted him and was off.

Despite the fact that Ravenclaw and Slytherin were on the same half of the hall during the feast, that morning given the locations of their dorms they’d entered on opposite sides of the length of the massive room, forcing them both to break away from their cohorts and rush - in a proper fashion, but rushing nonetheless - across the dividing distance to each other’s sides.

Rose flicked a searching gaze over Tom’s face and form, finding nothing out of place which was a minor relief.

He’d been just as indoctrinated regarding keeping up appearances as her.  She couldn’t trust her eyes when it came to his welfare.  And it was only years’ of hard work gaining his trust and affection that allowed her to trust his words - but even so, he may not want to tell her if there was anything wrong.

It was an unfortunate reality that he was just as protective as she was.

Which in a pair of humans who knew well the value of occasional dishonesty, could be a major problem at times if either of them decided that the other needed to be protected from themselves.

“You look well, Tom.”  Rose said, aware that they’d drawn gazes by rushing towards each other.

“As do you, Rose.”  He responded, taking in her diamond studs and the bracelet around her wrist with their protective enchantments, but also that she was wearing one of her favorite dresses and practical high top shoes rather than slippers.  “Shall we,” he turned and offered his arm politely, escorting her over to a table - as if they were miniature adults rather than children - like a proper pureblood.

After a sweeping glance over the great hall, Tom led them over towards a table that had several of his Slytherin cohort already seated including his roommate, choosing their audience with care as it also had the Ravenclaw Malfoy which would make Rose’s closeness to Tom seem less of a spectacle.

Rose smiled at the others as they sat and exchanged greetings - and in the case of most of the young Slytherins, introductions.

Once she was seated she saw that the meal was once more served family-style, but with more options on the healthy end of the spectrum.  It wasn’t all a full-English fry up - though those options were certainly there.  At their table there was also hot cereals with various diced fresh fruit for mixing in, plain eggs both scrambled and boiled in the shell, and breads studded with whole grains and seeds.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement and made her seem less picky.

(Which was a total lie.  She was very fucking picky about food.  She loved food.  But good food.  That tasted good and was good for you.   She had opinions about food.  Bland and heavy English fare had its place, she’d been raised on enough of it in her first life that it would always have a spot in her heart.  With having to pretend to be a child, she couldn’t feasibly change anything about her diet at Rose Cottage other than showing preferences.  But…she honestly thought she might sacrifice a small child at this point for a decent Thai meal, let alone authentic Middle Eastern fare.  She was going to have to see if the Hogwarts house elves were open to negotiations.  Even if they didn’t know the sort of foods she’d been craving for literal years, she remembered recipes and had come prepared and willing to bargain.)

Tom knew her preferences well and having a longer reach nabbed her a pair of hard-boiled eggs as well as a bowl of oatmeal that he topped with honey and the berry mixture before seeing to his own meal.

All the while he was plating up for them, Rose was serving and doctoring their morning tea, as well as pouring tall glasses of frothy milk.

It was a well-trod routine, one so innate that they didn’t even think about it, but which had glances exchanged across the table between those who knew and those in the dark.

“Riddle’s the Rosier ward.”

The news was swiftly passed around the table from neighbor to neighbor, with young Julia Flint leading the charge.

“We were raised together for more than half our lives.”  Rose corrected when she overheard it.  “Next thing to siblings, really.”

That made faces light up, even if it was old news - as of the train ride at least - to Julia Flint and Pandora Malfoy, but then it wasn’t for them to share the particulars, already aware of the fine line between being informative and gossiping despite their young ages (their mothers made certain of it.)

“How are you really?”  Rose asked quietly as the others started a round of complimenting each other that was thinly-veiled posturing.  A sort of: Oh your bracelet is lovely! - Thank you, it was a gift from my uncle Lord Malfoy - game.  Purebloods.  Worse: pureblood nobles.   Even the children were obsessed with status, it was dreadful and Rose hated how much it had become part of her life.  “Were they civil?”

She didn’t bother asking if the Slytherins were nice or not.

Nice was a basic standard for manners and politeness, it didn’t really have a place in a situation as fraught as being a halfblood in Slytherin.

Civil on the other hand at least would let her know if they were actively harming him or not, and served as a gauge of how sharp their tongues were being.

“It’s posturing and reading each other at the moment.  Orion Black greeted me after I joined the table during the Sorting, so no one wants to suss out - yet - just how entrenched with House Black I am.”  Tom murmured, spending as much time studying his fellow Slytherins as he was paying attention to his manners as he ate.  “I won’t be a factor until I make myself one.”

Julia Flint - who he’d already made a genial impression upon - would be the undisputed leader of their year’s girls, given that her cousin had sorted Ravenclaw.

The problem was the boys - too many minor nobles and connections, no clear leader.

Which meant Tom had to weigh his decisions carefully.  He didn’t know how powerful any of them were.  He didn’t know the fullness of their connections and relations.  He needed more information before he decided which way to step when it comes to handling the Slytherin hierarchy - at least for his first year or two.

Rose nodded, having paid attention to who was being sorted Slytherin - as she’d assumed that she’d be joining her brother there, and had to agree.

Unless or until Tom decided to engage in the Slytherin hierarchy games, there wasn’t really anyone in his year who could force him to.

In other years - yes.

In his own - no.

“You?”

“They’re Ravenclaws.”  Rose drawled softly, smiling.  “They’re more interested in my spellwork or Hat Stall at the moment than in picking at my background.”

There might be one or two diehard purists in her year, but she wasn’t sure yet.

And if there were, she was more than capable of handling them - at least one on one.  It was if they decided to pack up in the time-honored tradition of bullies everywhere that might give her a problem.  But even then so long as she made sure to wear her protective jewelry, she’d probably manage well enough.

“To our Lady of Reading.”  Tom teased her with a grin, mock-toasting her with his milk.  He didn’t question that his sister belonged in the house that valued knowledge and learning, even for a moment.  Just that it forced their separation.

“To the future Prince of Serpents.”  She shot right back, arching a brow.  “Want to find the library with me when we’re finished?”

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Eleven: Answers and Explorations

As far as Rose was concerned, sending off letters to inform the adults in her life about her Sorting was a waste of parchment.

However, it was also an expected courtesy, so although she and Tom wanted to head straight for the Hogwarts Library, first they had to find the owlery - and given that it was an expected courtesy found themselves with tagalongs from their breakfast mates.

On their way out of the great hall, they stopped to pick up the weekly menu options, which according to the prefects posted at each door - not the fifth years from what she could tell - they had to fill out for the kitchens and then drop it off in the slot they pointed out by the end of dinner.

Which explained how Hogwarts handled diet issues like kosher, halal, and allergies which had previously been a big question mark for her.

There were standard methods that schools all over the world used to manage things like meals and nutrition, and massive random family style meals were wildly inefficient no matter how she looked at it - though it seemed family style was still the name of the game for weekend breakfasts.

She was still going to try and negotiate with the house elves, but a quick glance at the menu options made it a less emergent issue.

Merlin knew Hogwarts was expensive enough that they should feed their students well and take diet restrictions into account, even back in their current era knowledge of issues like keeping kosher existed.

The Slytherins had also gotten maps of the school, and together with Rose and Tom, their tagalongs in Pandora and Julia as well as Rookwood - Tom’s roommate apparently, and Dolohov who was friends with Rookwood they managed to find the owlery with only a single wrong turn.

With how the staircases changed - which she’d been hoping wasn’t a real thing only to be deeply disappointed - Rose honestly considered that an accomplishment.

Tom and Rose collated their letters for Lord Rosier and Nanny Emma, sending both of their letters using the same two owls, then Rose had to send off two more - to some disbelief on the parts of the other first years - to her godparents.

“When did you even have time?”   Pandora Malfoy asked in disbelief, well aware of when they were dismissed to their dorms.

“This morning.”  Rose said with a tilt of her head that was the “accepted” alternative to an uncouth shrug - per Lady Delacour.  “The ones to Father and my godparents are standard.  Change the greetings and add a line each tailored to their interests and done.  It’s not hard.”

Rose kept to herself that she had an actual notebook with templates she’d written for these occasions and only had to copy everything out onto letter parchment and fill in the personalizations rather than come up with everything from scratch.

Tom didn’t even know about that, mainly because she didn’t have a way to explain why she did it or where the idea came from.

If he decided to take a job post-Hogwarts where it would be of value to him, like something in the Ministry, then she’d share.

Otherwise, her little book of letter and correspondence templates was going to remain one of her little secrets.

From the looks of dawning enlightenment that the baby purebloods around her exchanged, the idea of standardized correspondence was something of a revelation to them.

Tom sent them an understanding glance.

“Is she…?”  Rookwood murmured as Rosier glanced at her map and started navigating away from the owlery with their letters all sent.

“She’s always like that.”  Tom answered with a smirk.  Poor blighter.  Getting hit by Hurricane Rose wasn’t an easy thing, especially first thing in the morning.  Oh well.  They’d either adapt or find someone else to follow around.  “Her godparents seem determined to turn her into an actual force of nature.”

As if she wasn’t already, but that was toffs for you.

Still, Octavian Rookwood was a Slytherin for a reason.  He knew a prime opportunity when he saw it.  And in a few words Enora Rosier had simplified his letters to different households - parents, grandparents, godparents, uncles and aunts - immensely.

Despite the minor terror that had sunk hold of him, Rookwood stiffened his back and trailed along with the others, making simple conversation with Riddle.

Crabbe, Carrow, and Mulciber were welcome to devote their energy to jockeying for position - which was pointless with the Black Heir a year above them and set to rule Slytherin after the Malfoy Heir graduates.

By dint of age and spell repertoire alone - along with Heir Black not wanting to put in that much effort at school from what Octavian had heard over the summer - was Heir Malfoy at the top of the hierarchy.

Everyone knew that either Lucretia or Orion Black could take it from him if they wanted, they simply chose to treat school as exactly that rather than engage in posturing given that they more than anyone were well-secured.

That was the privilege of their status in the wizarding world, whilst most everyone else had to work and scrape for what they wanted.

As far as he was concerned cultivating a relationship with the goddaughter of Lord Arcturus Black was a far more valuable use of Octavian’s time - and thanks to his roommate, he had an easy introduction to Lady Enora - than an early and premature push for status in Slytherin.

Which he supposed was one of the reasons why he’d been considered for Ravenclaw, in addition to Slytherin.

Rose felt her little bookworm heart skip several beats once they finally arrived at the Hogwarts Library.

There’d been a wrong turn - or two.

A staircase that decided to change direction and let them out on the wrong floor.

Navigating Hogwarts was a new work in progress.

They made it…eventually.

Though all of the tagalongs were definitely ready for a rest by the time they did, all clustered up at a table and comparing schedules or filling out their meal plans rather than exploring.

Which was a minor travesty, but left Rose and Tom alone to quietly talk and explore so it wasn’t really a loss.

Tom handled both of their schedules, quickly comparing them as he trusted Rose to lead him safely through the stacks as she worked on figuring out the logic of the arrangement - if there was one to be found, which she hoped there would be because: library.

If there was logic to be found in the magical world, she could only hope to find it in the hallowed halls of a library.

“They paired up Slytherin and Ravenclaw across the board.”  It took Tom only moments to realize what’d been done given that their time tables were almost identical.  “The only classes we have apart are the two gendered culture classes.”

And they’d still probably have those with their Slytherin/Ravenclaw counterparts.

“I’d wager the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs have classes only in-house unless they split them into two groups each to encourage house mixing.”  Rose commented after a thought about numbers and scheduling.  “For three slots in each subject for our year.”

It would put roughly forty students in a class which was actually a bit large to manage unless the professors had student teachers or aids to help out or taught in teams.

From her perspective anyway, but maybe not for the current era, it was hard to say.

Magic might make it easier - or vastly more difficult - to manage a classroom after all.

Until classes actually began there was no way to tell.

Thankfully for Rose’s sanity as she took her schedule back from Tom, she’d found the logic to the library layout, and it wasn’t an unfamiliar one if not as standardized as the Dewey decimal system.

“Course texts are in the stacks inset along the walls starting to the left of the doors, then the reference materials and periodicals, then the small fiction section.”  She sketched out the system for Tom.  “The restricted section are card catalog are on opposite ends of the circulation desk.  Study areas every three rows of the main stacks.”

“And the main stacks?”  Tom ran a greedy eye over towering bookcase after bookcase that made up the mountain of knowledge they now had at their fingertips.

“Alphabetical by subject and then either author’s last name - if it’s known - or work.”

“The side rooms and other floors?”

“To be determined.”  Rose shot the cheeky arse a look.  “But I would imagine the topics become increasingly complex or obscure, with more difficult material.”

As well as having quiet study rooms, and potentially a rare book section that was distinct from the restricted section.

Libraries were wonderful things after all, and Hogwarts’ was no exception for all that it was dedicated almost solely to magic and its subjects rather than the myriad topics of a muggle library.

“Should we check on the others?”

“Oh why not.”  Rose sighed, already feeling the collar of acting like a semi-normal youth slide back around her throat.

Tom had asked more out of concern with keeping up appearances than for their new acquaintances, but he knew one of them needed to keep up their images - and it wouldn’t be Rose, who forgot to wear a mask more often than not unless she was playing the icy pureblood princess.

To some surprise on Rose’s part - they’d been gone a good while as they inspected the library - Rookwood was still waiting on them despite the others having already departed.

He’d even cracked open a book and was reading while he waited.

That was interesting.

Not what she’d expected of the average eleven year old.  Her or Tom would’ve done the same if they were invested in their wait.  But neither of them were average, and they certainly weren’t invested in their fellow students after only a day.

Though Rookwood hadn’t been a quick Sorting either, taking a minute or so which was the longer average, so perhaps the Hat had been considering Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff for him.

The first would tint his actions with a love of learning and the second a swift-forming sense of loyalty.

They’d see which it was in time.

And given that she was living a life all over again, Rose at least knew she had plenty of that.

Everything was so much more immediate when you were young.

True patience usually comes with age.

Tom was a victim of that.  For all his intelligence and maturity, he wanted what he wanted and he wanted it right then.  Or at least within a time frame he could readily visualize.

Waiting a decade for plans to come to fruition was still anathema to him.

Waiting several would seem like heresy.

Trading a surprised glance, Rose and Tom sat opposite Rookwood and took out their own meal plans to complete, given that they were already in a quiet location to do so.  Ever-prepared, Rose also dug into the small expanded bag she had attached to the leads of her chatelaine in quick time pulling out a small spill-proof jar of True Noir ink and a pair of quills.  Rookwood watched this whole production: Rose pulling out supplies like she was Mary Poppins and Tom managing them and setting them out for use, with something like bemusement written across his young face.

“Remember to try and choose several different veg and at least one fruit a day.”  Rose couldn’t help but mother Tom a little, even as she focused on her own meal plan.

A fact which Tom had no problem teasing her over, despite their rapt audience.

“You’re going to make a fantastic mother someday, Rose.”

“Silence, you cheeky prat, and fill out your meal plan so we can drop them off and explore some more.”

“Yes, Mum.”

Violet eyes narrowed with vicious intent on Tom’s placid profile, the boy staring idly down at his meal plan though the tug at the corner of his mouth gave away his inner hilarity.

Oh, it was on.

This little bastard was going to regret teasing her when she couldn’t call him the things or respond the way she really wanted to without risking a lecture about being ladylike and the Rosier Name.

Tommy Boy was going to pay.

Given that she had patience to spare, it was going to be a cold revenge indeed.

And would come when he least expected it.

After a weekend spent learning the castle - as best one can in two days - as well as undergoing a rigorous exam with the school Healer, who was distinct from the Matron and gave her the unfortunate news that while she was within parameters for a young witch his spells estimated she'd never be tall but was otherwise in good health - Rose got ready for her first day of magic school.

Including piling on the layers of the uniform - though all it took for her to feel a little better about how wizarding fashions were lagging behind muggle ones was to look at the older girls as she left her dorm for the great hall - she found herself once more frustrated at the amount of time she wasted on all the layers, and that was with being able to skip a couple due to her age as well as having magic to help.

A single glance took in a silhouette shaped via layers including a corset and ruffles and even padding that gave the illusion of the iconic Edwardian pigeon-front shape when viewed from the side made her distinctly grateful that she had years yet before that became her nightmare to deal with.

The dependence on bows - which she'd never much liked - was already bad enough.

At least at school.

She knew that proper corsetry was far more supportive and less restrictive than popular media had made it seem back in her first life - at least if one didn’t indulge in tight lacing for waist reduction - and there was something very lovely and feminine about acres of skirts.

All that said, it was cumbersome, Hogwarts had hundreds of staircases, and she actually liked the fashions of crisp skirts and blouses, or a lush sweater, let alone the ability to wear trousers as well as less layers and a lack of ruffle and frill.

Some witches - and not just muggleborns - did favor keeping up with the evolving fashions of the muggle world, but Rose was well aware that until she was a legal adult she had to pick her battles.

So she didn’t fight the floppy hair bows that were “proper” for a young witch, or the ugly flat-heeled shoes.

(She missed pretty shoes.  It was one of those petty, materialistic things about her first life that really ached.  The sort of thing she could actively think about and miss.  Not the Big Things.  If she thought about the Big Things too much, she’d probably just break down and cry until she ran out of tears.  Or rage.  Rage was likely too.)

After wishing Geron a lovely day, Rose made sure she had all her books for her classes as well as her homework planner and plenty of other supplies.

It being Monday, Rose had six hours of required classes: single hour slots for all of them, since as a first year she only had three double-hour classes in total, one each for Potions, Herbology, and Culture with none of them scheduled for Monday.

The universe might hate her though, since she had to start both her day and her week with History of Magic.  Rose actually quite enjoyed History.  But the way History of Magic was portrayed in the Harry Potter books...yeah.  She dreaded having a subject she enjoyed ruined, but if it was Binns she didn't know if there was a realistic way to escape it.

From Rose’s perspective it wasn’t that bad besides the unfortunate way to start her week…depending on how boring Professor Binns truly was (or if he was in fact still alive but already a ghost.)  Thursday was the only day she wasn't particularly looking forward to.  But that had more to do with having an Astronomy at eight o'clock Wednesday evening that would have them out after curfew and mess up her personal routine than anything to do with the course load.

Though she wasn't thrilled thinking about the end of the week either, given that the final class on Friday was her wonderful “Wizarding Culture for the Young Witch” class that was mandatory her first two years that based on the required books looked like it was going to be a mixture of actual culture and home economics.

It legitimately wasn’t fair that while Rose was going to be lectured on deportment, manners, and keeping a house, her brother by mere dint of being male was going to be discussing wizarding philosophy.

The privileged wanker.

At least it was only two hours a week, and it wasn’t something she would have to continue once electives came into play - though she imagined many of her female contemporaries would be encouraged to do just that, even though it wasn’t an actual OWLs class.

Stupid gender norms.

Stupid men.

Ugh.

If there was a bright side to Lord Rosier being so weird and hands-off for most of her life, it was that she had a genuine chance at getting away with dropping the “culture” class for a more interesting elective.

Care of Magical Creatures definitely wouldn’t be considered a “ladylike” subject to take, but by the time elective selection came around she’d be willing to wager on Lord Rosier being wrapped up enough in his new heir - or even heirs - that she would get away with it without him contacting the school and “fixing” her schedule better to his liking.

A thing that she overheard happening due to more than one grousing upperclassman who tried to pull one over on their guardians.

They may not have to sign off on their class selections, but they were still their guardians and/or parents at the end of the day and retained the power to meddle.

Damn it.

Rose was pleased to get confirmation on how the whole ‘meal plan’ thing worked as she sat down to breakfast with Tom and what was becoming “their” group.

Julia and Pandora tended to wander off to less academically-intense pastures after their trip to the library but they were still friendly if not working towards being too close, though Rookwood was showing surprising staying power.

Jesmynda had proven made of sterner stuff than the other two girls, nicely rounding out their numbers, while Moon had cliqued up with Crouch and Goldstein.  She was still friendly to Rose and Jesmynda, just not friends.   Which was fine.  Both Rose and Tom had a finite amount of patience for children their own age and only that both Rookwood and Patil took learning as seriously as they did made them more than merely tolerable.

Tom for the second morning in a row had beaten Rose to breakfast and choosing one of the smaller tables for their meal.

And apparently learned the trick to their meal plans while he was at it.

“Touch the tip of your wand to the rim of your plate.”  Tom instructed both Rose and Jesmynda once they’d sat down, both boys already tucking into their own spreads.  “And say your name over it.”

“Magical signature to confirm you are who you say you are.”  Rose thought was the logic behind the process.  “Interesting.”

With a flick of her wrist, her wand dropped into her hand from its holster, Jesmynda only a moment behind her, then she was gently resting the tip of it on the outer rim of her plate.

“Enora Rosier.”

She blinked as the plate glowed a soft blue for a moment, as did Jesmynda’s.

Then several moments of waiting and glancing around the great hall to see what others were doing to determine if Tom was having her on or not, later, the plate was suddenly filled.

Not only that, but a glass of milk and another of apple juice appeared where there hadn’t even been vessels before, as well as an empty mug for tea.

Tea that Tom poured and doctored for her, while she was still wondering a little over the sheer power of house elf magic - and the potential nuances of it.

“Mysteries of the universe later.”  Tom told her sternly, poking her lightly in the shoulder then nudging her silverware closer towards her plate.  “Eat now.”

As she was actually excited to see a two-egg omelet filled to bursting with bright peppers, thick mushrooms, and rich green spinach, she did as he said - albeit after wrinkling her nose at him.  Together with her little cup of fresh sliced apple and banana, it was the most well-rounded meal she’d had since…ever, really.  Nanny Emma and Ginsy both had opinions about what a healthy diet looked like, and it was a lot less “eat the rainbow” and a lot more meat and potatoes.

Eating healthy and sticking to a meal plan was also significantly easier when she wasn’t the one responsible for doing the shopping and cooking, so there was that.  It wasn’t like she could hop in the car and tootle over to the local drive-thru if she ended up feeling like having junk food instead of whatever she chose off of the meal plan options.  She might manage to bargain for a couple of fries off of Tom, but that was about it.

Before long breakfast was over and they were headed towards their first class of their Hogwarts career:

History of Magic.

It wasn’t a ghost standing behind the teacher’s desk when Rose and the others found their classroom.

It also wasn’t Cuthbert Binns.

“Hello students, and welcome to your first class.”  The professor, a wizard who looked middle aged but could be anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty depending on his power levels and how well he’d taken care of himself, greeted them cheerfully.  His robes were tidy in a warm brown that went well with his olive-toned skin, and his short-cropped curly black hair was liberally streaked with silver.  “My name,” he waved his wand as the students all shuffled into the class in a mix of blue-bronze and green-silver edged robes, the chalk behind him floating up and writing his name and title on the board behind him.  “Is Professor Elias ben Judah.  You may refer to me as either Professor or Professor ben Judah, either are correct.”

Rose was intrigued.

“Now,” he clapped his hands together lightly after sheathing his wand once more.  “We shall be together for the next four years,”

Called.  It.

She knew with how many students there were at the opening feast that there had to be more staff than were present at the high table.

If anything, she would wager that those were only the staff on duty, or the ones that lived at the castle.

“So let us start as we mean to go on, yes?”  His tone and expression were pleasant but there was a definite undercurrent of seriousness.  “I shall learn your names, you shall learn mine, and we all will behave with a sense of civility while within this room.  Am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Yes, Professor ben Judah.”

“Very good.  Now,” he picked up a scroll from his desk and opened it with a practiced flick of his wrist.  “Adams, Prudence?”

“Here.”

“Bauer, Niles.”

“Here.”

“Carrow, Aldwin…”

When Tuesday morning came, as well as the morning post, Rose found herself pleasantly surprised for once as Lord Rosier’s owl came and dropped off two packages at her table: one for her, but also one for Tom.

Then she was outright shocked when the dignified - and pure black, because of course it was - owl that she’d come to recognize as the one her godfather used for his personal messenger swooped over after stopping at both Lucretia and Orion.

With both a letter and a package.

What the actual fuck?

Had Lord Black actually gotten…attached?

To her, tainted-background and blood, less than pure, her?

What.

What?

It took her a solid minute to snap out of the stupor caused by sheer affronted cognitive dissonance to actually open her post, including the surprise addition from Lord Black.

(Fuck.  Did this mean Lady Delacour was going to send her shit too?  Damn it.  She was going to have to actually engage with those people and for more than the training she could get from them…wasn’t she?  Fuck.)

Sending a wary glance at the letter and package from Lord Black, Rose decided to ignore it for a moment in preference for opening the things from Lord Rosier, which Tom had already done revealing a letter and what was probably a gift for his Sorting into Lord Rosier’s House of a pair of silver cufflinks engraved with s-shaped serpents.

That actually wasn’t much of a surprise to her.

Lord Rosier had always liked Tom, even if he didn’t approve of Rose kidnapping herself a companion/brother.  That had never changed.  Her benefactor spent just as much time and energy on Tom’s lessons as he did on Rose’s especially as they prepared for Hogwarts.

Cracking the enchanted wax seal on the letter, Rose braced herself then read:

My dear daughter,

Though I am, of course, naturally proud of my own status as an alumnus of Slytherin House, I find myself justly proud of your own Sorting into the venerated House of Ravenclaw.

You have always had a keen and questing mind as well as intelligence beyond compare.  I have every faith that you will do House Rosier just as much honor as an eagle as you might have done as a serpent.  Study well, be diligent in your education, and know that you have a proud father.

As House Pride is a long and noble tradition even after matriculation from Hogwarts, I have sent along a token to help you express your own.

Your father,

Lord Dominic Rosier

Rose didn’t know whether to be suspicious or incredulous at how…effusive Lord Rosier was in his letter.

Maybe that was just his writing style?

She couldn’t know, she’d never had an actual letter from him before, but knew him to be a meticulous pureblood so…maybe it was that?

Rose was baffled but as she had potions class after breakfast, she didn’t really have much time to devote to puzzling out her benefactor’s motivations and recent shift to… warmth, maybe, after an entire childhood of detachment.

Turning her attention to the package, she noticed that it was sealed with Lord Rosier’s personal seal rather than the family crest.

Inside the standard brown paper for package post, she found a clamshell velvet box again with a jeweler’s imprint on the bottom, which upon opening revealed a lovely Ravenclaw brooch - exactly the sort of thing she’d thought her uniform was missing.

The size of a lady’s cameo, it was a pretty thing of a bronze eagle rising, wings spread, against a blue enamel background.

Smiling almost against her will, Rose was swift to pin it in place at the hollow of her throat atop of the high collar of her shirt and the knot of her ribbon tie.

Perfect.

Damn it.

How the hell was she going to balance the scales over this?

Surprise gifts were not part of their deal or previous dynamic and she did not like being left floundering in how to react.

It really was very pretty though, and given Lord Rosier’s gift to Tom likely an expected gesture from a proud parent and/or guardian.

Knowing that she was really running out of time due to her dithering over Lord Rosier, she rushed through popping open the letter from Lord Black, finding it was more of the same but with a note that her gift was a previously agreed upon one from both himself and Lady Delacour, despite being sent by Lord Black alone.

Feeling a little apprehensive at the acknowledgement that the two were actively plotting together, Rose ripped open the package that came with the letter, which expanded upon opening from matchbox-sized to that of a small hat box.

Which actually made it less terrifying rather than more, as there was a familiarity with receiving clothes as gifts that was less fraught in her head.

What she found was a bit of a hodgepodge, which would have told her even if Lord Black didn’t, that there was headbutting over what to send her as a sorting present.

Digging her hands into the soft mound of navy blue and bronze softness, she once again found herself smiling.  The rich spendthrifts had sent an eleven year old a cashmere finishing pair of gloves and scarf, and even a large shawl she could wrap all the way around her shoulders and head in Ravenclaw colors.  Enough hair ribbons in blues, a rich shimmering bronze, and various combinations thereof that made her think Lord Black raided an entire millinery shop.  As she pulled item after item out, moving them from the gift box to the table so she could see everything before tucking them back away to keep them safe - but contained - in her bag until she could put them away in her room, she realized she’d jumped the gun on her relief regarding the lack of sparkle.

Tucked at the bottom of the box was another jewelry box - which was absolutely from Lord Black, the box even had his family crest on it, and likely not agreed to by Lady Delacour - which when she held her breath and looked revealed a set of sapphire solitaires twice the size of the diamonds he’d already given her.

Rich people.

Not a lick of sense among the lot of them.

Ridiculous man.

One who made her smile and knew how to speak to the materialistic girl in her heart that loved things that sparkle.

But still.

Ridiculous.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Twelve: Breaking the Curve

Of all the lessons she’d been inundated with after turning eleven by first her benefactor and then her godparents following her legitimacy ceremony, the most valuable was Occlumency.

It was the secret and the tool behind the infamous cool, implacable masks of the purebloods and much like family spells was taught and handed down by parents and guardians rather than being the subject of formal study by tutors or schools.

It was also - for once - an area of magic that she didn’t have to fight and claw her way to try and keep up with the genius prodigy that was Tom Riddle.

Her mental age and the perspective it gave her - along with her patience, experience with meditation, and natural imagination - made it so for once it was Tom who had to fight to keep up when Lord Rosier began the lessons for his wards to prepare them to eventually enter society.

Excess emotionality was uncouth.

Rigorous control of the self was held to the highest regard.

Occlumency helped them both fully shape their public personas (once they got the hang of even the basics, which took Tom the full ten months between beginning lessons and leaving for school) allowing Tom to keep his temper even in the face of blatant provocation.  Meanwhile, Rose fashioned a complex mind palace centered around - what else? - a library fortress and a garden courtyard with a hedge maze surrounding it all.  Her mercurial persona was as much an affectation as it was her enjoying getting away with childishness.  Beneath the switches from force of nature to proper ice princess rested her mental shields and a mind that took time to stop and catalog and file away information.

She was still working on her information gathering on demand as the formation of her mind palace to guard her secrets had been her foremost focus and both her mental shields and memory sorting/storage had been a bit neglected in the process.

But the bones of it were there, and she used them ruthlessly as the basics of all mind arts, as Lord Rosier had expounded, were technique and practice.

It became a common sight for the other students or the teachers to see Enora Rosier taking a calm moment while the others rushed away from classes.

Using time that to others looked like ladylike poise to begin the process of sorting out her memories of the preceding class before carrying on.

It simplified the process of evening meditations, which was helpful.

Tom seemed determined to ground his own persona in an angelic swot who only wasn’t accused of being a mis-Sort by dint of his sheer academic ambition.

If she was going to keep up with the little arsehole, she needed her mind sharp and her memory even sharper.

In her first life, she hadn’t been a stupid woman.  On the contrary.  She’d been considered “gifted” for all the good it ever did her given a lack of privilege and opportunity.  College didn’t happen for her until she was attending with other students young enough to be her own children.  And even then: it required significant sacrifices and massive debt to manage.

As Rose, she was ahead of the learning curve before she ever stepped foot in a classroom.

In any other year, she’d be the undisputed leader due to work ethic and knowing how to learn as well as how she learned while her fellows were still trying to grasp the foundations of a decent academic essay.

This wasn’t any other year, however, fate had right fucked her over with her reincarnation or transmigration or whatever-the-fuck it was and dropped her down in the same Hogwarts class as Tom Fucking Riddle.

Even Dumbledore in the books had admitted that Tom Riddle was brilliant.

“Brilliant,” he said softly. “Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Given that Dumbledore was presumably including himself in that statement along with the likes of Barty Crouch Jr., Hermione Granger, and Bill Weasley, it was a glowing if regretful summation of just how impressive Tom Riddle was as a young man and student.

Tom could change the world for the better rather than destroy it.

If he wasn’t fucked over and ostracized, turning him into a bitter, vicious man lashing out at the world.

Rose thought she’d done a pretty good job at avoiding that fate.

But to keep avoiding it, her brilliant bastard of a baby brother needed challenges to keep him engaged and occupied rather than coming up with plans for world domination.

Which meant she had to challenge him because Circe knew: no one else had a hope in hell of managing it.

She was only able to give it a shot because she was cheating.

Even if she didn’t already assume that, the way he reacted to Rose being better than him at Occlumency had confirmed it for her, along with the way he would watch their yearmates around them with a bit of bafflement.

Like they were strange creatures from another planet, instead of their peers.

By the time they separated on Friday at the end of their first week to each attend their divided culture classes, Rose was growing resigned to her role as Tom’s academic rival and debate partner being added to their dynamic.

Though she was also growing closer to admitting that maybe the Hat had a point.

With Ravenclaw and Slytherin paired for all their classes that year, she still saw a lot of Tom, nearly as much as when they were living at Rose Cottage.

He was…sticky.

A fact which somehow she’d never noticed before they’d come to Hogwarts, but absolutely started noticing when he glommed onto her - metaphorically, as he was too proper to do so physically - and then remained attached to her and by her side unless she was ducking into the girls’ loo.

Every moment of every day that she wasn’t in her dorm or the bathroom, Tom was there.

It made determining the potential existence of both the Room of Requirement and the location of the kitchens - the latter in order to engage in the oh-so-important bartering with the elves, the former for future endeavors - impossible as she had no way to explain how she knew about them.  If they were in fact located where she thought they were.  Rose had plans and her sticky little brother - a stickiness that she’d carefully cultivated and was only now seeing as the potential problem it actually was - was proving as a massive barrier to completing them.

Fuck.

The fucking interfering Hat was right.

Rose and Tom absofuckinglutely needed to get lives outside of each other.

It was how to accomplish that without damaging their relationship that had her a bit baffled but she still had hope that the simple routine of school will help.

And for the first bit: Wizarding Culture for the Young Witch, taught in a room noted as the “Spring Ballroom” on the ground floor of the castle.

As Rose joined Jesmynda, Moon, Pandora, and the rest of her housemates in the Spring Ballroom - dubbed as such for apparent reasons given the living decorations in twining vines of greenery and out of season flowers that crawled up the ballroom’s colonnade pillars - she realized that due to spending so much time with her small group, she’d missed a key bit of information.

Wizarding Culture was being taught to all the girls from her year at once, not just the Ravenclaw and Slytherin first years.

Which, in hindsight, rather explained the ballroom location as there were at least fifty first year girls finding seats in the evenly-spaced chairs set up in the front of the room just below a dais.  During an actual ball, Rose imagined it would host a band or even a full orchestra.  As she glanced around, she noted the second floor balconies that were supported by the colonnade surrounding three of the four walls, with only the entryway absent the overhang and greenery-bedecked columns.

There was also a large gramophone, which gave Rose hope that maybe this class wouldn’t be as useless and painful as she’d assumed.

She did so love to dance.

Even moreso now that she’d been afforded actual lessons.

Those lessons were in traditional ballroom along with a few specific wizarding dances, but they were better than nothing at all, even if she would like to learn swing and latin dance someday.

But those were both muggle, so she had to wait until she was out from under the control of Lord Rosier, more’s the pity, as the dancehalls of London were beckoning damn it.

The witch standing on the dais she already recognized from her extracurriculars: Professor Veronique Dubois, the music instructor.

There was something off about a French witch - and Professor Dubois was very French - being given charge over teaching British witches culture and deportment but…

Rose supposed if the class was going to be as heavily focused on etiquette, deportment, and manners along with keeping house as she thought it would from the assigned texts, she supposed it didn’t really matter what nationality or culture the professor was from.

Professor Dubois didn’t have to know the intricacies of the Wizengamot if the class wasn’t even going to mention it after all, so while Rose had issues with the premise of the class itself, given the givens, the teacher didn’t really matter.

It wasn’t Professor Dubois’s fault that Wizarding Great Britain was still so deeply gendered and sexist.

Wizards at least respected witches for their innate power.

No one looked askance at a witch who dared to outperform the wizards in her year, or who chose a profession such as Auror or Law Wizard.

It was far more than the muggles of the time could claim.

Witches in power wasn’t expected but when it did occur it was accepted.

Maybe with grumbling from the old guard, but accepted nonetheless.

The problem with the culture became clear when women who did decide to pursue careers didn't also decide to marry and have children.  It wasn't so much the rousing "women can have it all!" rhetoric she was used to.  But it wasn't that far off.  From what Rose could tell, at least, and especially if they weren't from a high enough social status to shut down malicious gossip.

A side-effect of Wizarding Britain being so bloody-minded about continuing bloodlines and fearing a population crisis if she had to guess.

Sure, a witch could be powerful, could outdo her male counterparts, and could pursue a career...but By Merlin and Morgana she better also produce offspring if she didn't want to risk ostracism.

Unless she was barren, but that carried a different - and often worse - social stigma all it's own.

“Welcome ladies,” Professor Dubois instantly silenced the light chatter that had coasted through the students as they waited for class to begin.  “To Wizarding Culture…”

Knowing an opportunity when she saw it, Rose for once was the first one out of a class as soon as Professor Dubois released them with homework to read the first ten pages of the deportment guide and the first section of roughly five pages from the housekeeping books before their class the following week.

No writing assignment, thankfully, as Rose was honestly concerned about her ability to write about the deportment guide without being scathing.

Somehow, she didn’t think Professor Dubois would appreciate it, and she needed to stay on that witch’s good side to keep getting access to the school’s grand piano for practice.

With as many students as the school had, time slots for the organ and piano - as they were instruments that the students couldn’t simply purchase and bring to school for private use - was fierce.

Decent time slots were coveted, the ones that weren’t smack in the middle of the weekend, for example, or just before curfew.

Being disparaging of Dubois’s assigned texts would not be a good way to get the witch onside.

Darting away from the ballroom, Rose made for the first staircase leading downward that she could find.  Since their classes were separate, Tom for the first time all week wasn’t at her side and it was a prime opportunity to check off one of her private endeavors.  Though how successful she would be remained to be seen.

Regardless, she had five minutes before dinner service began and Tom would be looking for her in the great hall, with maybe a twenty minute buffer before he got worried when she didn't arrive.

Precious, precious alone time.

She could almost dance with glee - or rub her hands together like a cartoon villain.

Either way.

In one way, Tom’s stickiness paid off: Rose knew where the wall/door to the Slytherin common room was, and therefore how to get down to the dungeon levels of the castle.

Including the one immediately under the ground floor where the kitchens were supposed to be located.

Now.

Where was that damn fruit basket painting?

She had a pear to tickle.

There were a ludicrous amount of paintings with fruit baskets and cornucopia on the first dungeon level.

It was insane.

However, as a deterrent against students locating the kitchens, it was surprisingly effective - Rose was just abnormally stubborn and determined.

It started as a way to negotiate her diet - maybe - with the house elves.

Three weeks in, it was out of sheer spite that Rose finally located the correct painting in the time she had between the end of Culture class and the beginning of Tom sending out a search party when she was late to dinner.

Nonetheless, she finally succeeded, and after three weeks of searching and spite-fueled frustration, she at last heard a damn pear giggle before bouncing around and turning into a doorknob.

Sometimes magical people made no fucking sense.

Of course, because at times her luck was just that fucking bad, she found the damn giggling pear just before her mental curfew to keep Tom from getting worried.

Fuck everything anyway.

At least she’d finally found the damn place, and with the routine of school setting in and Tom realizing that despite living in separate dorms Rose was still very much his big sister and best friend, so she might manage to scrape up some time to herself to actually investigate the kitchens.

Call her crazy, but something told her trying to negotiate with house elves who were in the full thrust of preparing dinner service for over eight hundred students and assorted staff…probably wasn’t going to go anything like well.

Just, you know, a hunch.

With the number of students that attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the school's monthly staff meetings tended to be morning-long events.

Which was why, to eternal grousing, they took place on Saturdays rather than impede the education of their students.

Or so decreed Headmaster Dippet, and with the approval of the Board of Governors, the professors had no choice but to comply, little as they may like the imposition on their personal lives.

Headmaster Dippet was less than impressed with their complaints, as each and every member of the staff was required to work a certain number of hours to earn their salaries - and attendance at monthly staff meetings was factored in as part of that quota when class schedules were made annually.

In his day, they simply had to accommodate the imposition on their time without their pay accounting for it, so their plaints at the first staff meeting of every year, fell on less than sympathetic ears.

They worked their way logically from seventh year down, with professors over NEWT electives - such as Law Wizard Ogden who presided over Wizarding Law - allowed to depart once they moved on to fifth years, and so on.

One exception being Hogwarts’ Healer, who taught both an extracurricular elective course on Healing to a few interested souls from the upper years along with a health course to second years, as well as served as commandant over the hospital wing.

As even the Flying instructor and Quidditch referee also taught Charms, there was no escaping the Staff Meeting unless one strictly taught electives.

To much resentment from the younger staff over the core courses.

For a simple reason: the youngest students would someday sit before the professors over the upper years, and it would do them well to learn about them before they saw their faces for the first time in fourth-year Charms, for example.

“And now, the first years.”  Headmaster announced after Professor Switch finished his report on second-year charms.  “How are our newest students adjusting?”

The heads of houses traded long looks, all well aware that the typical pain points were once again an issue.

Muggleborns struggling to adapt to an entirely new culture as well as boarding school, though for some their introductory classes to the wizarding world on the weekends were helping significantly.

Others…were a work in progress.

Then there were the purebloods who’d been raised in seclusion with almost no exposure to others outside of their own social circles.

They tended to adapt worse than muggleborns, especially if they were raised by particularly traditional families.

Dumbledore sighed and as usual took the lead, with Merrythought, Nott, and Slughorn following in turn to report on the new badgers, eagles, and snakes and their various spots of trouble or future trouble as the case might be.

“And what of the bright spots?”  Dippet prompted them after allowing them to vent their woes.  “Who of our youngest are managing well and showing promise?”

Which students were the budding roses among the thorns?

It always changed.  There were slow-bloomers in every cohort in Armando’s experience.  But a seasoned professor can generally spot the would-be diamonds amongst the rougher stones in need of shaping and polishing.

Despite nearly beaming with excitement, Horace Slughorn ceded the field to Albus, allowing the head of Gryffindor to go first as he was always so genial about broaching the subject of their more…needful students.

“Miss McGonagall and Mister Potter are both showing as leaders among their cohort.”  Albus was thrilled that young Fleamont Potter was showing the same level of Gryffindor spirit as his elder brother and father.  “Their reports from Transfiguration and Potions have been particularly good.”

Armando turned towards Professors Switch and Slughorn for confirmation.

“Oh yes,” Slughorn was excited about young Mister Potter indeed.  “Mr. Potter has a fine hand in Potions.  While he is not my top student in the subject among his year, he is the finest Gryffindor for certain.”

“Ms. McGonagall has an innate grasp of Transfiguration.”  Switch was less effusive, given that early years of Transfiguration were much more theory-heavy than practical.  And as every teacher knew, a grasp of theory alone could not carry the day in some subjects.  “The best among the Gryffindors in her grasp of the theories presented thus far, though Mr. Potter has her beat in application at the moment.”

Granted, it was by a hair, a mere matter of moments, but Mr. Potter did beat Ms. McGonagall to the mark on both of the simple practicals they’d undergone.

Though given the tenacity of Gryffindors, that was likely only to spur her onward rather than discourage her.

Eyes turned towards Professor Merrythought to report on her brightest badgers.

“Mister Diggory is currently at the top of the sett for his year based on early marks, with his grades in History of Magic being particularly good.”

Professor ben Judah merely nodded his agreement to the Hufflepuff head’s report.  The boy was diligent in his work, as expected.  But as with most of his age group, had yet to lift his head out of his assigned reading and think of application and interpretation beyond the written word.

“Renaldo?”

“Ms. Rosier is going to be a problem, Armando.”  Nott said with a wide grin that was the furthest thing from disapproving.  “She was a Hat Stall for good reasons, and placed in Ravenclaw for many of them.  Her grasp of theory isn’t as innate in my course as my top student, but not everyone can be a prodigy.  She reads voraciously, is fearless when it comes to inquiry.  If she’d been placed elsewhere I would worry.”  He admitted.  “If not sufficiently challenged and directed, I shudder at what mischief her mind might come up with.  She easily is the top witch of her year, and with what I’ve seen unless there is a hidden star in one of the other houses, that’s not going to change.”

The Headmaster cast his gaze over the rest of the first year teachers, seeing nods of agreement all around, even if it was a grudging one from Professor Dubois.

Which was to be expected.

If Ms. Rosier was as inclined to questioning as Renaldo stated, she would naturally clash with the professor required to install a sense of tradition and culture into their students.

“Her work isn’t that of a first year.”  Professor ben Judah added emphatically.  “Her essays in my course could be graded at a much higher level as Outstanding with additional access to resources.”

“Agreed.”  Professor Dubois admitted with a sigh.  “She makes connections to other subjects such as history and theory that I would expect out of an OWL student, at least.”

“Her brother is the same.”  Horace couldn’t hold onto his excitement any longer.  “Mr. Riddle is an actual prodigy in both theory and practice.  I am beyond jealous that I’ll have to pass him on to my fellows after third year.”

“Brother?”  Albus questioned with a frown.  “Are the two related?”

He’d noticed their closeness - anyone with eyes would have noticed it - but in the bits and pieces of conversation he’d overheard, he’d understood Riddle to be a Rosier ward, not an actual relation.

“No.”  Dubois groused with pursed lips, having lectured the girl at length about her unseemly attachment to her male counterpart.  To no avail.  “They are not.”

“They might as well be.”  Horace countered, having gleaned quite a bit of information from his young snakes over the last month when it came to his house’s new shining star.  Tom Riddle was at the top of the standings across the board.  He battled with Enora Rosier, but more often than not came out the victor - particularly in his own Potions, where Ms. Rosier’s theory is perfect but her brewing remained just enough to gain an Outstanding without any further effort applied.  She clearly had no love of the subject, more was the pity.  “Young Tom was brought into House Rosier as a ward years ago, they were raised together.  He wears a watch with the Rosier crest on the band.  They’re siblings.  No matter what a family tree might say.”

He shot a look at his fussy colleague, who merely sniffed and turned her face away.

“Siblings or not, they’ve crushed the curve.”  Professor Fawley, who oversaw first through third year charms, noted ruefully.  “I’ve had to leave them off of my reckoning to grant any sense of fairness to their fellows.”

A soft murmur of agreement went up from those few professors who graded using the curve system rather than by strict points and percentages to determine grades.

“Then we have an opportunity.”  Dippet announced regally despite the excitement dancing behind his aged eyes.  He might not be long for his position, perhaps he could manage it another decade at the latest, but he never forgot the excitement that came from helping shape a truly fine mind.  And his staff now had the opportunity to do so twice in the same cohort.  “Challenge them.  Do not allow them to settle into complacency at the top.  They’re a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw: make them work for it.  Perhaps in doing so, some of the undiscovered talents of their year might be inspired to rise up as well.”

There would always be those who wished to pull and push and shove others down.

So long as Armando Dippet, proud Ravenclaw, was Headmaster, it wouldn’t come from his staff, though barring actionable offenses, there was little he could do about their fellow students.

Pressure turned minerals into gemstones - but it crushed both glass and bread into useless nothings.

Not everyone thrived under the same conditions.

Still, it was only their first year.

Time would tell what Mr. Riddle and Ms. Rosier were made of.

Tom took one look at his sister the first Saturday of October and narrowed his eyes in blatant suspicion as he saw what she had worn to breakfast.

“What’re you up to?”  He asked quietly, leaning over after she’d taken her seat next to him.

For good reason: their original quartet had grown over the last month of classes, as their fellow students were quick to want to ingratiate themselves with the top students in their year.

They’d yet to add any Gryffindors, but a Hufflepuff named Selwyn would come around now and again, having apparently remembered Rose from when she acquired her mutt.  Tom thought he was making a bit of a nuisance of himself, fussing and checking on them like they were infants instead of first years.  That the Blacks never quite went away was bad enough: they didn’t need a Selwyn dogging their steps as well, but Rose just told him to be civil and appreciate the unofficial tutoring from the upperclassmen.

There were times, frankly, when Rose was no fun at all.

It wouldn’t do for anyone to cotton on to the sort of chaos either of them was capable of, it would positively ruin Rose’s ice princess facade to say nothing of Tom’s perfect student mask.

As his sister was wearing her most comfortable shoes and had her dress hidden under a concealing robe that was completely done up - and she almost never wore her robes the “traditional” way, instead preferring to leave them open over her outfits - with her hair completely tight in a braid and not jewelry to speak of, he was deeply suspicious that mischief was afoot.

Worse yet: mischief he hadn’t been invited to participate in, and that was always the most troublesome kind.

Especially as there was no telling the actual form of it.

Rose could simply be plotting a surprise for his birthday.  Or she could be fomenting rebellion among the local population of garden gnomes.  With a mind as clever and tricky as his sister’s, it was impossible to predict.

“Nothing you need to be concerned about.”  Rose told him plainly.  “No matter what way it shapes up.”

Tom just sighed and turned back towards his breakfast, already making plans to work on his networking - i.e. hide in the Slytherin dorms and common room - until dinner.

When his sister got like that it was best to leave her be.

She’d come out of whatever scheming or mood she had fallen into soon enough.

As she’d told him often enough over the years: a body had to have their secrets.

Everyone already demanded enough from her.

It was the least Tom could do to let her have her privacy when she asked for it.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Thirteen: Vital Negotiations

“Studentses!”

“A little missy!”

Rose couldn’t help but grin in a wholly wild and unladylike fashion as she stepped through the portrait door and into the controlled chaos and frenzy of a massive working kitchen.

This was a chaos and furor that was all-too-familiar and in some aspects missed.  Rose had worked in more than one kitchen in her time.  She had the utmost respect for the miracles that the Hogwarts house elves performed day in and day out for thirty-nine weeks a year plus feeding students and staff who remained over the holiday breaks.

And that only took into account their magical feats of cookery and baking, not including their duties in the form of housekeeping and laundry.

Truly, house elves were the Saints of the wizarding world, and were far too underappreciated.

Which was why she came well-stocked in negotiation materials as well as little gifts to show her genuine and earnest appreciation for the work they did.

Rose was quick to close the door behind her - the last thing any working kitchen needed was nosy invaders poking around willy-nilly - and approach the pair of house elves who’d broken off from the elegant choreography of the kitchen preparations going on for future meals as well as the tidy-up from breakfast.

Hogwarts house elves were responsible for providing three meals a day for over eight hundred souls in addition to providing for their own needs, plus the snack carts and tea services that resided the rest of the time in the Great Hall and - at least in Slytherin and Ravenclaw though she was assuming the other houses as well - the common rooms.

The snack options weren’t robust, not like for meals, but even so: it was no small feat managing such conveniences on top of meal services.

“Hello, what are your names?”  She asked the pair of house elves politely.

They appeared genuinely delighted to see her, and a glance at the others who were still working seemed to show no disgruntlement, but she didn’t want to waste their time either.

“Figgy, Student Miss.”

“Quince, Missy Ravenclaw.”

“Figgy, Quince, it’s lovely to meet you.”  Rose beamed, bending her knees a little so she wasn’t looking down at them.  “I’m Enora Rosier, but you can call me Rose like my other friends.”

Figgy gasped a little, bulbous green eyes wide, while Quince bounced and hopped, singing out:

“Missy Rosie wants to be friendsies with house elves?!”

“Of course,” Rose said with the utmost seriousness, being absolutely genuine.  “I think house elves are some of the most amazing people in the world.”  There were more than Figgy and Quince gasping in shock or singing in delight at that, as Rose slowly with every word and earnest extension of good will found herself playing host to more and more house elves.  “The work you do is fabulous and wonderful.   I came to talk to you and tell you as such, as well as give you all my thanks for taking such good care of myself, my brother, and our fellow students and staff.”

“Missy Rose has a brother?”  One of the house elves asked, head tilting to the side and ears flapping curiously.  “Theres being no other Rosier studentses at Hogwarts.”

“We have a different last name.”  Rose explained patiently as she was hustled over to a seat by one of the house elves, the others shuffling along with them.  “My brother is Tom Riddle, a first year Slytherin.”

“Ah, a snakey.”  Figgy nodded thoughtfully.  “We’ll rememberses.”

“Is there anythings we’s can do for Missy Rose?”  Another house elf asked, this one with bright yellow eyes as they shooed off the majority of the others who’d gathered around.

“I brought a few things for the Hogwarts elves, to show my appreciation.”  Rose evaded that question for the moment, wanting to build more rapport before getting into the nitty-gritty.  “My nanny elf Ginsy said you would like these.”

So saying, Rose opened up her bag - not her schoolbag, but a simple sailcloth drawstring affair that was easier to hide under robes - and reached in to her elbow before pulling out the bribes: featherlight cases of ginger beer and a full rack of honey-sweetened strawberry preserves from Rose Cottage’s garden.

Giving up the preserves actually hurt a little, they were some of her favorites.

But if it helped her make friends with house elves, it was a worthy sacrifice to the cause.

“I’s being Ginger, Missy Rose.”  The other - older? - house elf introduced themselves, floating the goods over to Figgy and Quince and then shooing them off as well before eyeing Rose with something like amusement.  “What cans the house elves of Hogwarts bes doing for Missy Rose?”

Ahh, an old hand at student bribery attempts then.

Makes sense.

Even if only one or two students per year or even house knew the secret of the kitchens, it was the sort of thing that would be told and passed down.

And, kids being kids, especially kids stuck away at a boarding school, being able to procure treats outside of Hogsmeade weekends or considerations of money would be a valuable bit of information to make life better and/or easier.

“I’m being truthful when I say that I appreciate all the house elves do for the students.”  She leveled with Ginger, not trying to butter her up.  “I have some idea of what it takes to do what you do.”

“Missy Rose and Mister Tom both don’t need nutrition potionses.”  Ginger noted accurately.  “Theys not bes needing helps like other studentses.”

Well fuck.

The house elves added nutrition potions to the meals, probably with approval from the hospital wing, that explained so much about how someone like Ron Weasley could survive for seven years on a diet of heavy meat, mash, and sweets but not have scurvey.

Though it was good to know that Tom at least was following through on eating somewhat healthy.  She saw his plates most of the time, so she wasn’t worried.  But still.  Confirmation was always nice.

“Your cooking is great, wonderful.”  Rose said.  “But it’s very British.  I know it might not be possible for the whole school, but might it be possible that small amounts of different dishes could be offered?”

“We’s can only makes what we’s knows how.”  Ginger explained simply to the young miss.  It was a conversation she’d had before over the years and would have again.  “And the ingredientses for.”

“I have cookbooks, personal recipes, and can give demonstrations.”  Rose countered promptly, making firm eye contact to highlight her seriousness.  “Most of them use items Hogwarts already sources, and the few that don’t won’t break my heart if you can’t get them.”

“Theys would haves to be approved.”  Ginger told the young miss just as firmly.  “If theys don’t haves all the good things young witches and wizards bes needing to grow, then you’s would haves to start takings potionses to helps.”

That wasn’t a no.

Beaming, Rose dug back into her bag as Ginger floated over a pot of tea and a bowl of fruit to the small table Rose had been stationed at by Figgy and Quince, pulling out both the recipe cards and the cookbooks she’d brought.

While she came prepared in a work dress and even had a kerchief to cover her hair, she didn’t want to get ahead of herself.

Even if the house elves agreed to some of the dishes she was proposing, that didn’t mean they wanted her poking around in their work space or fiddling with their tools.

Baby steps.

“You tricky little witch.”   Tom breathed later that night when rather than his planned dinner - or anything that had actually been available to choose - something else entirely filled his plate.

And his sister’s, along with a platter of what she called caprese crostini as he well knew from home between them to share.

“You found the kitchens.”

Tom knew it was her.

There was no way to explain the generous portions of fresh pasta tossed with olive oil and grilled veg: squash, mushrooms, tomatoes, asparagus, broccoli, onions, garlic, basil - and topped with fresh grated cheese otherwise.

Or the crostini, for that matter.

He’d never even seen pasta before going to live at Rose Cottage, and it hadn’t appeared on the menu at Hogwarts in the entire month previous.

For the most part, the starches on offer were root veg mash of one kind or another, or chips, and sometimes rice along with various forms of bread.

The cheese available for sandwiches or with fruit platters certainly weren’t the same as what topped pasta at Rose Cottage, or the fresh creamy white that Ginsy used for caprese.

Tom had been right: Rose was absolutely up to something.

There was just one problem:

“When did you even have time?”

“Every Friday.”  Rose answered smugly, even as their plates and the caprese platter got a bit of attention from their tablemates.  “Since the first week.  Found it the other day but had to wait for a good time to actually talk to the house elves.”  She grinned at her gobsmacked brother.  “We’re having strawberry sorbet for dessert.  You’re welcome.”

It took Rookwood less than a minute to put together the pair of them whispering at each other - and the expression that broke through Tom’s genial mask - with their strange dinner and come up with the correct answer.

“How did you find the kitchens, Rosier?”  He asked quietly, not wanting to draw any more attention.

Thankfully the table that they were at was large enough - and most people self-involved enough especially at meal times - that they weren’t drawing too much notice.

“Logic.”  Rose answered promptly, lying her ass off.  “I deciphered based on dorms and classrooms where they were most likely located, then systematically tried every portrait, painting, suit of armor, or other bit of decor until I cracked it.”

“Stubbornness.”  Tom drawled, rolling his eyes where only Rookwood and not his smug (rightfully, but he wasn’t going to tell her that) sister could see.  “She out-stubborned whatever protective measures are in place to keep students from wandering in.”

Rose thought she could probably object to that, but then again he was right despite being a sarcastic little arse about it, so she let it go.

“Queen of the Swots.”  Rookwood agreed with the utmost solemnity.

“Queen of the Swots.”  Tom nodded crisply, raising a crostini in his sisters honor then passing the platter over for Rookwood to try when he made a questioning gesture towards it.

The enlightenment that broke over the boy’s face was worth every ounce of bargaining she had to employ to convince Ginger to serve something for dinner from Rose’s recipes.

Along with the soft, and thankful, nudge of Tom’s shoulder against her own.

Slytherins.

“Please give that girl something else to do.”  Albus, as the deputy headmaster, had learned from the house elves that one of the students had found their way into the kitchens.  As a result, he found himself looking for a golden head of braided hair that night at dinner to see what young Ms. Rosier had wrought.  Thankfully, it didn’t seem like a catastrophe.  Even so…  “Now that she’s found the kitchens, I despair to think of what will entertain her going forward.”

“Calm down, Albus.”  Renaldo huffed, rolling his eyes at the Gryffindor’s dramatics.  “She used the information to barter new additions to the menu.  It happens every decade or so, hardly worthy of theatrics.”

So saying, he bit down with some relish into the crostini that had migrated from the platter on the head table to his plate.

“Guile of a Slytherin, determination of a Hufflepuff, bravado of a Gryffindor.”  Galatea Merrythought, Head of Hufflepuff House, snickered along with her wife Eudora into her goblet of cider.  “That’s a genuine Hat Stall who earned the distinction if I ever saw one.”

“So long as she uses her powers for good.”  Renaldo played along with a sigh.  “Regardless, in alignment with our charge to challenge our best and brightest to continue growing, I intend to start setting alternate assignments for any student that shows Outstanding comprehension of material, rather than bog them down with retreading the same row.  It should serve to keep her a bit more occupied with her studies and less on ferreting out the castle’s secrets or setting her own challenges.”

“Very good.”  The Headmaster approved, even as he scooped up a bit of the chilled strawberry dessert that was a new appearance on the menu.  “Though I am quite interested in some of her cookery suggestions.  Quite diverse.”

“The girl has common hobbies.”  Professor Dubois scowled in disapproval, even as she stabbed viciously at her own plate of pasta.  “Cookery.  Baking.  Befriending house elves.  For a witch of her status…”

“Now now, Veronique.”  Albus’s genial blue eyes sharped on his colleague.  He may not approve of young Ms. Rosier’s fiddling with affairs that don’t concern her, but there was a difference between that and disparaging her for taking an interest in looking beyond her own social status.  He’d glanced over the cookery books that the girl had provided to the house elves and noted that every one of them was muggle in origin.  It was nothing but admirable that such a young pureblood was willing to embrace their magicless brethren.  “As a student, Ms. Rosier’s status is immaterial.  Only her academic pursuits, and those have been without blemish.”

Dubois muttered into her tea but couldn’t argue.

It was one of the most damnably irritating aspects to the girl.  All her work was completed precisely to requirements and Outstanding.  It was rare that there was so much as a comma out of place.

On parchment, she was the perfect student and lady.

In reality, she was one of the most intransigent witches ever given into her tutelage, and one given her dedication to her musical endeavors that Veronique was never going to escape until she graduated.

Likely with honors.

As if that was appropriate either for a young witch of good breeding, but dare Veronique say as much and she’d find herself handily shunned.

No matter how much better it might be for the child’s future prospects and even happiness if she was gently guided away from inappropriate attachments and endeavors and towards pursuits more befitting her station.

Befriending house elves, pah!

Such a disgrace.

But as it was not a matter regarding her education or even rule breaking, Veronique’s hands were tied against informing Lord Rosier - or perhaps better the girl’s godmother, Lady Delacour who was a proper sort of witch and French besides - regarding the girl’s deplorable habits and hobbies.

A shame.

She could have been perfection.

Instead…

Well.

Someone was sure to marry the twit, for her father’s money and a connection to House Rosier if nothing else.

When she saw both vegetarian and meat-based lasagna on the menu options the next week, Rose was delighted.

When the house elves invited her back to the kitchen to talk recipes and techniques, she was thrilled.

The first time she had authentic - insofar as she could remember - pad thai in years she almost cried.

There were further negotiations of course.  Some ingredients were scarce in 1930s Britain, even for house elves to source.  Others were impossible to find and she didn’t know enough about to make from scratch or know even a decent alternative.

Coconut vinegar became rice vinegar.

Plain sugar had to replace palm sugar.

She didn’t even want to think about the impossibility that ready-made thai curry paste was, and while she could make an approximation of both red or green there always seemed like something was missing.

An ingredient she forgot because while she knew generally what was in it, she’d never had to make it from scratch with the convenience of genuine southeast asian markets or western asian markets or even a flat-out Vietnamese market in her surrounding area.

London was still a global city, but it wasn’t anywhere as diverse as it would come to be at the end of the century.

Indian food was easier than southeast asian, albeit for horrifying reasons.

Italian was easiest yet.

Mexican was a work in progress, again due to ingredient issues.

Once a week for the remainder of her Hogwarts life, Rose was able to count on having a meal that wasn’t meat and three veg.

It was worth every moment of negotiation, owl orders of ginger beer, and even a demonstration or two once the elves started to trust her.

Good food was worth it.

Given the increased morale surrounding Saturday dinners despite some grumbling about “foreign” encroachment into their days from stodgy wankers, Rose would have to say that most of her fellows agreed.

Not that she particularly cared.

If they expanded their palates, a bit or a lot: good on them.

Her most vital of negotiations were entirely fucking selfish and she didn’t care what the collateral benefits were.

She got flavor and spice back into her diet.

Everything else was circumstantial.

At the end of the eighth week of class, an event came that Rose had been excited to learn about at the beginning of term.

Point of fact, it was still the only thing she was excited about when it came to the culture component of her education, including the professor’s attitude.

She had her thoughts on what it was about her specifically that grated on Professor Dubois’s sensibilities, especially as she’d lectured her frequently regarding her closeness with Tom.

Lectures that Rose resolutely ignored, but given that the last one actually took place within earshot of her brother…well.

Rose hoped for the Professor’s sake that her Tom didn’t think that murder was an appropriate response to those who disparaged him, or else eventually the Headmaster was going to need to find a new professor over music as well as culture for witches.

Professor Dubois was the sort of person who lashed out when she thought her authority or “wisdom” were being disrespected while at the same time being the worst sort of woman: one who after being subjected to the restrictions of being a woman in a patriarchal society judged and punished other women who dared to try and be more than that society said they should.

It was her least favorite bit of how even without being actively discriminated against by men, women can still be influenced by the mere fact of a power imbalance.

The ugly part of humanity.

The one where rather than go “I’ve suffered so I’ll work so you don’t have to” someone goes the other way of “I’ve suffered so you should too.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d run into it, even in this life.

Nanny Emma was an example of it, albeit in a nicer form than Professor Dubois.

That narrative of “you have to keep your head down, you have to submit, a good girl is an obedient girl” was in its own way as awful and soul-crushing as the harsher message of “toe the line or be punished” that was in its way the more honest of the two.

Meanwhile, the people who from the outside Rose would’ve otherwise assumed were the biggest perpetrators of the power imbalance were sneakily teaching her to overturn it from within or barring that use it to her advantage in the teachings of her godparents.

Both of them benefitted from the status quo, but they also recognized it for what it was instead of trying to pretend otherwise.

Rose at least could respect that.

Professor Dubois could fuck right off with her stink eye and lectures, but Rose had to grit her teeth and tolerate the witch.

Otherwise, she might end up in detention instead of participating in the cotillion the culture classes for both genders used as a practice tool for “proper behavior” that they held every two months.

In other words: a dance.

Small scale, just the first years, but a dance nonetheless.

Rose would hold her tongue for a lot less than being able to practice one of her favorite hobbies, but thankfully only Tom knew that.

And as her brother strode across the spring ballroom to ask her to dance like a mini-lordling, all Rose could do was smile and take his hand as he led her in a foxtrot.

If it also got her yet another sour look from Professor Dubois, well, all to the better.

That just made it a two-for-one win.

Professor Darius Adalhart, the male counterpart to Professor Dubois as well as the professor in charge of the Art extracurriculars, watched with an impressed gaze as his top student in Tom Riddle of Slytherin led the thorn in Veronique’s side out onto the floor with poise.

“I don’t understand your dislike of the child, Dubois.”  Darius sighed after watching them perform a perfectly adequate foxtrot before young Mr. Riddle turned his ward-sister over to Mr. Rookwood when he asked Ms. Rosier for the next dance, a waltz.  “She is unfailingly polite in my studio and her grace on the dancefloor will be seen as a credit to you in her later years.”

He knew of course, all the staff did, that Riddle and Rosier were budding geniuses of the magical arts, but unlike others - he didn’t give two dirigible plums for their academic excellence.

Darius was an artist.

Charged with encouraging young creatives to think beyond the humdrum bounds of transfiguration theory and potion fumes.

What mattered in his studio - as well as within the young wizards foisted upon him so he could continue engendering a love of the arts at Hogwarts - was a soul’s imagination and creativity.

Not petty concerns over blood status or magical classification of spells.

“She could be a diamond,” Dubois voiced her strongest complaint against the girl.  “Even with her concealed maternal heritage,” and they all knew what that meant, “she could be an incomparable.”

“She has no time for your elitist rubbish.”  Darius struck to the heart of his colleague.  “Given that she holds a halfblood as her brother.”

“Little more than a bluestocking,” Dubois seethed over the outdated - but apt - term for an intellectual or literary woman, often conflated with women unconcerned with marriage or a spinster.  “It is an intolerable waste of her face and name.”

“She’s twelve.”  Darius shot back dryly.  “At that age most children are more concerned with school and friends than marriage.  Perhaps you could try remembering that when you deal with her.  Or all the students for that matter rather than trying to play matchmaker.  It might make all the difference.”

It wouldn’t, Rose had already gained an irrevocable opinion of Madame Dubois, but he wasn’t to know that.

Though the lessening of the witch’s thinly-veiled disdain did keep her from making an enemy of one Tom Riddle, so it wasn’t entirely without merit.

If, ultimately, futile.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Fourteen: Choice

Saturday, 31 October 1938:

Rose woke up on her twelfth birthday rather eager and raring to go.

The day before had been a good day indeed with the first cotillion (a dance and party by another name) making culture class fly by for the first time since Rose started her Hogwarts education.

She’d loved everything about it.

Dancing, snacks, laughing and just generally having a good time.

It was wonderful and even Dubois watching over everything with an eagle eye couldn’t spoil it for her as she danced every dance - and with more people than her brother.

Especially as her Tom’s charming smile and smooth steps on the dance floor made him one of the most popular dance partners among the girls, even those who were unfamiliar with him due to being in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff.

(The sight of Tom dancing with a tiny version of Minerva McGonagall was going to stick with her for a long, long time.)

Flying classes were quite fun as well, but nothing really beat dancing for Rose.

So to have a dance party fall on the day before her birthday…well.

That was only all too wonderful as far as she was concerned.

The only real hiccup was that as her birthday fell on Samhain, there was a feast that night and rituals to observe and participate in rather than having the day to spend as she pleased - but she’d gotten used to that.  If anything, dovetailing her private birthday rituals with the traditional Samhain ones made her personal rites stronger.  Made her stronger, though it was impossible to tell.

She didn’t know how others were affected by performing rites and rituals, not really.

She could read about them in memoires if a bygone magician was even willing to expound on something so personal for posterity, but she could never really know.

Later that night after sunset but before the feast, Professor Nott would gather up all the First and Second years who wished to participate in the Samhain rites and lead them out onto the grounds where they could either take part in a large rite led by him, or smaller ones done by those comfortable taking the lead over such an important event.

Presumably, everyone Third Year and up was considered mature and responsible enough not to linger on the grounds after the grounds curfew.

Rose wasn’t so sure about that, which might be why the feast was scheduled for after the rites were finished rather than before.

There was only so much temptation that even Seventh Years could be reasonably expected to withstand, and free access to the school grounds all through the night was one of them to her mind.

Since it was Saturday, Rose took ruthless advantage of not having to pile on the many layers of her uniform, choosing instead after her morning ablutions to wear one of her personal projects that she’d set for herself after picking up a primer on magical clothing construction, sewing, and tailoring spells “for the adept magician” which also included male patterning as well as era-typical female ones.

A bit of bargaining with the family tailor had gotten her access to bolts of both muslin for practice and pattern creation/checking as well as a garment quality (and hard-wearing) wool-cotton blend in a dark brown.

It wasn’t the prettiest color, but what Rose was after wasn’t meant to be pretty.

She was after serviceable, at least with her first attempt at magical sewing and tailoring, while she dusted off many of her sewing and crafting skills from her former life.

As well as something that wouldn’t get a stern letter written back to Lord Rosier about his scandalous daughter prancing about Hogwarts in trousers.

Thanks to her former skills, Rose knew how to pattern out a basic skirt the same as most clothing components.  She wouldn’t be making herself an evening gown anywhen soon, but an a-line skirt and a short chemise were entirely within her capabilities.  To say nothing of her dab hand with a crotchet hook or knitting needles.

In the end what she ended up with looked like it might be a “proper” split skirt while just being a practical use of layers:

A pair of knit leggings that she adapted and sized up from a pattern for a knit baby legging pattern she used in her first life, that banded under her knee.  Then came a chemise replacing her combinations. A simple a-line skirt she made using the brown wool-blend fabric covered her leggings.

But.

With the addition of a mock-seam and buttons, there was no telling that she wasn’t wearing a “proper” split-skirt but in fact had recreated her old staple of leggings under a skirt to stay warm in cold weather along with a chemise top tucked into her waistband that gave the illusion she was wearing proper underpinnings.

Paired with a pretty lilac blouse, a pair of white stockings that she charmed to match - and that stayed up without garters thanks to the tight band of her cropped leggings - and her light brown boots had her happy with the way she looked.

It might not be fashionable, but it allowed her freedom of movement as well as reduced the time it took to get dressed - even with magic - significantly and that was what she was really after while not wanting to end up in hot water with the powers-that-be.

Now that she had to dress “properly” all the time instead of running wild in a tucked-away Welsh valley, anyway.

Nanny Emma had never let her get away with anything outright scandalous, but like any canny caretaker the motherly woman had known when to pick her battles: if she didn’t want to fight rips and tears in all of Rose’s undergarments, she’d let her wear old pairs of Tom’s short trousers under her skirts rather than slips and petticoats that snagged on everything and tangled around her legs.

Then there was the fact that her body might only be twelve, but she remembered what it was to feel good about how she was dressed instead of like it was an imposition.  Or a chore.  One that took at least twenty minutes coming-and-going - and that was just the putting-on-clothes part.  Nothing to do with the rest of her washing and grooming routines.  The things she could do with halving the amount of time she wasted just putting on clothes and sneaking it back into her day were tantalizing.

One of Mary Rose’s grooming charms saw her hair down and softly curled with her hair comb from her godmother pinning up one side of it in a gentle swoop, and she actually felt pretty instead of like an overstuffed chicken.  All feathers and fluff.  Adding in her diamond studs from Lord Black saw her finished and ready to face the day.

Pulling out a warm cloak to keep her from getting chilled, she called softly for Geron and then made her way outside for a walk around the Black Lake with her familiar.

For a moment, however brief, Rose felt like herself instead of a costumed actress going through the motions.

And that was one hell of a thing after years of simply having to go along to get along.

Tom was looking for his sister to come down from the Ravenclaw dorms with eager anticipation.

This was their first birthday between them that they would celebrate away from Nanny Emma and Ginsy, and he’d worked hard to ensure it was as perfect as possible.

If only Rose - contrary creature that she was - would deign to show up to enjoy it.

Only to lose a decade off his life in fright when from behind him came a whisper in his ear: “Boo.”

Jumping in shock, Tom whirled around to the sound of Rose’s delighted giggles, a wide - almost wild - grin crossing her face as he turned to glare at her, and in the process realized that he’d been watching for her from the wrong perspective all along.

Rose had come in through the corridor behind him, as from the mist dampening the outside of her cloak and the state of her rosy, wind-reddened complexion and tousled curls, she’d been wandering around the grounds - likely with that mutt of hers.

“You’re a terror.”  He told her crossly, of half a mind to leave her to her mischief but not wanting to waste his effort on her behalf either.  “And you don’t deserve the present I got for you.”

Rose pouted dramatically as his snooty tone, batting her eyes unrepentantly up at time as Tom had outstripped her growth over the last year.

The long-legged prat.

“Don’t be like that, Tom.”  She tugged lightly at the edge of his robes.  “You know I don’t mean anything by it.”

He heaved a put-upon sigh, then took her hand and led her over to a corner of the great hall where he’d taken the time - and not inconsiderable inconvenience - to gather together her roommates and friends.

Even that pest Selwyn, and the imperious Lucretia and feckless Orion Black.

“What are you wearing?”   Pandora asked, her tone half appalled and half puzzled at the simple outfit revealed once Rose unbuttoned her robe in order to sit without it pulling at her.

“You look…muggleborn.”  Julia added with a distasteful wrinkle of her nose at the plain brown skirt in particular that was altogether plain rather than flared and gathered at the sides and back like a proper witch would wear.

“Hardly,” Rose drawled, rolling her eyes at Tom when she looked away from the pureblood princesses.  At least Lucretia was too composed to say anything if she had issues with her attire, especially in public.

Boys being boys, especially at their young ages, none of them cared that Rose’s skirt wasn’t quite the correct fashion.

“I made it myself.”  She continued, completely unbothered with their opinions.  It was the older generations - the ones with actual power - that concerned her, not spoiled brats who’d been coddled and cosseted all their lives.  “It’s a first attempt.”

“And you look lovely in it, Lady Enora.”  Orion chimed in after a prodding nudge of his sister’s slipper under the table.  “Father will be ever so pleased to know that you enjoy his leavetaking gift,” with a tap of one finger to his own ear lobe for the clarity of those who weren’t aware of the provenance of her earrings.  “He thought they might be too simple for the daughter of his closest friend.”

Merlin bless baby lordlings.

Orion still might yield influence like a hammer in the present, but it was gallant of him regardless.

And likely prompted by his older sister, but he was twelve not twenty.

That was nothing but expected.

Bless their cottons, but the other boys were quick to follow in his footsteps, either stumbling to assure Rose that she looked lovely or managing a smoother take.

Rose thanked them all politely before tucking into her breakfast - pretending the whole time, like a well-bred girl, that she was utterly blind to the small pile of presents waiting for her attention in the center of the table.

It was the largest group she’d physically celebrated her birthday with, potentially ever.  Rose and Tom, Lucretia and Orion, Tom’s roommate Octavian, then Rose’s own roommates as well as Julia and Pandora plus sweet Elias Selwyn were all companions Rose had expected.  Then there were the not unexpected but also not nots who were friendly-ish but not who Rose would say she was close to.  

With Orion at the table, his own friends Antonius Nott - Professor Nott’s son - and Cato Prince had come along, the same with Lucretia’s friends Domina Selwyn (Elias’s cousin…maybe) and Barbara Greengrass had also joined them.

From their own year, Roberta Dagworth who’d started joining them more and more in the library had followed Julia and Tom from Slytherin, as well as Ravenclaws Callum MacGregor - who had bonded with Rose over Geron - and Xerxes Lovegood.

Altogether, it made for quite the little party atmosphere in their corner of the great hall, one made even more festive with the addition of Rose’s favorite - and rare, since it had to be cajoled out of Ginsy as it wasn’t anything approaching healthy - breakfast sweet, complete with a birthday candle: french toast stuffed with a mixture of sweetened cream cheese and fresh strawberry compote, then topped with powdered sugar and butter.

It was eighty million calories on a plate, but it was fucking delicious.

“How did you manage it?”  Rose had to ask, laughing with delight after blowing out her birthday candle, complete with requisite wish, once the stuffed french toast had appeared on everyone’s plate.

“You’re not the only one with secrets, sweet sister.”  Tom said smugly, giving her a haughty grin even as he cut into his own sweet treat.

“I love you, you prat.”

“Love you too, terror.”

Laughing once more, Rose turned to Lucretia on her other side, joining once more in the boisterous and celebratory conversation flying hither-and-yon around the table.

The professors at the head table stared down indulgently at the cheery gathering at the corner of the hall.

Samhain was usually such a solemn day, albeit for important reasons.

It was a refreshing sight on the rare occasions they had a Samhain birth to celebrate along with observing the austere events of the most reverent of the High Days.

For those of them - few as they might be in such learned halls - who subscribed to old traditions regarding children being born on certain days of the year or even week being a potential portent of their character or abilities, it was a different matter entirely.  Knowing that Lady Enora Rosier was born on Samhain changed - even unconsciously - their impression and expectations of the young girl.

The same as knowing a child was born on any other day of magical significance.

If those same superstitious few realized she was conceived on Imbolc as part of a magical ritual to ensure her birth, they would’ve lost their collective minds.

Rose dove into her pile of presents - including the ones that had come via owl delivery during their breakfast and added to the stack - with the restrained glee expected of her.

With eyes on her, she couldn’t give in with unabashed joy, but that was fine.

She appreciated the thought and effort that went into purchasing gifts, but while the boxes of chocolate and candy from Honeydukes provided by the friends of Lucretia and Orion Black - for instance - were nice tokens, they weren’t really about her.

They were the fulfillment of a social custom, not anything more.

The other first year girls had all gotten her small clothing presents: embroidered handkerchiefs from Julia Flint, a gauzy silk scarf from Pandora Malfoy, with her roommates Elenore and Jesmynda going in together on a pretty plaid shawl in colors of pink from a palest baby pink to a deep rose that was a rich silk-cashmere blend that was gorgeous and she instantly adored.

Xerxes Lovegood’s small rack of a half-dozen bottles of blue ink that had varying degrees of sparkly glitter suspended in them were a delight, as was the thoughtful present from Callum MacGregor of a new collar and leash set for Geron in a rich bronze dyed brown leather embossed with a blue ravenclaw eagle on the wide collar.

A luxurious peacock feather quill came courtesy of Elias Selwyn - which Rose doubted she would ever use, but that would look lovely on her desk - and then came the series of gifts that had her either eager or anxious depending on the gifter.

Though as she started with the expected gift from Walburga Black and found herself both underwhelmed and entertained with the copy of Cantankerous Nott’s Pureblood Directory, whose only redeeming value laid in the fact that it was a book and had a somewhat comprehensive overview of recent family trees for his coined “Sacred 28” Rose at least wasn’t going to chuck it at the snotty bint’s head.

It was tempting however, Rose found herself fiercely tempted.

Especially since she knew as a proper pureblood daughter she was going to have to write out a thank you note for the little brat.

Merlin, she barely knew Orion and she already felt sorry for him if he ended up saddled with his cousin for his wife after all.

Walburga Black was the sort of high society bint that only got worse with time rather than better and made Rose deeply regret that strangulation was not an accepted form of conflict resolution.

“Here,” Orion once again stepped in, this time to rescue her face from getting permanently stuck mid-eyeroll, snatching up his own present from the dwindling pile - Riddle having taken charge of the opened presents, slipping them into a simple canvas expanded shopping bag for her convenience - and plopped the book-sized parcel wrapped in pretty black paper with silver flecks in front of her.  Riddle seized the distraction and snaffled up the Directory, shoving it abruptly into the holding bag with little care.  Not that Orion could blame either of them - Enora for her pinched expression or Riddle for his less-than-mannerly reaction.   His cousin hadn’t half bobbled that gift, and if she was lucky his father wouldn’t have words over it with her own father after he reported Enora’s reactions to her gifts.  “I hope you like it, Enora.”

Orion barely restrained himself from shifting at the feeling of their audience’s eyes watching them.

Despite being a year ahead of Lady Enora, he was only twelve himself.

They were opposites in their schooling: Lady Enora, one of the eldest of her year, Orion one of the youngest of his, the two of them only separated by a scant four months and some days in age with her companion Riddle a mere half year his junior.

Added to that, Lady Enora’s birthday present was the first time he’d personally chosen a gift for anyone not his family or closest friends without guidance from his parents.

He wanted her to like it, but he also wanted to do his parents proud when they heard of what he’d chosen and how he’d done.

Untying the package with care, Rose set aside the shimmering silver ribbon that felt like real silk to save then peeled open the spellotaped paper.

Inside the inky paper, shone a book bound in glimmering opalescent white hide - dragonhide, based on the texture matching her wand holster.  Antipodean Opaleye at that, which was her favorite rather than the graphite grey of her horntail wand holster, which was the only dragonhide she’d ever owned.  She had no idea if Black knew that, or if the type of hide had merely been a lucky guess.  She supposed in the end it didn’t matter.  

There was no title or imprint on the dragonhide binding, but a matching strap held it shut and secure with an attached silver clasp in an ornate filigree of a rosebud on a thorny stem inside a circle.  Picking it up and turning it over in her hands, she marveled at the construction of what she thought was a journal or diary, then shifted it to be cradled in her left arm as she reached down for the parchment that had been wrapped inside the package behind the actual gift.

As Rose read the parchment which confirmed it was a journal, she felt herself blink in surprise even as the others exclaimed over how pretty the journal was or in the case of Orion Black himself shifted anxiously as he waited for her to say something.

The parchment was instructions from the crafter which detailed the enchantments on the journal and how to either set or use them, including a blood-bound security feature that was certainly not found on the standard magical journal at even a high-class bookseller.

Rose carefully rolled the instructions up and tucked them between the security strap and the edges of the journal’s parchment pages, then handed it over to her brother, Tom showing it all due care despite having an eager - almost avaricious - gleam as his eyes had locked on the journal instructions.

To no surprise to Rose.

Those were the exact kind of enchantments that would fascinate her brother, even if generally speaking he cared more about combat magic than enchantments as a whole beyond how they made his life easier.

“Thank you, Orion, it’s wonderful.”  She told the older boy sincerely.  “It was most thoughtful of you.”

And it genuinely was, a gift far more personal and insightful than the bog-standard gifts she’d expected outside of Tom, at least from the other children.

(Later that night, long after her roommates had gone to bed and the lights were out, she snuck into their bathroom to complete the security binding process the enchanter had included with the instructions.  Only then did she realize that the rosebud clasp twisted in place and bloomed to unlock revealing a black opal gemstone center the size of a dime.  It was breathtaking, one of the most intricate displays of enchantment work she’d ever seen for such small-scale and personal use.)

In comparison to her brother’s choice of gift - Lucretia would rave to their parents in her letter home at how well Orion was learning how to be a gentleman, even apart from their immediate instruction and his boyish propensity to take many matters lightly - Lucretia’s own was less well-considered.  It was still a magnificent gift, but rather more generic for any Ravenclaw student rather than something chosen for Rose personally.  Albeit in the form of a rare edition of Rowena Ravenclaw’s biography written by the Founder’s grandson and including source materials in the form of letters written between Rowena and various members of her family.

Rose had already been of the opinion that the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black had no idea of appropriate scale when it came to spending money, but her birthday absolutely confirmed it for her.

Especially considering the gift from Lord and Lady Black that was passed over next and contained a jewel-encrusted silver pendant watch and chain that she could attach to either a pocket or her chatelaine.  The jewels were a mixture of diamond chips and sapphires in keeping with Lord Black’s previous gifts.  What Rose actually found interesting about it - when she was done giving an internal eyeroll over the spendthriftery - was that the watch told more than time, configured and enchanted to also keep track of moon phases, weather - current and forecasted, and astrological events in addition to the more mundane concerns of time keeping and setting alarms.

After Lord and Lady Black’s gift came that of Lady Delacour which was a set of hair pins in stainless steel and silver with roses in bloom as well as buds tops set with rose quartz, tiny seed pearls, and enamel - because the only person with a sense of sense and what was truly appropriate among the titled elite Rose had to endure was her godmother.

Circe bless that stern old curmudgeon, or else Rose feared she’d be as in danger of losing her sensibilities as the rest of the highflying purebloods.

The last gift before the ones she was truly looking forward to, coming from her loved ones as they were, was that of Lord Rosier and his wife.

The latter of whom Rose doubted was involved given that the penmanship on the tag was in her benefactor’s script alone, but whatever kept the man’s social circle from gossiping she supposed.

Having already experienced the recent shift in Lord Rosier’s actions towards her in the form of her leave-taking and sorting presents, she wasn’t as shocked to open the wrapping to find another ubiquitous velvet clamshell box.

And whilst on one hand the materialistic part of her that she didn’t even try to pretend didn’t exist reveled in all the sparkle and splash, the paranoid part of her couldn’t help but wonder when the other shoe was going to drop when it came to this new turn their non-relationship had taken.

That however was a worry for another day when Tom wasn’t sitting impatiently next to her for her to get to his present, so Rose acted appropriately delighted by the set of pearls inside the gift box - which wasn’t entirely an act, they were genuinely lovely - of a long strand of matched pearls along with a three-strand bracelet with a diamond and silver clasp, and both simple studs and elegant drops for earrings, all in a pristine and glowing shade of white.

Tom took custody of the blue velvet jewelry clamshell as Orion handed over the second-to-last gift, wrapped in plain brown mailing paper and twine.

Rose already knew who that was from even without having to look, but still found herself smiling with the most sincere delight of the entire process at the simple two-compartment wooden box.  One half of which was filled with a mixture of her favorite baked treats from Ginsy: cranberry-and-orange muffins, snickerdoodles, and even an entire caramel custard (flan, it was flan, but British people gotta British).  The other half contained a bundle wrapped in waxed paper and oilcloth to keep it pristine.  Opening it with eager hands, Rose let out a little gasp.

Kept safe and protected by Ginsy’s magic was a woven tapestry of her home in Elan Valley that she had actively watched come together under Nanny Emma’s clever hands for more than a year.  Each strand was chosen and woven with care, creating a masterwork of weaving.  And every inch of it completed without magic but rather relying on skill alone.

Nanny Emma had worked for hours and hours to make Rose a little piece of home to keep with her wherever she went.

In comparison to that, even the most extravagant jewels and richest luxuries paled in significance.

Rose was less than surprised to find that she’d been colluded against, as Tom revealed his own gift of a books of flowers he’d pressed himself.

Not just any flowers either, but each and every variety that either grew wild around their home or in the confines of Rose’s garden, and that were also woven into the border of Nanny Emma’s tapestry.

Her family was a bunch of traitors that wanted her to break out into tears in the middle of the Great Hall.

Fuck, but she loved them.

Loved them enough to not only survive for them when she grew so very tired and weary, but remember and relearn how to live.

Even if it might very well be the hardest task she had ever set herself.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Fifteen: Fair Exchange

As opening salvos, her birthday outfit was less subtle than an overpowered Bombarda Maxima but that was entirely the point.

Once upon a time, she’d grown up in the most parasitic of capitalist hellscapes: she knew how to use the push and pull of a sudden forward advance such as price gouging that are ultimately retracted to create small, almost invisible net gains - until they started to stack up.

The key was, once you push forward and retreat, to never retreat fully to the same point you started from.

It’s always a little bit further forward than before.

To that end, she started as she meant to go on.

November came roaring in with storms that tossed and tumbled the Highland country side, and after a ritual that always made her feel warm and settled in her magic to celebrate Samhain and the honored dead, Rose woke determined anew to carve a place for herself and a life she actually wanted to live out of the path set before her.

Per lessons in managing the public she once learned via the media and watching the world around her, the first step forward was a combination of that strategic retreat in combination with a slight push forward from the previous benchmark.  In this case, the previous benchmark was Rose being entirely compliant and in line with the prevailing social standards of dress for her age and status.  She didn’t intend, ultimately, to throw away everything about the almost-Edwardian aesthetic but she did want to be able to feel pretty and like herself again.

The way she’d felt the day before on her birthday, even if it had gained her a lot of confused or questioning looks throughout the day until she changed to participate in the Samhain rites on the school grounds.

Of all her problems with the way she was expected to dress, Rose hated the big floppy hairbows the most from a purely aesthetic point of view.

She wasn’t a fan of ruffles and fuss in general as well as having some residual resentment towards a Lolita-aesthetic mean girl from her past, so the bows had to go now that she was expected to wear them daily.

Rose had also followed Professor Nott’s advice and knew exactly where the lines were drawn when it came to the school’s rules on uniforms and student dress - and there weren’t actually that many to her surprise.

Whether a remnant of a time where robes were worn almost exclusively by magical society or a reliance on social pressure to keep students under control she couldn’t say, but that the dress code wasn’t as well fleshed-out as say, the actual standards of student behavior, worked towards her advantage.

She’d worked hard to establish herself over the first two months of school as a polite, but voracious, bookworm and had no intention of ruining the positive impression the teachers had of her now.

It was a fine line to walk between a polite bookworm and an obnoxious teacher’s pet, but it was one she was managing to tread.

Polite, but not entirely keeping to the set standard.  If there was one thing she had going for her, it was that as a Ravenclaw, she was now expected to wander and explore and engage when it came to knowledge.  She wasn’t checking out books that were too far out of what a beginning magical student might enjoy, but she wasn’t entirely staying within the lines either.

If she could keep too many expectations from forming early on, then she ran less chance of drawing ire or censure when she controverted them later.

Her brother, on the other hand, had no problem shoving his massive intelligence in everyone’s collective faces.  Which helped Rose’s own aims, as much as it exasperated her to see him being such a brat.  She didn’t know who’d irritated him, but someone clearly had, and his flaunting of his prodigious self was apparently how he’d chosen to get revenge.  Still, it made the teachers love him because they never had to pry answers out of a dead-silent room, and in comparison it made her seem down-right genial when it came to her in-class behavior and study habits.

Even if she answered nearly as many questions correctly as Tom.

Or explored whatever tomes - without having to check them out and leave records - that she could get her greedy hands on in subjects ranging from Ancient Runes to Warding to the actual studies that’ve been done to try and determine the origin of muggleborns.

Fruitlessly, as while they came up with hypotheses, many of those researching the latter subject came to it with so many biases that they weren’t willing to change their hypothesis even if it meant coming up with a workable theory.

Rose would never get over just how dumb smart people could be.

Or how blind.

“Your hair looks lovely today, Enora.”  Jesmynda complimented the raised Dutch braid threaded with ribbons wound through it and tied neatly at the end instead of her usual simple three-strand or French braid with a large bow.  “Would you be willing to show me the spell for that?”

“Of course, Jes.”  Rose gave a satisfied look at her hair in the mirror, then turned to the heavy fall of rich black hair on her roomate, wand in hand, to demonstrate.  “It’s really rather simple…”

Tom merely looked her over and smirked, having heard many an insult offered up from his sister’s lips on the subject of hair bows, after taking in the absence of a silken monstrosity that usually flanked Rose’s dainty head.

And almost fell all over himself laughing when the same girls who the day before had wrinkled their noses at Rose’s “muggleborn” fashions that day were eager to compliment her now that she’d returned to her “fashionable” dresses with their ruffled hems and bows on the bodice.

None of them had the slightest clue what Rose was doing.

Tom did.

He’d watched his older sister use the exact same tactic when it came to getting muggle reading material from Mary Rose, wearing trousers from Nanny Emma, her patch of the garden from Ginsy, and so on, over the years.

His sister was often the consummate Slytherin, to the point that it was incredible to him that no one noticed.

No one but him, but then…she didn’t try and hide from him.

Not the way she did everyone else.

“Do you have any homework left to finish before tomorrow, Rose?”  Tom asked once breakfast was winding down.

Given that the day before was both her birthday and a feast day, he knew none of them got anything done.

His sister wasn’t one to procrastinate her work for school, but she was also prone to the habit of losing track of time when she fell into a book - and with the resources for reading that the castle boasted as well as their finds during their school shopping, it had happened a few times over the weeks since their arrival that Rose had had to hurry to complete an essay or required reading over the weekend due to bookish distractions.

“Four more inches for Professor Nott’s essay on the classification of magical fields of study.”  Rose reported after finishing her bite of porridge with fruit compote, referencing the assignment for magical theory.

Which covered more than basic magical theory, but ranged over a wide field of preparatory topics for the magical student as she’d come to find out.

Their textbook was on basic magical theory and she found the entire thing fascinating, this idea that something like magic which to her mind was only bound by the limits people conceived for it, but they also had other readings that Professor Nott supplied for them.

He seemed the sort who aspired to train well-rounded magicians, and that included giving them a more in-depth background on magic than strict basic theory.

Rose rather adored him, and loved that he was her head of house.

He met with all of the Ravenclaws one-on-one throughout each semester, and she couldn’t wait until her turn came before the winter break to pick his brain - for additional reading suggestions if nothing else.

“The one you’re writing on why Ancient Runes should be classified as an exploratory or creative subject of study rather than a strictly academic one?”  Tom asked with utter innocence.

“I still think you’re wrong about that.”  Pandora told her pugnaciously holding her ground in the debate that had sprung up when they all chose their topics for the first significant essay of the class.  “Ancient Runes are more like Astronomy - discoveries can be made, but you’re not going to use them to make a new spell or significant advancement like Charms or Potions.”

Tom stared back blandly at Octavian and Julia, the other Slytherins shooting him a look as the Ravenclaws started back up that particular debate that neither side of the argument - Rose, Patil, Lovegood, Shacklebolt, and Cummings for the most part on one side and the rest of their year’s Ravenclaws on the other - were willing to let go.

The Slytherins had either conceded or agreed to disagree amongst themselves more than a week ago after the in-class discussion.

They were swiftly learning, however, that when it came to academic debate, that the Ravenclaws - even the proper ones like Malfoy and Cornfoot - could turn as rabid as any Gryffindor.

It was as entertaining as it was shocking, but as Tom knew his Rose could turn to a nasty dueler when properly enraged, he refrained from joining in.

Egging them on however…that was a different story.

Ten days later, Rose had done her hair without large bows every morning and cemented it as an acceptable departure from expectation, when news came that allowed her to step up her plans - and in more than just clothes.

Lord Rosier’s wife had given birth.

Enora had a little sister: Estelle Narcissa Rosier.

Grinning wildly, Rose passed the letter from Lord Rosier over to Tom for perusal as one by one she felt the invisible shackles holding and binding her to the position of heiress of the Rosier line shatter and fall away.

She was free.

(A little confused, she thought that the daughter of Lord Rosier would be Druella, but maybe that was a cousin line.  Or one of the French Rosiers.  Not that it mattered.)

A sibling was a sibling, boy or girl, and the onus of continuing Lord Rosier’s House had finally fallen onto someone else.

Poor kid.

Raised within the bosom of the Rosier family, they would likely be spoon fed duty and family honor and tradition from the cradle.

It was the trade off:

Having to deal with duty and tradition and all that in exchange for growing up in the lap of magical luxury.

There were worse things.

Worse trades to make, even if they were made on your behalf due to an accident of birth.

And if in the end her sister or another sibling wanted something else… then that was possible too, even if the world around them tried to tell them otherwise.

Rose sent her new sister the gift she’d knitted - by hand, at that, rather than relying on spells that could do the work for her via enchanted knitting needles - of a layette in a cloud-soft yarn in purest white.  She’d chosen a simple basket weave pattern, and a spell had kept any hair from getting caught up in the work - her own, or her roomates’, or far more likely that of Geron or Chanda - and as a result the whole set of blanket, hat, mittens, cardigan, and booties had come together nicely.  It might seem odd to others, but she liked to knit and crochet by hand unless she was working on a time-crunch when enchanted tools could get the job done faster.

It was meditative.

Allowed her to think on the person she was crafting the gift for, hoping that good things would befall them or they might overcome a struggle if she knew of one they faced.

Rose doubted the gift for her sister would get used.

Lady Florence wasn’t her biggest fan.

But she’d made and sent it and that was what mattered.

Some care and affection for the baby who’d freed her from having to be Lady Enora Rosier for the rest of her life was the least she could offer.

Merlin knew, Lord Rosier’s wife wasn’t likely to let her offer anything else, given that the witch could hardly stand to speak to her when they were in the same room, rare as such an occasion might be.

Rose still had Tom and would never trade him for another.

And that, if she had anything to say about it, was never going to change.

The idea of magical fashion had captivated Rose since long before she was reborn into a magical universe, but it was one that wasn’t easy to access.  A trade off of its own.  Rose had all the privilege and comfort of being a noble daughter.  But she also had the culture around her keeping a very close eye on what she did, what she learned, and how she behaved - even at twelve.

A bit of investigation told her that outside of the simple charms learned in the housekeeping aspect of her culture class, and potentially in Charms itself, she wasn’t likely to get to play with creating pretty things until after her OWLs.

Which simply wouldn’t do, and presented something of a conundrum.

With no one to teach her, and not even a club to sit in on that focused on the subject of magical fashion, tailoring, and such, she was left with finding references or texts combined with experimentation.

Which in a matter of weeks, presented something of a problem of its own.

Rose needed clothes to practice her tailoring charms on.

She knew better than to use her own unless she wanted to have to explain to Lord Rosier why she needed a new wardrobe when she inevitably screwed something up beyond the capabilities of a mending charm to repair.

Though it had to be said that in the process of crafting her first skirt and then in taking off a few bows or flouncy ruffles from her clothes after her birthday as she slowly altered her wardrobe to something she liked better, her mending charms were getting much better and more invisible as she got more practice.

But real tailoring and construction charms were far more difficult than a simple sewing charm to stitch a seam or a repair charm - not the same as the mending charm Reparo - made to patch a hole.

Such as the holes left behind from Rose using a severing charm to take off fuss and frill from her dresses, ah hem, only to take off a bit of the underlying fabric with them.

There were entire fields of magic that went into making the average Hogwarts uniform, and if she hadn’t been intrigued by the one book she found idly trolling through the second-hand options with Tom, when she came across a scant paragraph in an introductory applications of Runes book on Thread Magic and embroidered Runes, that would have done it.

Rose was careful about all of it of course.

Her roommates may be fellow Ravenclaws, but there was a difference between practicing their household charm homework or engaging in handicraft hobbies, and actively changing her wardrobe or studying an aspect of magic that was usually the subject of apprenticeships rather than formal study.

There was a reason that she didn’t practice certain types of magic in her dorm despite it being one of the few places she ostensibly had privacy.  Her image was crafted with care, and the last thing she needed was word getting around that contradicted it.  Knowing grooming and hygiene charms were expected.  The level of warding she used on her belongings was not.

If she didn’t want Lord Rosier to lock her into a marriage contract to keep her in line, she had to be careful about maintaining her image and that of House Rosier.

Intelligent, hardworking, even adept were traits that she could accept.

But she did not want to be seen as particularly talented or powerful amongst her peers, that was Tom’s game and one he won effortlessly.

Equally as dangerous for her was if she was thought to have low class or mercantile interests - and she had seen the way Julia Flint had wrinkled her nose at learning Rose had made her own skirt.

Rose had crossed her fingers for years in hope that Lord Rosier would finally have an heir and free her from the weight of expectations crashing down on her, she wasn’t about to allow others to try and shackle her with new ones now that her life was more her own than it had ever been.

What Rose was interested in practicing more than anything were the advanced - potentially extremely advanced compared to her current skill level - tailoring and embellishment charms that could change the shape and construction of a garment without having to physically take it apart.  Or the ones that could add conjured embroidery that lasted longer than a single wear.  Even forms of textile-specific transfiguration that could change the cheapest muslin into the most luxurious velvet or silk without anyone being able to tell that it was the result of spellwork rather than expensive fabric.

To say nothing of actual Thread Magic and all that implied.

There was a whole world of magical fashion charms and transfiguration spells that Rose could learn - if she had the materials and time to devote to it - and even permanent enchantments and complex warding pertaining to magical creations.

Expanded bags.

Robes with temperature charms, and shield runes, and protective enchantments.

Expanded pockets.

Invisibility cloaks.

The potential possibilities were only as limited as Rose’s imagination - and that had never been a field she lacked in.

Currently, the common usage for most wearable enchantments was jewelry due to it being easier to work with engraving when it came to Ancient Runes (maybe, she was only beginning her investigation, she might have missed something), but that was an adaptation of the older skill of Thread Magic that predated magical jewelry craft - not that she wasn’t interested in that too, but one thing at a time.

A factor that the books she’d picked up on the subject had made more than clear were requirements: significant time investment to master the spells that were fiddly rather than powerhouses, the materials to use them on, and even the proper tools to channel her magic through.

None of which she really had, at least not in the quantities needed for immediate results without having questions being asked when it came to materials and time.

By both her peers and Lord Rosier, which she simply could not afford.

The tools she could get later, once she had a grasp on the basics.

Which meant that due to her renewed determination to explore her interests simply because she enjoyed them, she needed space and resources beyond what were readily available to her as a first year student.

She needed the Room of Requirement, and its aspect where Lost Things are Hidden.

Rose leapt upon the first chance she had to head - alone - up to the seventh floor of the castle.

Her chance didn’t come until the first week of December, given that there was a Quidditch match - and those were just fun to watch - as well as meetings with her study group and extracurriculars to manage around.

And that was above and beyond the amount of time she spent together with Tom, either with or without the others who were becoming their friends.

She’d forgotten just what it was like to be a child in school, to have friends and clubs and commitments - to say nothing of the dreaded homework.

She loved the simplicity of it, the simple cares and worries, even as she grew frustrated at times with the amount of fluff that seemed crammed into her schedule.

Hogwarts offered both more classes and more extracurriculars than she’d expected, even with the pervasive idea - head-canon, more like - that in the pre-Dumbledore Headmaster days that there might be more to Hogwarts than seen through a limited, and limiting, perspective.

As like with her thoughts regarding the amount of students having been a result of numerous back-to-back wars taking its toll on wizarding Great Britain’s populace, she was surprised not that she’d been right but that she’d underestimated the problems.

That all of it could be blamed on any one thing, she didn’t think, real life problems were more complex than that.

Rose didn’t think she’d even been as giddy as the moment she found the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy, paced three times before the opposite wall, and then saw a door appear.

It was real.

It was really fucking real.

Stepping through the door however, made reality come crashing down on her:

It was really fucking real, and that meant the Room of Lost and Hidden Things was fucking massive, and a massive mess on top of it.

And probably contained a bunch of cursed and/or illegal shit.

Fuck.

She…was going to need to figure out a few things on how to handle the challenge in front of her now that she’d clapped eyes on it.

Her aspirations regarding Thread Magic and magical tailoring were going to have to slow down a couple of notches.

Damn it.

She had research to do.

“Specialis Revelio.”

Marcus Blackwood, fifth year Ravenclaw and Prefect, arched a brow as he overheard a much younger voice than expected coming from a disused classroom on the fifth floor during his rounds.

Casting the most useless of revealing charms at that.

On his pre-curfew rounds he expected to find a few upper years having an illicit smoke on one of the open-air towers or battlements, or a couple seeking a bit of privacy in an abandoned classroom or broom closet.

Idiots trying to sneak into the Forbidden Forest as a round-about way of sneaking to Hogsmeade at the utmost.

Not little firsties attempting advanced spellwork away from the safety of either their mates or staff.

Though when he opened the classroom door, he wasn’t all that surprised by who he found, if he was going to be finding firsties at all.

“You’re not going to get very far with that spell, Rosier.”  Marcus told the golden-headed first year once he cleared the doorway and realized who he was dealing with.  She wasn’t out of bounds or even out of curfew, but it was odd to see a first year tucked away in a rarely-frequented corridor.  “The thing’s a mess.”

For her part, Rose found herself chagrined that she’d been found behaving - at least somewhat - suspiciously.

And by the handsome Prefect at that, with Blackwood’s lovely dark eyes and rich chestnut hair.

He had girls - and no few boys - swooning over him, much like Tom would in time.

Not that Blackwood seemed to pay it much mind, being like many Ravenclaws, rather obsessively focused on his own pursuits to the point that he rarely lifted his head and took an actual glance around from what she could tell.

Rose didn’t necessarily see that as a fault, given her own habits, but it did tend to make one seem a bit…oblivious.

She blinked a moment as she registered that Blackwood didn’t seemed upset at finding her close to curfew in an abandoned classroom, and decided that she might as well charge forward given that he’d already opened the door - both literally and metaphorically.

“What do you mean, Mr. Blackwood?”

“None of that now,” Marcus rolled his eyes at the over-the-top propriety coming from the tiny witch.  

She was twelve and they were at school, for Merlin’s sake.  

She should be more worried about her classes, friends, and extracurriculars than ensuring her manners didn’t cause offense.  

He’d never been so glad that his own family were merchants and scholars and craftspeople than after coming to Hogwarts and seeing how the noble kids behaved.  Sure, he’d never have as many galleons to splash around as the likes of Abraxas Malfoy, but he didn’t have to act like he had a stick permanently lodged up his arse either.  It was a fair exchange as far as he was concerned.

“Call me Marcus, or Blackwood if your sensibilities demand it.”  

He told her as he came around the weathered - but clean, as was the room as a whole to some surprise, so either the house elves were being meticulous at the moment or she had a dab wand with cleaning charms - teacher’s desk to where she was standing and practicing her wandwork on an average wooden comb.  Presumably one that she knew had some kind of enchantment upon it, or else her choice of spells wouldn’t do much even if she could get it to work.  

“And what I mean is,” he gestured to the open textbook covering Revelio and its derivatives.  “That while the other spells in that family work as intended, Specialis Revelio is properly worthless as the wide-range detection spell it’s touted as, which you would find out for yourself in your NEWT studies presuming you took either NEWT-level Charms or Defense.”

He held back the urge to smile at her disappointed - and unladylike - slump of her shoulders as well as a hint of a pout at the unfortunate news he cast upon her aspirations.

“So an answer for an answer,” he continued even as she straightened up and glanced over at him.  “What has brought a first year to an abandoned classroom practicing detection charms?  Is there a problem with your roommates?”  He hazarded a guess, given that it wouldn’t be an uncommon one to have, especially for a witch in her position.

Being top of one’s class could bred admiration, but also resentment.

Enora Rosier would be far from the first student to excel only to reap bullying from her peers, though having experienced the issue himself, Marcus tried to ensure nothing like that went on in Ravenclaw on his watch.

Rose thought swiftly on how to assuage the concerned prefect’s suspicions without telling him the truth.

She could hardly confide that she worried about how much of the Room of Requirement’s Lost/Hidden items incarnation were cursed, jinxed, hexed, or otherwise dangerous.

Instead, she turned and dug through her schoolbag, pulling out one of her personal library books.

Specifically, one of the annotated second-hand books she’d gotten at Vertic Alley.

“I like second-hand books,” she confided as if it was a great secret.  Which depending on Blackwood’s own biases, he might very well believe it was.  Rich pureblood witches - first years or not - hardly needed to buy used books after all.  Rose opened up the book, the one on magical fiber arts that Tom had wrinkled his nose at during their shopping trip, and pointed out an annotation regarding a spell not in the book that was useful for detecting burrs or other detritus in fiber before spinning.  “So it’s two-fold, really.  I wondered what other kinds of detection spells there are, and what ones I could use on books like this to check both for hidden contents like annotations as well as jinxes previous owners might have put on them.”  Then she sighed, as if put-upon by his informality.  “And call me Enora, I suppose.”

“A reputable shop would have done all that already, Enora.”   Marcus pointed out absently but with humor on her name, even as he pondered the detection spell in the handicraft book, wondering if it would do as described or not.  As well as what other applications such a precise charm might have.  “Though I take your point,” he told her before she could argue with him, as he saw she wanted to as she opened her mouth before closing it at his words.  “Not all shops are reputable, and not all clerks are as diligent as others.”  As he knew, being a Blackwood and expected to help out in the family shop or bargaining with other merchants now that he was of age.  “Do you mind if I note this down?”  He asked of the spell, already reaching into his robe pocket for his notepad and pre-inked quill.

“Feel free,” Rose had to bite back an amused laugh as the eager academic overcame the serious older boy for a moment before being pushed back once more.  “It’s not my spell.”

“It’s not one I’m familiar with either, it might make an interesting bit of research for one of my classes.”  Marcus admitted, before getting back to the topic at hand.  “The Revelare family are the workhorses of anti-concealment charms, but can be high-drain until you’re used to them, too high-drain even for most second or third years to manage.”  He thought for a long moment, tapping his fingers along his notepad as he mentally flipped through the various detection charms he knew, then he turned to a new page and dashed off a book title for her.  “Basic detection charms aren’t started until the end of first year defense, but a little reading ahead never hurt anyone.”  He smiled at her as he tore out the bit of scrap parchment and offered it over.

Glancing down at the note, she saw it contained a pair of titles:

Seeking the Unseen, by Frangecito; and So You Want to be an Auror?, by Potter and Graves.

Neither of which, off the top of her head, she thought she already owned.

Interesting.

“Thank you, Marcus.”  She smiled back, tucking the parchment into the text she found the Revelare family in, one of the Chadwick’s Charms family of texts by Chadwick Boot that were popular in America, though weren’t used - or so she assumed - at Hogwarts given that the first volume hadn’t been chosen by her Charms professor.  “I appreciate you pointing me in the right direction.”

Marcus waved that off, handing her back her crafts book as she gathered her things together, intending to escort her safely back to the Tower, which with a quick check of the time would only just have her scraping in ahead of the first year curfew.

“Always willing to help a fellow ‘Claw, Enora.  Think nothing of it.”

He still wasn’t convinced that Enora wasn’t being bullied but was instead gifted at deflection.

No matter.

He’d make a note to keep an eye on the lower years and nip any potential or would-be bullying in the bud.

They were all there to learn not to push others around or down.

If Marcus had to remind everyone of that, well.

They were Ravenclaws.

Hopefully, they would learn something from it, if there was anything troublesome going on.

And if not, if all was well, he might have gotten to know a few promising younger students in the process.

It was a win-win as far as he was concerned.

Though he’d have to study a bit more over break to make up for it, he considered it, much like the wealth-vs.-propriety metric, a fair exchange.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Sixteen: Shifting Ground

Professor Renaldo Nott found himself looking forward to one of his last one-on-one meetings with his newest students before the Winter break - more than was the norm.

There were a half-dozen of the first year male cohort to see in turn, but Ms. Rosier was the last of the female students to meet with him.  He was a creature of logic and rational thought, not impulse, and so he forced himself to wait and simply observe until Ms. Rosier’s meeting came in due order and time rather than change the order of things to better sate his curiosity.  Especially as she had different habits than her brother and didn’t seek out her professors outside of class or during office hours, though would seek out the odd Prefect or upperclassmen at times.

Renaldo would admit, if only to himself, that he was envious of Horace’s position as Mr. Riddle’s head of house.

The mind on that young wizard combined with his work ethic was impressive indeed, and Renaldo would not be adverse to additional opportunities to help guide and shape it over the course of Mr. Riddle’s education.

However, Renaldo also found that while he was envious of Horace’s acquisition of Tom Riddle as a Slytherin, if given the option he wouldn’t trade the sister for the brother if such was the price to gain Mr. Riddle as a Ravenclaw.

Tom Riddle was the sort whose ambition would push him along with minimal assistance from others.  He likely said all the right things at the right times to Horace.  Responded the way he thought Horace wanted him to.  And at the end of the day would proceed exactly as he liked.

He was prodigious and talented.

He would go far and do great things, likely performing amazing feats of magic in the process - or at least, such was Renaldo’s hopes for the young wizard, rather than have him end up entirely engaged in more pedestrian concerns such as politics.

Enora Rosier on the other hand…her questions, few as they were, were genuine.   Even if they were genuinely designed to cause an uproarious debate amongst her peers.  To make them think even if they didn’t end up in agreement with her stated stance.  

She didn’t ask questions merely to get her own thoughts and notions confirmed.  When Enora Rosier asked a question, it was out of a desire to know.   She may not always agree with the answers provided, but she wanted to hear the answer nonetheless.

Ms. Rosier was his favorite kind of student and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, even if he actively tried not to act on said favoritism.

So when a soft knock came upon his office door, Renaldo straightened up out of his musing and prepared to both ask and answer questions.

After all, if one never asked, then one would never truly know - and to Renaldo Nott, there was no higher crime than that.

“Come in, Ms. Rosier.”

“You have adapted well to Hogwarts, Ms. Rosier.”  Professor Nott stated forthrightly, not bothering to waste either of their times with niceties.  “Thus far I have received no concerns from any of your other professors regarding behavior or tardiness, nor have you received a single point-loss or detention.”

Rose found that rather hard to believe given that Madame Dubois wasn’t stinting with Rose regarding what the older witch saw as Rose’s shortcomings, but then…neither had Mrs. Dubois taken any points from her, as Professor Nott had already noted.

Personality conflicts, yes, and disagreements about what encompassed “proper” connections for Rose, but not anything real.

Not anything actionable, or that Mrs. Dubois could actively call her on from a disciplinary standpoint, let alone escalate to her Head of House or guardian(s).

Rose had been very careful about that once she realized that earning the sour old witch’s positive regard was never going to happen as long as she associated across the invisible - but no less real, at least outside of school - lines of blood and social status.

She simply didn’t give enough of a fuck for the snobby bint’s antiquated opinions to humor her, even with benefits like better time-slots to practice the piano on the line.

Not when the issue of contention was Tom.

So long as it was simply petty bullshit and minor inconveniences, Rose could take it as a consequence of being unwilling to bend to the old bat.

If it ever grew beyond that, and into causing Rose actual problems with her father, godparents, or the other teachers or affected her grades, then they would have a situation in need of handling.

As it was, Dubois was an annoyance, nothing more.

Not worth the time and energy to bother pranking, let alone anything else.

“That’s good to confirm, Professor.”  Rose agreed, as while Professors weren’t jumping to sanction first years while they adjusted to Hogwarts, they didn’t entirely give them a free pass due to their age and newness at boarding school either.

“No conflicts with your peers, despite your inclinations towards debate.”  Renaldo shot her a knowing look, well aware that not all of her debate stances were her actual point of view, given the contents of her essays.  “There are no behavioral or social concerns that have required addressing.  And I need not tell you that you are one of the top students in all your classes.”

“No, Professor, I am aware of my standing.”

“Yes, you are rather aware.  I would expect nothing less from the top Witch of your Year.”  Renaldo couldn’t help but bite back a smile.  “Normally at this point in my meetings with students, I would be asking if you have any matters of concern you wish to bring to my attention, however,” he raised his brows and folded his hands in front of him after closing her open file upon his desk.  It was a slim accounting, mainly encompassing her mid-term results from the end of October and little else beyond a simple biography and demographic information.  “I do not feel wrong in my assessment that if you had had issues not able to be addressed by yourself or our house prefects, I would have seen you in my office much sooner, Ms. Rosier.”

“You’re not wrong, Professor Nott.”  Rose tilted her head a little and gave him a wry smile.  “I am here to learn.  If anything - or anyone - had proven a hindrance, I would have sought redress rather than wait to be asked if there was an issue.”

“Yes,” Renaldo drawled, having to bite back harder on the urge to smirk.  “I rather thought so, Ms. Rosier.  Which brings us to the next segment of these pastoral care meetings.  Goals.”  He eyed her carefully, then gave the standard reassurance that he often found himself needing to make towards certain students.  Or rather, students of a certain social status or lineage of more than one sector and for more than one reason: “Be assured, Ms. Rosier, that I take the confidentiality of my students in the utmost seriousness.  I make no notes outside those of my own mind for others to stumble upon, nor do I make reports of what is said to me to any other, even the Headmaster or a student’s guardians.  The only exception being that of fearing legitimate harm befalling my student or those around them, in which cases I take all due measures to be circumspect.  Whatever is said or revealed to me, Ms. Rosier, will not find its way to another’s notice.”

Rose ran that through her formal language to human being translator and came up with the standard: I’ll keep your secrets except in the case that you’re going to cause harm to yourself or others.

Or potentially, if Professor Nott found reason for alarm that she was being harmed by someone.

Which, she hadn’t been concerned about?

In her experience, unless a teacher was, say, Dumbledore, most took the confidence of their students seriously even where they weren’t bound by an ethical or legal imperative to give a fuck.

She supposed that she could take his reassurance as a sign that her icy pureblood princess act was convincing, as information slipping back to parents or guardians would be a legitimate concern if she was as worried about appearances and living up to the family name as she acted.

The only fear she had when it came to her father was that of a betrothal or marriage contract being made on her behalf, but given that would probably require her to either be years older and/or seriously acting out and causing him embarrassment, it wasn’t an active fear for now.

For later, yes.

But not now, when physically she was still only a child and hadn’t gone through either physical or magical maturity.

“That being said,” Professor Nott continued after she gave him a nod that she understood.  “Have you given consideration to your goals here at Hogwarts?  Either short or long term?”

Rose knew an opportunity when she saw it - both to gather information, and to test what sort of person and Head of House Professor Nott really was - and acted accordingly.

“I want to learn everything, Professor.”  She visibly lit up, given the chance to get an outside opinion on potential paths.  “I know it’s not realistic.”  She smiled.  “There’s not enough hours in the day to study every subject Hogwarts offers.”

“There’s not.”  Renaldo huffed a soft laugh, marveling for a brief moment the sheer joy that broke through the pureblood mask at the simple question of her goals, what she wanted.  He couldn’t help but wonder, knowing the little he did of her background, how rare such a question had been in Ms. Rosier’s life previously.  “Hogwarts at the NEWT level can utilize alternating schedule weeks to accommodate the most serious and exceptional students who can keep up with the course load, but younger students are not allowed to strain themselves, no matter how intelligent, hard working, or otherwise promising.”  Renaldo tapped his right thumb against its opposite as he thought.  “Instead I would suggest attending as many of the optional lectures and seminars that Hogwarts hosts on the weekends, Ms. Rosier, in the hopes of narrowing your focus in regards to your educational goals.”

That answered Rose’s lingering question regarding student time-turner usage.

Damn it.

That would’ve been both terrifying and awesome if it was a possibility.

Whilst also answering how Hogwarts had so many additional subjects beyond those that she was familiar with on offer without forcing students to either choose a narrow focus or using a time-turner: A-B weeks.

Professor Nott was right in that it could create a very heavy course load depending on the student, but it also granted the opportunity to take classes that ran concurrently rather than having to choose between them.

At least, when NEWTs studies came around.

Which in turn meant making sure that she took the right mixture of elective courses when the time came, so that she wasn’t locked out of NEWTs courses she really wanted to take because she didn’t take a required class to get into NEWT-level Spell Creation, for instance.

“Where can I find a list of NEWT-level courses and their prerequisites, Professor?”

Knowing that the question was potentially coming - it was more common to hear from second years, but not unprecedented from his first years - Renaldo pulled a pamphlet on that very topic from a small prepared pile of helpful references he thought might come up in that evening’s round of meetings and handed it over to Ms. Rosier.

“At this stage, this information should only be of mild concern, Ms. Rosier, especially that of required OWLs results, meant for illumination not agitation.”  Professor Nott told her, well familiar with the sort of overthinking his House in particular was prone to.  “You have a fine mind, Ms. Rosier.  There isn’t a single course Hogwarts offers that should be out of your reach, if you wish to pursue it.”

Rose paused, not yet rising even though she felt they’d come to a natural ending point of their meeting.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes from the pamphlet as she turned what Professor Nott had told her over in her mind.

No one but Tom talked to her - encouraged her - like that.

There was always a caveat.

Always a qualifier, usually to do with her status and family or her gender.

“Thank you, Professor Nott.”  She said slowly, not yet ready to say anything more, but at the same time, not wanting to dismiss what his opinion of her and her potential meant to her.  “I will…review the optional offerings calendar and see if anything seems interesting.”

“You have time, Ms. Rosier.”  Renaldo assured her with a soft smile as she rose to take her leave.  “Your first official academic planning session isn’t until the spring term of your second year.  Try not to rush ahead so fast you forget to enjoy the moment at hand.  Even a mind like yours needs rest every now and again, to retain its edge.”

“Yes, Professor Nott.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do, Ms. Rosier.”

“How did your meeting with Professor Nott go, Rose?”  Tom asked when he finally hunted down his sister.  Who’d been hiding.   In the ruddy Alchemy section of the bloody library.   Which was on the top ruddy floor of the bloody place.

In an alcove, that Tom only knew was there because the tapestry blocking it from sight rippled too much to be laying flat against the wall.

Merlin, but his sister could be dramatic.

It was probably due to having been contaminated by the Blacks but Tom wasn’t ruling out her having some weird girl moment either.

He didn’t often think of his sister in terms of, well, girlness.   Rose was too sensible for that.  Cool-headed.  She rarely acted so…off her head as some of the other girls at Hogwarts could be.

Before Hogwarts, he’d only had the vague idea that girls could be strange, terrible creatures filled with otherness.

He remembered how strange, rude, or even cruel the girls could be at Wool’s - both to him as well as each other - but other than that, he’d never been around many girls.

Women and witches, yes, but not girls his age.

Other than Rose, which wasn’t the same thing at all.

Rose had always been Rose.

Someone set apart.

Then they started having to socialize with the Blacks, and then school came, and Tom realized that girls might as well be a different species entirely from himself.

Not that other blokes were much better, but often they seemed nearly sane compared to some of the strops he’d witnessed the girls at school get into - which was an affliction that seemed to get worse before it got better, with the Hogwarts girls most volatile from Third through Fifth Year but never quite being completely adverse to the odd outburst from his observations.

Regardless of cause, however, he had managed to find her and given that she was neither visibly upset nor destroying anything, he considered it reasonably safe to approach and try to figure out what was going on.

As it was the weekend, and she hadn’t had her piano-block yet which meant facing the guard dragon in Dubois, and there’d been no letters at breakfast, he was reasonably sure that whatever may have upset his sister was either her meeting with her head of house or something else entirely.

“He gave me food for thought.”  Rose finally said, pulling herself out of her spiraling mind that just kept turning the same if-then-but-what-if ideas and decisions and arguments over and over again.  As Tom came to sit next to her on the bench that was tucked along the wall of the alcove in an L-shape to allow people to move along the open end, she held out the information on Hogwarts’ electives - both OWL and NEWT levels - that her head of house had given her.  And one of the subjects of her mental twisting and turning.  “A lot of thought.”

“Electives?”  Tom commented, blinking as he eagerly opened the pamphlet and started devouring the information it contained.  “Slughorn doesn’t discuss those with us until we’re midway through second year from what I’ve heard.”

And as he was still in his watchful phase in the snake pit, he heard and saw quite a lot more than most would likely prefer.

If they ever realized it, which as a halfblood in Slytherin - but one with protection - he was mostly overlooked.

He liked it that way - for the moment, anyway.

“What about electives has you overthinking?”  Tom asked, knowing what his sister looked like when she’d thought herself into a knot.  She was like a snake herself that way: going for dim and soft and quiet when she was overwhelmed rather than wanting to be out in the open or around others.  “We have more than a year before we really have to worry about OWL electives, let alone NEWTs.”

“You know how furious I was when the Hat insisted on Sorting us separately?”  Rose asked in a seeming non-sequitur, turning and staring at Tom with those impossibly violet-purple eyes.  

He knew that they were due to the blood vessels behind her eyes showing through against the blue of her irises, but knowing the why behind things didn’t always help make them seem more believable or plausible.  

When Tom ran into things he didn’t understand, he always tried to find out why.   Why Rose’s eyes were that color - that question led him to muggle biology books purchased by Mary Rose.  Why his sister was afraid of Lord Rosier - that led him to learning about the rights - or lack thereof - that children and particularly female children had in the wizarding world until they were of age.

If there was one constant in his life, it was Rose and how she never lied to him - even when it would be easier, maybe, on both of them if she did.

“I’m still surprised you didn’t try and set the mouthy bit of millinery on fire.”   Tom noted dryly, giving his sister a look.

Rose huffed a laugh, “you’re the one more inclined towards arson of the two of us, Tom, don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Gone after it with a pair of scissors and that ripper thing you have.”  Tom shrugged, unbothered by his sisters - accurate - observation.

“Well, I look at this list,” she flips her hand at the pamphlet that her brother had well and truly taken ownership of.  “And all I can think is that it all sounds quite fascinating.  And on one hand I want to take everything and do nothing but learn and read and graduate with twenty OWLs and two dozen NEWTs.”  She exaggerated the numbers, but not that much depending on how flexible the examiners and school were about allowing independent studies.

“We could do that,” Tom agreed, not seeing the problem.  “Muggle Studies sounds like a bore, but otherwise…”

“I heard a speech once.”  Rose knew she was scattered all over the place, but she was genuinely struggling to try and make what she was feeling make sense not only to herself but also to her baby brother.  “About how witches could have it all.  That they could have careers and change the world, but then still get married and have a husband and family.  That they could.  But the way it was phrased made it seem more like they had to if they pursued a career, rather than making it a personal choice.”

“So…”  Tom was confused but he’d talked to his sister enough about damaging gender norms and antiquated social expectations to at least have an idea about what she was talking about.  Even if she was talking in circles and spirals rather than getting to the point like usual.  “Don’t get married and have children then?”  He suggested, a bit hopeful that he wouldn’t ever have to share his sister with some idiot who thought they were worthy of even a moment of Rose’s time.  “We were already planning to avoid Lord Rosier binding you into a betrothal.  We could just continue with that.”

Rose could not tell him that that wasn’t the problem.

She could never tell him that what she thought the core of her confusion and dithering was about not being sure of who she was and what she wanted anymore when she thought of herself outside of the role she’d carved out as Tom Riddle’s big sister.

That after spending years utterly focused on a single goal: making sure that her brother wasn’t epically fucked up by the world to the point of genocidal megalomania, she was…lost.

Unsure.

That with all of her relationships that had once seemed like bedrock she could rely on: Mary Rose’s blithe wine-aunt-ness, Lord Rosier’s detachment, Nanny Emma’s solid care, Ginsy’s devotion; that everything seemed like it was shifting around her.

And she had no idea how to handle having her perspective of herself shift and break and crack when she couldn’t even seem to keep her feet.

That she was afraid of pushing outside of what she knew Tom would want, in order to start forming her own future - one that wasn’t utterly wrapped up in being her brother’s keeper.

“Professor Nott told me I’m the top witch in our year.”  She told him, swallowing hard as Tom beamed at the news.  “Across all the Houses, presumably, or he’d have said top witch of Ravenclaw.”  Her smile was bitter.  “I’m a victim of my own success.  For someone who hates having expectations heaped onto me, I brought this one onto myself.”

“Rose,” Tom heaved a sigh and only didn’t roll his eyes by dint of recognizing that while Rose was giving into one of her occasional dips into the dramatic, she was also being earnest.  “You’re doing it again.  Thinking so far ahead that you overwhelm yourself with maybes and what-ifs.  I thought you promised Nanny Emma you were going to work on that after last time.”

Last time being where she’d worried herself into a literal faint after her breath started to come too fast and shallow, the day after Lord Rosier had legally legitimized her but before she’d been brought into the Rosier Family Magic.

The healer said that it was just an attack of the nerves and they’d have to be on watch in case Rose was simply of a “nervous disposition.”

Tom thought that was a load of hogwash.

He knew his sister.

She wasn’t nervous.

When she got like this she was terrified.

It was hard to watch, his sister was always so calm and in control.

But as Rose liked to remind him when he got frustrated with people around them, they - everyone - were only human, even those who had magic.

They all had moments of weakness.

Even his sister, who for all her short height had always seemed willing to go slay giants if that’s what it took for them to be happy and safe.

Scooting over on the seat, he turned and pulled her into him, wrapping her tiny frame up in his arms.  He’d had a growth spurt recently, making him several inches taller than his diminutive sister.  To the point that it wasn’t as much of a scrunch on her part for him to tuck her into his hold and rest his chin on her head.

“I don’t know what I want, Tom.”  She confided into the soft wool of his robe, hiding in the dimness of their tucked-away corner and the concealing black folds of his clothes.  “I really don’t.”

“We’re first years, Rose.”  Tom huffed, giving into the urge to roll his eyes now that she couldn’t see him.  “None of us are supposed to know what we want.  I don’t even know what I want to do after Hogwarts.”

“Unspeakable or Minister for Magic.”  Rose countered promptly, despite refusing to look up from where she was burrowed into the comfort of her brother’s hug.  “Depending on how frustrated you get with The Establishment.”

Tom wasn’t in the least surprised that Rose knew the two foremost career paths he’d thought about in passing, but also wasn’t surprised that she didn’t know all of them.

He wanted more than anything to learn everything.

To delve into mysteries that no one knew.

But he also knew that magical folk lived exceedingly long lives if they took care of themselves and didn’t dabble with the sort of magical rituals or spells or potions that could shorten their lives if they messed up or played with the wrong forces out of ignorance.

It was one of Rose’s favorite rants, actually: how idiotic dark lords or anyone who avidly pursued immortality ultimately were since the only thing they ever really accomplished was shortening their lives - oftentimes significantly.

Nicholas Flamel and his wife Perenelle were the outliers that proved the rule to his sister about the fruitless pursuit of immortality when an intelligent, healthy magician could live to three hundred years or even longer if they’re particularly long-lived.

There was nothing to say that one path of interest had to be his sole and utter focus when he was an adult.

He could multitask.

Or change careers once he grew bored.

The options were as diverse and endless as magic itself, and Tom thought that was one of the best things about being a wizard after having magic in the first place.

How magical folk had options unlike the one-note, humdrum lives of most muggles.

“And you could be an Unspeakable, or a Law Witch, or the Minister for Magic.”  He countered briskly.  “With or without hangers-on.”

“Your aspirations for me are as high as your own,” Rose couldn’t help the warm burn of affection that lit up inside her chest at his words, even if they didn’t necessarily help settle her thoughts and worries.

“Shouldn’t they be?”  Tom asked, a bit baffled, as he pulled away a little to actually look down into her face.  “You’re just as smart as I am, just as powerful with a wand in your hand.  There’s no reason you shouldn’t have anything and everything you want.  Or nothing you don’t want, if you’d rather look at it that way.”  He added, knowing his sister was often far more comfortable voicing what she wasn’t or what she didn’t like than the contrary.

“What if what I want ends up being simpler than those lofty ambitions, Tom?”  She asked, tentative, digging down to the root of her unrest.

She was in the midst of the magical world.

She should want to explore everything, learn everything, do everything.

Everything was exhausting.

Sometimes - just…just sometimes - she wished she’d grown up in a time and place where they weren’t told they were supposed to want it all.

All is exhausting, overwhelming.

All was burnout, and anxiety, and mania.

“Then you should have simple.”  Tom told her immediately, without pausing for even a moment to think about it.  “Who cares about what anyone else thinks?  You’ll still be my Rose, even if after Hogwarts all you want is to be a shop girl reading second hand books all day.”

His mind jumped to the first “simple” job that he could think of his sister actually enjoying.

“You’d still have Rose Cottage, and me.  If we play our cards right with Lord Rosier, you might even convince him to swear Ginsy to you instead of the estate.  You’ll have Geron and Kali.  Even if all you ever want to be is Rose running through the fields, you’ll still be my sister.”

“I love you, you prat.”  Rose lifted up and bussed a soft kiss onto his jaw that was growing stronger and sharper every year from his once baby-softness.  “And if all you want to do is spend all your days reading in the garden at Rose Cottage, that’s just fine with me.  You do know that.”

“I never doubted it.”  Tom squeezed her firmly, rocking them a bit together.  “Not for a moment.”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Seventeen: Hearth and Home

A week or so after sobbing in her brother’s arms, Rose and Tom were once more back home in Wales.  Winter Break had finally arrived, and she’d never been more relieved to be away from school - any school - even if the problem wasn’t the school itself.  She’d flung herself onto her bed the moment the station’s Floo had spit them out at home, Geron trotting at her heels and flumping right next to her with a doggy sigh.

Love Rose.  Rest now.  She felt the thought come through their bond.

Poor thing.

As her familiar, Geron was even more in tune with her moods than Tom, and of late had had more tears than she liked to think of being caught by his fur.

It was as if Professor Nott’s resolute belief in her had cracked a barrier within her wide open.  Forcing her to either confront what it had concealed or work to bundle it all away all over again.  To the point that her mind palace wasn’t the stronghold she’d built it to be - not anymore.

She felt exposed.

Vulnerable.

She knew some of her fears - potentially many of them - weren’t rational.

Among them, her fear that Tom would turn on her and become that cold wizard from her nightmares, that if she was anything but perfect Lord Rosier would dispose of her in some fashion.

Abandonment

Disownment.

Arranged marriage.

She didn’t fear death.

She knew it far too well, felt too comfortable among the spirits of Samhain and that haunted Hogwarts for that.

To paraphrase a character: Death was an old friend.

But ever since the Sorting Hat had pointed out some home truths to her, followed up by the strange behavior of Lord Rosier, and then topped with Professor Nott’s implacable approval…her mind was a wreck.

She felt like the foundations she’d built this life upon were crumbling all around her.

Coming home was a blessed reprieve in its comfort and familiarity.

She could hear Nanny Emma quietly speaking to Tom downstairs.  The soft tones of their longtime caretaker soothing to her ear.  Ginsy was bustling about the kitchen.

Geron’s breaths were soft with relaxation, not yet devolving into doggy snores but not far from it.

There was a brisk wind rustling through the trees surrounding the cottage.

Fires crackling in the kitchen and sitting room grates.

She sank into it.

Wallowed at the peace she’d attempted to find at Hogwarts to no avail.

Rose allowed herself long moments of drifting on the wind of her thoughts and the familiar sounds of being home.

Of being safe.

And then - she got to work.

Falling into the chaos of her own spinning mind whipped Rose around like a whirlwind, buffeting her hither and yon, until with the willpower that gave her the strength to continue on when everything she knew was gone pulsed out from her there in the depths of her mindscape and made order appear.

Opening the eyes of her mental projection - of her truest self, some might say - she stared out from where she was hovering in the air above her mind palace and grimaced.

She’d been more right than she knew when she compared her sudden inability to repress all that troubled her as a cracking or a shaking.

The once-crisp lines of her hedge maze surrounding the castle - not Hogwarts, something that looked far more like Winterfell-meets-Mycenae if anything, including cyclopean walls and an ancient grave circle - had become a mess of jagged lines and waving tops rather than the crisp lines she’d originally fashioned them as.

Her garden was being choked with kudzu and ivy, whilst the crystalline glass - a material in her mind with more in common with that of the space station than a conservatory - of her sunroom (the only actual entrance to the castle) had spider webbing cracks.

The castle itself seemed untouched.

Which was rather the point: whilst someone could enter the castle and peruse the books of the great library to find her memories of classes, perhaps find a lingering mental note here-or-there in the Ravenclaw common room that had taken up residence in a tower, it was all a decoy.

The real treasure trove of her mind scape wasn’t within the sprawling garden or the mesmerizing maze, the art nouveau sunroom or the massive fortress.

Rose had learned a lesson growing up in her first life on the edges of a forest: always look up.

Cougars and bobcats weren’t terribly common but they weren’t unheard of either, and with wildland quite literally across the street, she and all her siblings had been taught a lesson most people never even thought of.  Most people when searching - for whatever reason - always looked around.  Looked down.  Rose was taught for safety to look up into the trees and what they might hide.

To learn Rose’s secrets, whether the memories of a former life or reading material that she shouldn’t be studying as a first year, or anything really that she wanted to truly keep to herself, an invader would have to ignore the obvious: the castle and maze, and instead turn and look behind them and enter the very canopy of dark forest that lingered at the very edge of her mindscape.

They would have to examine every pinecone, acorn, or wood ear mushroom, every knothole squirrel’s den and eagle’s nest to find her secrets woven into the aerial tapestry of the forest’s heights in a pattern only she knew.

Trailing moss was as likely to hide a memory as crystalline drops of dew on a spider’s web.

Rose would have to spend many hours in deep meditation to fix the damage to the more innocuous parts of her mind palace, but first she would have to venture into her own shadows and ascertain what damage had been done to her personal version of a forbidden forest.

And maybe start thinking about what she might use for actual mental shields to keep someone from accessing her mind palace at all, while she was at it.

Making poking around a lesson in frustration was a good defense.

Keeping an intruder from learning there was a mindscape to inspect in the first place would be vastly more effective however, especially with the likes of Albus Dumbledore around.

Though it had to be noted - with even the confines of her very mind made unsafe in this world, her paranoia and anxieties weren’t exactly unexpected.

A pain in her ass, yes.

Unexpected…not so much.

19 December 1938; Rose Cottage, Wales

Rose and Tom had only been back at their cozy home and reunited with the other members of their little family for a few days when an owl flew through the kitchen window, disturbing their easy peace and break from school.

Most of that time - when she wasn’t meditating to either work on her mind palace or starting to put in real effort in the matter of mental shields - had been spent simply reveling in being home.

With her loved ones, her family here in this strange life she was living.

Blissing-out on Ginsy’s baking and cooking.

Sitting quietly next to Nanny Emma as she read her and Tom stories from The Tales of Beedle the Bard or now that they were older from a magical edition of the collective works of Shakespeare.  Who was a squib.  Apparently.  And as a result had an entire catalog of plays and poems that survived in the wizarding world that the muggle world had never even known about.

Nanny Emma would encourage Rose and Tom to play out age-appropriate character scenes from the plays, and at one point even had Geron bedecked as “Sir Rose’s” mighty steed for one of the plays.

It was everything fun and lovely and as low pressure as Rose could want for a school break.

And then, the owl came.

Recognizing Lord Rosier’s tawny eagle owl, Rose held back the urge to sigh and took the missive the haughty bird offered her.

Praxis wasn’t an unknown sight at the Hogwarts breakfast table, having made the journey from the Rosier estate to the school at least twice a month since his first delivery bearing Rose’s Sorting gift.

Their correspondence started the same as with her godparents: Rose abiding by social expectations and then the older magicians shocking her with the nearly-effusive responses they sent in turn.  Or asking questions that seemed genuinely interested in her answers.  Or that they continued writing to her at all with everything else they had to deal with.

Rose wasn’t the only one who had regular letters from outside the school, but as she could tell from the far more scant amount of letters traveling between Tom and Lord Rosier - for instance - it wasn’t overly common either.

It was a rare week that would pass without Rose having a letter from either Lord Rosier or one of her godparents, to the point that she’d noticed herself starting to unconsciously call Lord Rosier her father if only within the confines of her own mind.

One of many changes that was throwing her off her stride and forcing her to confront issues she’d done her best to bury deep within and never think about, and potentially the most dangerous.

Rose didn’t trust men.

She knew that about herself.

It was damage and a trauma response that had never fully healed - if a man was older than her and in a position of even potential power, her trust was hard-won and rare.

And even then, there would always be a lingering suspicion she had to actively work to keep at bay.

Tom didn’t count - he was her little brother.

An exception, fashioned in part due to Rose having a damn good idea of what form his dark parts could take rather than having to guess and hope that she was right in their composition and how to avert them when it came to herself.

Now with Professor Nott and to an extent other members of the teaching staff challenging such a long-held issue, one of her deepest scars…

She wouldn’t say she was healing but as she worked on repairing her mindscape, she was trying to make challenges to that particular foundational scar less damaging.

She didn’t know if it was even possible to heal such a deep trauma, one that had dug its way into her until it was a foundational part of how she behaved and interacted with and perceived others.

But she knew that if she was going to even try, she was probably going to have to confront her fucked up and shifting relationship with Lord Rosier.

Her…father.

At least in this life, who out of the blue seemed to be trying to be a father after more than a decade of holding her at arm’s length as his “ward.”

Lord Rosier was going about it in the strangest fashion, but Rose was starting to think that was what was going on, especially when she compared Lord Rosier’s new treatment of her to both what she could see of how Lord Black treated both of his children as well as the stories from her roommates about their own fathers.

It was like he’d done a one-eighty, completely flipping his behavior from detached guardian to involved father.

Fucking with her head in the process since she wasn’t expecting it, but the longer it went on - as in over a year now, and with comparisons over the last few months - the more she started to realize what he was doing.

So his letter wasn’t unusual.

The contents were, to an extent at least, but she’d been relatively convinced that once he had a real heir - a real daughter, not a piece of insurance - that his behavior would change all over again.

Only…it hadn’t.

The letters had come on the same schedule of replies to her own.

And now…

“Tom and I are invited to spend the Yule celebrations at the Rosier estate.”  She announced, a little stunned at what she was reading.  “Lord Rosier will be coming to pick us up on the 21st so we can settle in before the first day of celebrations being on the solstice the following day.”

Which meant spending at least thirteen days - the twelve of the traditional celebrations plus their arrival day - with Lord Rosier and his family, including Tom’s birthday.

What the actual fuck?

Was Lord Rosier’s wife actually okay with this, or was this Lord Rosier doing as he pleased (as was his tendency) and everyone else having to go along with it?

She couldn’t be sure.

She wasn’t even sure which option she’d prefer as they both had sticky implications.

“I’ll owl Mary Rose.”  Emma stood and moved over towards where she kept her letter-writing supplies.  “Have her come over tomorrow and we’ll exchange gifts early, rather than making you wait.”

“Thank you, Nanny Emma.”  Rose sighed, handing the letter over to Tom so he could read it for himself.  “Since there’s no mention of us returning before we leave back to school.”

Or any way to predict how spending Yule with the Rosier family would go.

Though she’d give him one thing: Lord Rosier knew better than to try and force her to leave Tom behind despite him not being strictly family.

That wouldn’t have gone well - for anyone.

One of the changes in her second life versus her first that Rose enjoyed most was Yule.

All of the traditional celebratory rites of the Wheel of the Year that she’d been brought up to observe as a ward - now daughter - of House Rosier were both moments of deep joy and celebration but also about connectedness.

She loved them.

They all hit a very specific part inside of her that yearned for connection and meaning in her life - either life, for that matter.

It was a human desire, she thought, one of their most basic as social beings.

Yule wasn’t her favorite, but it was a close-second behind the pure joy and revelry that accompanied Beltane.

That it came with twelve days of gift-giving certainly didn’t hurt either.

Yule was all about giving thanks: for the return of the sun as days began growing longer once more, for the survival of winter, but most of all for community - magic, family, and friends all banding together as one.

Not everyone celebrated every aspect of Yule, but it was the dominant winter holiday of Wizarding Great Britain and much of Europe besides.

Rose and Tom were used to only seeing their Wine Aunt Rose once during the celebrations, usually either on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day given her own leanings.

This year was no different, with only the day changing as Mary Rose swept in through the green flames of Rose Cottage’s floo bringing her caroling voice and a bottle of wine for Nanny Emma to mull over the fire for the women to share.

If Rose loved Yule, Mary Rose adored Christmas with a fervency that was startling for anyone unused to it and was unrepentant about showing it.

Presents were unearthed from her expanded handbag with flick of her wand and added to those already in place beneath their Yule tree for opening after their last-minute dinner, and a jab towards the sitting room’s piano had carols filling the cottage with music and cheer.

“Well my darling dears,” Mary Rose whipped around on the kids with bright eyes.  “Tell me everything.”

Both Mary Rose and Nanny Emma listened intently as Rose and Tom told them stories from their first term at Hogwarts, each doling out bits of advice of varying depth at times.

(Rose didn’t think that Mary Rose’s advice to hex Walburga Black the next time she got snippy over blood purity was all that helpful, though some of the suggestions regarding which hex to potentially use were either funny or surprisingly subtle given Mary Rose’s…everything.  Tom on the other hand was clearly taking mental notes, the vindictive prat.)

Before long however, both women were sporting wine-reddened cheeks to go along with their heightened spirits, and they all - Ginsy included after she cleared with table with a snap of her fingers - were shuffling into the sitting room for presents given that it was the only opportunity they had to actually witness the kids’ reactions with Lord Rosier’s disruption of their routine.

It was simple, and joyful, and perfect.

Rose loved every minute of it, and for once didn’t lose herself in dreading the upcoming celebrations at the Rosier estate as she traded turns opening little gifts from Ginsy and Nanny Emma - as there were twelve from each to get through at once rather than doled out over the celebrations - and a larger one from Mary Rose with Tom.

Ginsy as always gave them baked goods under preservation spells, along with pairs of new socks and mittens the house elf knitted by hand.

Mary Rose continued to be her unconventional self as both Rose and Tom pulled out a charmed bicycle from their deceptively-small gift boxes.  Each had clearly been purchased from a magical shop given the charmwork.  But they were far from the brooms that most magical kids played with - and much more Tom’s speed as he didn’t see much point in flying despite having made a point of learning to do it well during their lessons.

Rose found herself admiring the charmwork more than the bikes themselves, though she appreciated the attempt to give them a gift no one else in their lives would - and in their favorite colors at that, with Tom’s a rich forest green darker than the typical Slytherin coloring, and Rose’s a gorgeous bright blue.

The seats were charmed for comfort and to absorb shock, the wheels against damage and bending, whilst the tires had been made puncture-proof.

It was a great gift, and very much on-brand for their unconventional wine aunt - even if they wouldn’t be able to use them until summer break.

Nanny Emma as always showed just how well she knew her charges in her series of little gifts, smiling and cradling her mug of mulled wine all the while as they tore through the wrapping paper with abandon.

Tom’s little gifts opened to reveal a series of hand-embroidered bookmarks and handkerchiefs, personalized with his name and the Slytherin crest that would show all who saw them that he was cared for.  As usual there was a book among the “little” gifts, though Rose was interested to note that it was a muggle book this time.  She must have either gone shopping with Mary Rose or taken the muggleborn’s advice.

Personally, Rose thought that with his Sorting Slytherin there wasn’t a better book for her sly little brother than Dale Carnagie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”

Honestly.

Those poor little snakes in Slytherin had no idea what was coming their way now that he’d gotten his mitts on that book.

It wasn’t a total surprise, however.  All Nanny Emma had ever wanted was for them to be happy and succeed.  With Tom as a halfblood in Slytherin, he’d need a leg-up if he wasn’t going to go the pure terror route (Rose rather desperately hoped he wasn’t thinking about going the terror route) and while Carnegie had his flaws, it wasn’t the worst option for Tom to adapt into his evolving networking skills.

It wasn’t anything by Machiavelli, so there was that.

Rose thought that he was well-rounded and adjusted enough that Tom wouldn’t rely on the book - that was written from the perspective and for the purpose of sales and networking, not actually making friends - for how to actually relate to others.  It was a textbook on manipulation.  But it also had good in it, such as how to resolve arguments and provide criticism in a way that hopefully doesn’t cause offense.

Ah well.

It wasn’t her job to play censor.

If anything as a Slytherin, Tom might very well find Carnegie’s work obvious or boring.

Networking was vital as a Slytherin.  She didn’t know if he was having trouble in the snake pit, Tom was too independent to tell his sister his woes even if he didn’t stint regarding his annoyances.  But if he was struggling then Carnegie’s book just might help him - and anything that kept him from going the fear and terror route was acceptable as far as she was concerned.

Rose’s own little gifts from Nanny Emma were far less potentially fraught, though her own book had her brows raising a little in surprise.

She giggled a little as she opened squishy package after squishy package to reveal a small selection of yarn hanks: a couple stocking-weight fine warm wool in her favorite bright blue, balls of pure-white silky angora, and enough lace-weight silk to knit a full shawl.  

Her book was a surprise, and likely another influenced by Mary Rose, though that either woman thought she was mature enough to read Moll Flanders given the content…either they didn’t actually know what the book was about or they had a genuine appreciation for her mental acuity and she wasn’t sure which it was.

(Though, Mary Rose had given both her and Tom self-defense spells and warned them about potential assault, so it might be both, or a belief that over-sheltering children did more harm than good.  And Moll Flanders did have strong tones of female empowerment…  Rose was undecided.  If anything, she’d find and practice the copying charm since as a muggle book her copy of Moll Flanders wasn’t protected and scatter them all over Hogwarts and potentially the various magical shopping districts.  Merlin knew that for all their respect for witches, certain elements of the magical world could do with a dose of female empowerment.)

Rose and Tom had colluded as usual when it came to their gifts for their caregivers, and while Ginsy found herself on the receiving end of a delivery of butterbeer, yarn, fabric, and embroidery thread, Nanny Emma was gifted with a single large gift instead:

An enchanted music box that was charmed to play a recording of Tom and Rose playing a violin and piano duet of one of her favorite pieces, a sonata by Debussy.

It was a difficult piece and took them more than a year of consistent practice to perform well enough to give a recording to their Nanny Emma.

But the gentle smile on her face and the tears in her eyes made all the practice worth it, and as Rose shared a smile with Tom before Emma pulled them both in for deep, squeezy hugs she had to admit it: Tom might have his wankerish, bratty moments - but he also had stellar ideas every now and again.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Eighteen: Clarity

23 December 1938:

Dominic Rosier looked out over the heads of his family and friends, gathered for one of the many Yuletide feasts and celebrations that filled the twelve days of rites and revels during the darkest days of the year, and couldn’t help but feel a tug of discontent.

A discontent that had been growing ever since his daughter and her companion had arrived the day before the Solstice celebration.  His Enora, a fiercely intelligent spitfire of a young witch, seemed subdued.   Diminished or restrained in some way that was anathema to everything he knew or had heard about her over the course of her young life.  It was baffling, however before he sat down with Enora herself to figure out what was going on, he thought it might be prudent to gather a bit of information first - information that wasn’t filtered through Enora’s writing or gathered secondhand.

So on the second full day of having his daughter and her companion at the Rosier estate, Dominic found himself hunting down one Tom Riddle.

Given the close friendship between the two, he knew that if anyone knew what had happened that upset his daughter, it was their ward.

Whether he managed to pry it out of the cautious boy, however, remained to be seen.

Dominic studied the young wizard who’d easily agreed to join him in his study that night after the last toasts were made, gifts were given, and rites meant to uphold the sanctity of magic were performed.

He prided himself on being a patient wizard, but could not deny that seeing Enora’s bright smile dimmed to a mere public mask despite being amongst family rattled at his instincts to protect and provide for his family.

He had gone far too long without being able to treat his daughter as he wanted.

Had been subject to a distance and detachment to prevent censure from falling upon her for the sake of his own choices.

Not for the fact or manner of her birth - no one could ever blame him for working to secure the future of the Rosier main family line - but for who he chose to carry it out.

There was a reason - a good one, to his mind, though he’d never voice it with as unpopular an opinion as it was - why he’d chosen a powerful muggleborn witch to bear his child.

Why when he was searching for a second wife after the death of his longtime friend and partner he looked beyond the usual social circle of traditionally-minded and aligned purebloods of Western Europe and out into other families.  Why he had chosen Florence Brown.  A pureblooded witch of no singular ability, beauty, wealth, or connection.  Rather, he’d chosen her for what she wasn’t rather than what she was.

Florence Brown was not a witch from a pureblood line entangled with his own, not within the last ten generations as he tracked her heritage.

Florence Brown was not a witch from a pureblood line that was entangled with itself either as some were, not having an intermarriage within the fifth degree in her pedigree within the last two hundred years.

Florence Brown was not a witch from a pureblood line who had ever expected to marry into the nobility, despite her family being on the cusp between landed gentry and mercantile wealth.

Florence Brown was not a witch who would fail to give him children, potentially strong ones, or who would give him a squib.

Dominic only had to look at his daughter to know that he was wise to marry outside of his normal echelons.

He only had to look at her companion to see the risks he courted if he had married another family who was already entangled with his own.

Tom Riddle thankfully looked nothing like the House of Gaunt.  He wasn’t disfigured or stunted.  His mind was sharp rather than addled.  His magic was some of the strongest Dominic had ever felt rather than being one step from a squib.

The Gaunts and their choices were a lesson that Dominic had learned well, even if not all of his friends and contemporaries had paid them any mind.

They regretted the fall of an ancient house, but didn’t recognize how many of them were courting the same ruin.

He would never regret marrying his Constantina, nor not mourn that they were unable to have children.

But he could not say in all honesty that he wasn’t pleased by the way his more recent choices had turned out: a strong daughter who was the talk of her professors, an even stronger ward with the potential to bring the House of Slytherin back to its former glory, and now a trueborn Heiress with potentially more heirs and heiresses to follow after her.

Dominic Rosier had taken the warning of the House of Gaunt to heed, even if it had taken him personally examining the depths of their fall to truly understand what had occurred to bring them so low, after his daughter had taken their unknown heir as her friend and brother.

Now that unacknowledged heir might have the secret to why his daughter was acting out of character, and Dominic would learn once more from the House of Gaunt.

“You wanted to speak to me, Lord Rosier?”  Tom prompted the older wizard politely when it seemed like he’d gotten lost in thought.

He’d felt Lord Rosier’s eyes on him and Rose ever since they’d arrived, but other than the man being more genial than normal, he hadn’t actually done anything.  Lord Rosier boasted about how well both “Enora” and Tom had done during their first term at school to the varied Rosier relations.  Brought out the new baby and let Rose hold her despite the pinched look on his wife’s face.

Lavished both of them with gifts - and Tom thought Rose was right: none of the rich witches and wizards but Lady Delacour had any concept of scope.  Because what they considered “little gifts” were night and day from what they’d grown up with.  Normally Lord Rosier sent gifts but they were practical things that even a dunderhead could tell had been purchased on advice from Nanny Emma.

New clothes, or useful toys - like their practice brooms that couldn’t lift higher than a couple feet off the ground, or the simple children’s potioneering set that let them practice timing their stirring and adding pre-prepared ingredients - with the rare frivolous inclusion, or books for the most part.

Everything was good quality, but nothing that shouted wealth and expense.

Not like the gifts Rose and Tom had gotten the last two nights after the nightly rites from both Lord Rosier and the rest of the family.

Even people - friends and acquaintances of the Rosiers - who only came for one of the two nights brought gifts for both Rose and Tom along with Lord Rosier, his wife, and the new baby as well as the visiting relations from France along with the English branches.

There was a slight difference in how Lord Rosier and Lady Delacour in particular gifted Rose versus Tom, but for the most part he saw them treated much the same.

He didn’t know what to think about that, or Rose for that matter, beyond his sister being exasperated by all the galleon-flashing that was going on.

(Rose would deny it until the sun rose in the west and set in the east, but she liked all the sparkle and flash and colors and soft fabrics of the gifts.  He didn’t understand his sister sometimes.  It was as if she thought there was a moral superiority in being, if not poor, not rich.   It was stupid, but he thought maybe she was getting better about it with how her cheeks would blush and her eyes sparkled at some of the gifts.  He hoped so.  He remembered being so hungry he could cry in the dark times before Rose.  There was nothing noble or superior about being poor.  Just hunger and want.  Being rich, or having rich people spending their galleons on you, would always be better than the alternative.  Always.)

“It has not escaped my attention,” Dominic saw no reason to prevaricate with the boy.  He may be a young wizard, but he was still a Slytherin, and one with a full complement of their shared House’s trait of cunning to go with his impressive intelligence.  Dancing around the problem would merely waste both of their time.  And with the winter break flying by (and therefore his unhindered time with his daughter along with it) time was not something he was inclined to waste.  “That our Enora has been unusually subdued.  By all accounts there is no obvious reason for her to have taken such a turn.”

Enora could be quiet and thoughtful.  Watchful and prudent.  But she was not subdued even in her resting moments.

Whatever was bothering her, whatever had happened that he was not aware of, Dominic would see it handled and his beautiful daughter’s normal vivacity restored.

There was no alternative to his mind.

No: or else or why not.

Tom watched him with careful eyes.  This wizard was not an ally.  Not to him.  Not now, not ever.  No matter how seemingly affectionate Lord Rosier had turned towards his Rose, no matter what differences in his behavior the old bastard wished to now put forward.  Tom would never - could never - forget the years of watching as Rose hid herself away and diminished herself before this one man.  The years of powerlessness as Tom could do nothing but watch and work from the shadows in whatever small ways to help her would never go away or truly heal.

However, he could not lie to himself no matter how much he would prefer it and say that the new tact Lord Rosier had taken towards Rose wasn’t worth cultivating into a permanent status.

Lord Rosier all at once was the bogeyman who haunted Rose’s worst fears and the greatest champion among the wizarding elite to have on her side.

If used properly, Lord Rosier could be both a weapon and a shield in regards towards those who would wish to subdue the fire within Tom’s sister, of which there were more than Tom could have ever imagined before stepping inside the halls of Hogwarts in their cloistered idyll that was Rose Cottage.

Most of them, those would-be threats to Rose’s happiness, Tom could (and would) handle himself.  But only most.   Chafing, infuriating, as it was to admit it, but there were still enemies that Tom could not handle alone as a Slytherin First Year.

And if Lord Rosier was so very willing to offer himself up in Rose’s defense, then Tom would make the most of it.

“I will not break my sister’s confidence,” Tom answered firmly.  Only a few moments had passed as he contemplated Lord Rosier and his demand, however oblique, for information.  “However, there might be a few things I could impart from my observations alone.”

As frustrating as the younger wizard’s scruples were, Dominic supposed he could not fault them.  Not when they served to protect Enora.  Or to protect Tom from Enora, as Dominic knew well that there was no such fury as that of a scorned witch.

“First,” Tom said slowly, mind rapidly flicking through various plans and potential outcomes until his path forward crystallized like a gleaming, polished diamond in his mind.  “There is something I think you should see, before we discuss anything else…”

Her fingers flew and then slowed with delicate precision over the ivory and ebony keys of the grand piano that took pride of place in the ballroom of Rosier Manor.  It was larger than the baby grand in the evening parlor, and far grander than the nonetheless impeccable upright in the music room that Rose had taken many lessons seated before.  She had her own piano at the Cottage thanks to her father and his desire that her education was flawless, but when his patronage had become affection following the receipt of her Hogwarts Letter, many of her lessons had shifted to the manor rather than continue at the Cottage.

At the time, it had simply been one of many other changes that Rose was forced to adapt to.

Now, there was a bit of comfort that Rose took in the familiarity she had gained with the manor due to those self-same lessons and forced changes.

Comfort enough that were this simply another visit to the manor, Rose would have her fingers flying over the keys of the music room’s piano rather than hiding away in the grand ballroom and its pristine, incomparable grand instrument.

It wasn’t another “visit” however, it was the Yule holidays and to Rose’s chagrin the manor had been filled for the celebrations with relations from all over come to celebrate with the main line of House Rosier, doing double-duty with cooing over their new - non-scandalous and product of a lawful marriage - heiress.

The music room was beset with a flock of French witches who huddled under Lady Heloise’s gimlet eye like a gaggle of chicks shivering in terror from a predatory raptor eyeing them from on high.

The evening parlor was off-limits as the manor buzzed with preparations for desserts and entertainment every evening after that day’s feast.

That Lord Rosier had chosen not to host a Yule Ball due to both Rose’s and little Estelle’s young ages was the only reason that Rose could find a place to vent some of her intolerable feelings and anxieties at all.

Repairing her ever-growing and strengthening mindscape had brought her a measure of clarity, but Rose wouldn’t be Rose if worries didn’t yet remain.

It was a low-level anxiety, one that would no doubt linger despite her efforts until (if, if, she couldn’t deny that it was an issue of if) she reached the age of majority without being bound into a betrothal by her father.  Until actual freedom - from expectation, convention, from being maneuvered into a corner where she’d have no choice but to accede to another’s wishes or cut herself away from House Rosier entirely and in turn accept the consequences - was hers in truth.  That she hadn’t yet been bound into a betrothal and that looming potential future made reality, she took as both a gift but also as a nightmare to haunt her.

Her father had proved over the last year and some months to be a doting, proud, even affectionate man.

Lord Rosier, on the other hand, had been proving since before Rose was even born to be a ruthlessly pragmatic wizard who strove to maintain and improve the legacy of his House above anything - or anyone - else.

Her sister’s birth - and oh, but Estelle was a beautiful baby, one that Rose would forever be grateful to for the mere chance of being born - had removed the onus of being The Heiress of House Rosier from Rose.

It wouldn’t - it couldn’t - undo what had already been done.

To wit: Estelle’s birth did not contravene the reality that Rose was now Lady Enora Rosier, and as such was now a legitimate, recognized noble daughter.

And all that came with it.

Little Lady Estelle had freed Rose from the heaviest of the duties that bound her to House Rosier so long as Rose remained a member, but not all of them.

Of that, Professor Dubois had ensured with her continued scrutiny and scorn, Rose remained sure as otherwise the haughty witch wouldn’t bother with her, much like Dubois was with the muggleborn and halfblood witches.  Oh, they still felt the lash of Dubois’s ire, but not nearly as much as Rose did with her intransigence.  If Dubois didn’t think that she had something to gain by polishing Rose’s manners and ironing out her “distasteful habits and unbecoming traits” the old bitch wouldn’t bother.

Rose took the witch’s behavior as a confirmation of what she’d already assumed when her father hadn’t lost interest in her after her sister’s birth: she was only free of some of the duties and expectations that had been foisted upon her by Lord Rosier legitimizing her, not all of them.

To tangle up matters even further, Estelle wouldn’t be welcomed into the family magics until she had her first outburst of accidental magic, proving that she was in fact a witch and not a squib.

And so Rose thought, and played, and planned - all the while ignorant to the audience she gathered at one point, nor the moment they left her to her thoughts and the keys of the piano before her.

Tom had focused on watching Lord Rosier the entire time - about a quarter hour if he had to guess given that Rose had finished Moonlight Sonata and begun another piece while they observed her hidden behind concealment charms - as the wizard in turn stared at Rose as if he’d never seen her before.

He supposed he couldn’t entirely blame the man for his shock, as much as he may want to.

Lord Rosier only ever saw Rose in official moments or when she was quite obviously playing up being Lady Enora Rosier, not in anything close to what Tom would consider her natural state or even at ease.

His Rose had many facets and faces.  Tom knew that the one she showed him was one of her truest ones, but it wasn’t the only side of her that was hidden from the rest of the world.  There was the softness that lacked even the slight edge of competition and snark that added color and texture to his Rose that she showed to animals like her great beast or (apparently) babies like her new half-sister.  There was a deep and fierce desire for independence that Tom only knew was there because she openly shared it with him, among multitudes of other facets and faces.

Then there was the Rose that Lord Rosier saw for the first time in his grand ballroom while Rose was unobserved: the side of her that was filled with passion for art and music and beauty of all kinds.

Certainly there were hints, clues, that others might see when it came to this oft-hidden part of Rose.  On the other hand, that would require others to both be paying attention - which in Tom’s experience people rarely did, not truly, to children - and realize that those little puzzle pieces added up to a much larger picture than expected.  Young witches of noble families were supposed to devote a portion of their time and effort to the arts.  It was part of their need to seem “accomplished” (especially if they weren’t particularly powerful or well-connected) in order to secure a good match.  When it came to Rose, it was more than that.  Nonetheless, it was a case of expectations making an excellent cover for what was truly going on under the surface when it came to Rose and the arts.

“Acceptable.”  Lord Rosier said in a low tone that was filled with the elder wizard’s growing ire as they returned to the privacy of his office - now that he had seen what the young Heir of Slytherin had wished to show him.  “That was how Madame Dubois described Enora’s proficiency on the piano.  Acceptable.”

His temper had already been sparked by young Tom’s insistence that they spy like cretins on his daughter.

What they had seen?

That - and how it countered every report regarding Enora from one of her professors - had sent his temper into a roaring bonfire of fury.

Dominic detested being lied to almost as much as being made a fool of.

And with her pinch-mouthed reports on his child, Madame Dubois had done both.

He would not have it, it would not stand.

“Professor Dubois disdains Rose.”  Tom enlightened the infuriated wizarding lord, mentally reveling in both the man’s upset and that if Lord Rosier proved true to form that the erstwhile Professor would soon find herself facing a much more formidable enemy than the eleven and twelve year olds who made up the majority of the students she taught.  “From what I can tell, for everything from her untraditional birth to her choice of friendships and down to the very ground she walks upon.  She’s been a scold regarding Rose’s ‘diminished prospects’ from the moment Rose refused to end her association with me.  Rose has been careful not to give the woman an inch, but the relationship has only grown more tense the more Dubois insists that all a young witch of good breeding is good for is being decorative and a ‘good’ marriage while Rose refuses to relent or make herself smaller to satisfy her.  As a result, and as the professor in charge of the practice schedule for the school’s instruments, Rose has had some of the worst practice slots for the piano all term, as it’s the only weapon Dubois can actually wield against her with how brilliant Rose is as a student.”

“How so?”  Dominic pressed to gather more information even as he banked his rage into a useful motivator rather than an out-of-control weakness.

“She’s spiteful, not stupid.”  Tom commented.  “Giving Rose low marks when she’s categorically the best student among all the witches of our cohort would draw attention.”  He debated a moment regarding his other suspicion when it came to Dubois before deciding that he might as well.  Even if he’s wrong about the motivations involved, that Lord Rosier grew aware of the problem was more important than adding - rightly or wrongly - to Dubois’s tally against Rose.  “Rose is secure enough in herself and her position that the noble witches that Dubois has influence over like Walburga Black and her followers turning their noses up at her doesn’t really do anything other than entertain her.”

Tom didn’t bother with calling the stuck up cow lady as so many did.  Which was only a sop to the girl’s vanity and to kiss ass with her uncle.  Technically, neither her father Pollux nor any of his children were titled.  Pollux himself was only called Lord Pollux Black as a courtesy given House Black’s high standing - but he was Lord Pollux, not Lord Black.  As soon as his elder brother ascended to the title of Lord Black, Pollux Black became the Honorable Pollux Black, rather than a young lord.  Such being the case, while more often than not the young witch was called Lady Walburga, she wasn’t even entitled to the status of Honorable like her father - she was only a mere Miss Black, that was all.

Not that anyone would be able to tell otherwise with the way she swanned around Hogwarts with her nose in the air and a coterie of lesser noble girls on her heels.

All Walburga Black really had going for her was her name, whatever fortune her father might have scraped together for her dowry, and her uncle Lord Black as her benefactor.

The fact of the matter was, despite how haughty Miss Black acted, Rose was of higher status than the bint - which, Tom imagined, was very much the rub.

As far as he was concerned, name dropping her in this matter was merely hitting two targets with one spell.  Certainly, Lord Rosier might ignore it to focus on the greater issue of Madame Dubois.  But he might not.

Either way: Tom won, and with him so did Rose, as that one mention would likely stick in Lord Rosier’s mind whenever Miss Black made a misstep in the future.

“It will be handled.”  Dominic assured the younger wizard, noting the flash of satisfaction that flared in the dark blue eyes across from him.  “However, it may take time to be handled in full.”  He tapped one finger on the leather desk blotter before him before coming to a decision.  “In the meantime, I trust that I can count on your enduring support of Enora, much as she has always supported you.”

“Of course.”  Tom arched a brow.  As if his support of his Rose had ever been in doubt.  “We may not share blood or name, but she is my sister nonetheless.  I shall always protect and defend her as such, of that you need not ever doubt, my lord.”

“Yes,” Dominic drawled, unimpressed with such passionate declarations but seeing no need to challenge the younger wizard.  Ah, youth.  Perhaps what the young Slytherin swore was true.  Perhaps Riddle’s affections for his daughter were nothing but brotherly.  Perhaps they weren’t.  Either way, at their innocent age Dominic saw no reason to upset the doxie cage without cause.  Especially when such depth of feeling was useful.  “You made your decision as such when my daughter found you.  It is good that you remember it still.  That will be all.”

Tom carefully tucked away the urge to bite and rip and tear and sneer behind a placid mask.

As if he needed reminding of that fateful day and the choice he’d made.

As if he might have grown to regret it in time.

Bloody posh useless toffs.

Nonetheless, he grit his teeth and gave the wanker a proper nod before taking his leave and heading off to find his Rose.

No matter what happened next on the part of Lord Rosier, Tom still had a sister who needed him now, as she was clearly still troubled - the wanker had that much right.

The ruddy poncy arse.

4 January 1939:

As the actual Solstice - and therefore the first day of Yule - was the Twenty-Second, Rose and Tom were committed to remaining at Rosier Manor through the New Year until the last day of the festival on the Third of January of Nineteen Thirty-Nine.

Which effectively meant that the earliest they could depart back to Rose Cottage to spend the last days of their Winter Break with Nanny Emma and Ginsy was the Fourth.

Tom’s birthday celebration was thus wrapped into the events of the New Year’s Eve feast, with another (smaller, more private, and all around better as far as he was concerned) party planned for after they returned to Rose Cottage.

Which meant that when Rose was diverted from packing and finally leaving Rosier Manor and all the dross that came with the grand old place behind her to her father’s study, she was less than amused.

She hadn’t forgotten Tom on his actual twelfth birthday by any means, the two spending a lovely (private) breakfast together and Rose handing over more of a token than a gift.  With the caveat that his real present was waiting at Rose Cottage, naturally.  Even so: she was eager to celebrate her brother for real rather than by polite rote with dozens of distant relations and “family friends” hanging around to the point that having to meet with her father and delay their departure definitely felt like an imposition no matter what the wizard had in store.

Rose just wanted to go home and finish sweeping out a few mental cobwebs.

Actually pretend to be a twelve-year-old girl for a while.

Not having to continue having to keep up appearances after the previously arranged departure had come-and-gone.

Still…Lord Rosier had spoiled her with Yule gifts to a ridiculous degree.  One heretofore unseen and unmatched by even her godfather Lord Black.  Not staying and speaking to him after Tom and their bags had been sent ahead to Rose Cottage after spending most of the holiday having gifts lavished on both of them would be churlish.  Silk, velvet, and jewels were only the beginning.  Lord Rosier had upped the ante with copies of rare books, the finest quality art supplies and a collection of new sheet music (including a featherlight, expanded, and runic organized storage folio) before gifting Rose his trump card on the final day of Yule.

Once she’d been acknowledged as a noble daughter, Rose had slowly grown accustomed to what the purebloods around her considered appropriate gifts.

To an extent.

They were the sort of old money, high profile people who would strut their old money and high birth through giving gifts to their spouses and children.  Case in point: Lord Black and his habit of giving Rose exquisite but large and expensive gemstone bedecked earrings.  (Which he’d done again for every day of Yule, making Rose glad that her godmother Lady Heloise had seen fit to give her a larger enchanted jewelry box with the strongest security wards she’d ever seen for her final present.)  Rose wouldn’t say that she was growing to expect gifts that shone and sparkled, but they weren’t a surprise any longer when she did receive them.

All that said, there was a difference between being given a gift that was obviously purchased - whether custom or off the shelf - and an heirloom.

Never in all her years, even with the knowledge of her first life backing her, had Rose expected that Lord Rosier would gift/entrust family jewels to her.

And yet, that was exactly what he did.

Rose knew when she opened the large embossed leather clamshell box - at first she’d thought it was a rare tome given the dimensions - and saw the look on her stepmother’s face that there were problems in her future.  Her father was pulling no punches when it came to making it clear to even the most blithering idiot on the street that Rose was a Rosier.   As if the godparents and welcoming he’d chosen weren’t already enough.  Because resting serenely on cushioned silk inside the box that was warded to the heavens and embossed with the Rosier crest, was an entire parure of jeweled roses shaped out of coral and diamond with gold accents.

Lady Rosier about had kittens at the sight of the matching necklace, earrings, brooch, bracelet, and hairpins that were typically bestowed upon the eldest Rosier daughter of a given generation and thereafter was hers to keep until her death when it would be returned to the main Rosier Vault via the linking enchantments embedded in the pieces.

Pieces that dated back to the Seventeenth Century.

Credit where it was due: Lady Florence didn’t publicly throw a fit over Lord Rosier giving the main (but not only) “eldest daughter” parure to Rose.

On the other hand, her face and the almost visible increase in the chill wafting off of the witch towards Rose said more than enough.

After receiving such a gift, let alone the eleven days of gifts that preceded it, Rose would have been an ill-mannered gremlin indeed if she refused to accede to Lord Rosier’s request for a private meeting between them, the first they’d had in true privacy for months given how much of her time and attention had been wrapped up in either school, Tom (as usual), or her new godparents.

Which is how Rose came to be seated facing her father in the matching wingback chairs before the softly banked fire in his study, rather than already flopped face-down on her bed at Rose Cottage.

“It seems, my dear.”  Lord Rosier began after taking his seat across from her.  “That we once more need to have a conversation regarding expectations, as it also seems that Hogwarts remains as devoted to gossip and social climbing as ever.”

Chapter Text

Against the Sun
Chapter Nineteen: Meeting of Minds

Rose’s mind raced as the words from her father, however gentle, filled her with anxiety.

What did he mean?

More importantly: what did he know… or thought he knew?

“You have been subdued since arriving for the celebrations, my dear.”  Lord Rosier continued, staring at her with that strange… softness in his eyes that Rose remained uncertain how to take.  “I have been concerned with your spirits.  Worried that perhaps Hogwarts hasn’t been treating you well or that the birth of your sister has upset you.”

“No!”  Rose’s eyes popped wide with shock as she almost lurched forward in her chair to stop that line of inquiry dead in its tracks.  “Estelle is perfect!”  She rushed to assure him, completely overlooking the statement that preceded it in the process of killing any thought that she was jealous of her sister or insecure due to her birth.  “She’s everything you’ve ever wanted for an Heiress.  I couldn’t be happier that House Rosier is secure.”

“You’re everything I ever wanted in an Heiress and a daughter, my dear.”  Dominic corrected her with a knowing look.  “The only way you could have been more perfect for the role was if you had come from my Constantina.  It is society that has dictated it must be otherwise, not my own wishes.”

Rose almost choked in shock, well-aware from what she could feel her face doing that she must be bug-eyed and milk-pale at the far-too-earnest declaration that bordered on love from her…

From Lord Rosier.

Because that was who she was dealing with.

In this office, this seat of his power as a pureblooded noble, she was speaking not just to the man behind the wizard, to the doting father who had appeared since she turned eleven and was accepted to Hogwarts, but to the Lord.

And despite the assumptions she’d been operating on since the initial change in their relationship, it seemed as if it wasn’t just the man who cared for her, but the lord as well.

Goddamnit.

Why did this one man have to continuously upend her worldviews?

Why did he have to be so nuanced and complicated?

(So emotionally repressed and damaged?)

Lady Constantina must have been a damn saint to have been married to this man for the better part of forty or fifty years and not strangled him in his sleep for his antics and inability to just say what he felt instead of burying it under allusions and gifts and propriety.

Rose wouldn’t know.

She was never allowed to meet the first wife of her benefactor-turned-father.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m untrusting, Father.”  Rose said at last, once she marshaled her senses and thoughts into a coherent tactic rather than a morass of gibberish.  “Eleven years of having everything hinging on my actions meeting your approval lest I find myself cast out as a failed experiment has left its mark.”

“It is nothing less than expected, my dear.”  Dominic was saddened to hear such condemning words from her lips but he could not say they were unearned.  “Though I would not have you insecure or anxious over your place any longer.  You are my daughter.  Your place, both in the wizarding world, and House Rosier, are incontrovertible.”  He swore, eyes flashing with resolve.  “How can I prove it to you, dear one?”  He asked, even as he turned all his intellect and cunning towards solving the heart of the issue now that it was bared to him.  “Name it and it will be done.”

“Do better.”  Rose demanded of him grasping onto the offer with both hands before it might be retracted, fearless and reckless in the moment though she would certainly beat herself up over the lapse later.  “Treat my sister, and any siblings to come, better than you have me.  Don’t withhold affection until they’ve proven themselves or shown that they were worth the trouble.”  The cant of her lips was bitter.  “Don’t compare them to anyone else: especially Tom and I, as it will only breed resentment.  Be a good father first, and Lord Rosier second.”

Merlin knew, with Lady Florence around, there’d be more than enough resentment to share without Lord Rosier making it worse.

“It will be done.”  Dominic swore, even as it sent a knife through his heart to hear from his precious child’s lips how she had taken his - necessary, it was necessary - distance when she was younger.  “I promise you.”  He paused, waiting for Enora to settle and his words to soothe her, then pressed: “And Hogwarts?”  He asked once more, comfortable that at least part of Enora’s underlying worries had been lanced.

Rose shot him a calculating look, then dared:

“You’ve talked to Tom, haven’t you?”

“Only after I became certain there was a problem to uncover.”  Dominic retorted.  “I sent off a vivacious young witch to Scotland, only to have one that bordered on sullen return despite glowing reports from almost all of your teachers and your attempts to hide the downturn of your spirits.” Which in all honesty only made him more suspicious rather than less.  People, but especially children, didn’t bother with concealment unless there was a problem to conceal.  “There was reason for concern, dear one.”

“What did he tell you?”  Exactly how mad should she be at her prat of a little brother?

“Nothing held in confidence between you.”  Dominic smirked.  “He categorically refused to reveal anything that might be considered a secret.”

Rose had to bite down on the urge to groan, as that didn’t leave much room for the discussion between the two wizards to cover - and almost all of it had to do with her most irritating and disliked professor.

“He told you about Madame Dubois.”

“He gave me reason to believe that Madame Dubois,” he sneered at the name.  “Has been less than honest in her assessment of your skills as your instructor.”  He paused, debating, then decided that as they’d already breached the bounds of strictest propriety with Enora’s demand regarding the treatment of her half-siblings, he might as well see what else she might let slip.  “As well as that she seems to hold views regarding young witches that are both restrictive and reductive.”

“Tom has a grudge against Madame Dubois,” Rose sighed, not that she was much better: but still.  “As she has not been kind in her assessment of his blood-status.  Whatever he told you was likely in service of that grudge.”

“And yet, you do not deny his assessment.”  Dominic pointed out relentlessly.

“Her thoughts and opinions are representative of a certain way of thinking that, given my discussions with Lady Heloise and my own observations, are relatively common.”  Rose hedged.  “My godmother had a few things to say about my education when we first met, including that I wasn’t what was expected of a lady of my station.  If she couldn’t dent my self-regard, Madame Dubois has no chance of doing the same.”

“Good.”  Dominic told her firmly, and to no-little surprise given that his daughter had a there-then-gone flash of shock across her face.  “Let me ask you this, then: do you want to marry?”  He asked, having dug out enough information to confirm one of the underlying issues between the information from young Riddle and Rose’s own words.

Rose was stunned.

That this man, this wizard, this lord, would even posit such a thing to their daughter as a question was-

She had no words.

“I am not speaking of how many young witches are wasted by being pulled from their education upon receiving their OWLs and accompanying wand-rights.”  Lord Rosier harrumphed at the too-common practice that happened even at Hogwarts, though it was not as prevalent as it was at other British and European schools.  What wise parent would have a child proven to be among the most powerful of their age by their invitation to the premier school of magic, and then cripple their potential by an early marriage?  Lunacy.  Lunacy from start to finish.  “Rather: as a thought experiment.  Do you see yourself marrying?”

If she was another young witch, Dominic wouldn’t see the point in asking such a question at her age.  Most first years had little more than ribbons and gossip on their minds.  His daughter had never been like most, however, and with her mind he knew that Enora would have a reasoned response to his question rather than chirping what she thought he wanted to hear or had been indoctrinated to want.

“Someday, yes.”  Rose answered slowly, watching her father with care.  “I think I want a husband and family.  If the husband in question treated me as an equal and partner, rather than a vessel for children and a decoration to uphold his standing.”

How her father treated his wives was an object lesson enough to know what she wanted - and what she didn’t.  Lady Constantina was beloved and respected enough that Rose existed at all rather than Lord Rosier divorcing her in preference for a functional broodmare.  Lady Florence on the other hand…well.

It said much about how her father viewed his second wife that Rose not only met her, when Lady Constantina had been sheltered as much as possible from the reality that was Rose’s very existence, but that Lady Florence was expected to allow Rose into her home for weeks at a time or to see her daughter placed in the arms of her half-sister.

Rose found it both interesting and heartbreaking that her father’s marriages had proven to be such an apt lesson for her regarding her potential future, though Rose wasn’t stupid enough - occasional slip aside - to draw the comparison aloud.

She might have his affection now, but Rose would never forget all the years she’d gone without it - or risk how easily it may be refused her, no matter his promises, if she pushed him too far.

Lord Rosier smiled.

“Then that shall be what you have, my dear.”  He promised her.  “In time, when you are ready.  Until then,” he gave an airy wave.  “There is an entire world at your disposal.  You are a young witch in possession of an excellent mind, a talent and love of art and music, and powerful supporters in your family.  You are a Rosier.   You are not a lesser witch, you are what lesser witches aspire to be.  Trounce your Tom in classes or flitter about Hogwarts scandalizing the likes of Madame Dubois.   You will remain my daughter and an heiress of House Rosier either way.”

No sooner had Rose stepped through the Floo into Rose Cottage than she had grabbed Tom by the back of his collar and bodily hauled him away and up to her private room at the top of the stairs.

Nanny Emma and Ginsy watched them go, Geron on their heels and Kali already napping on the settee before the hearth, with no little amusement.

Well.

It seemed whatever that had bothered Rose when she arrived back from school had been sorted out.

Though whether having her out for her brother’s head was a better option than Rose being abnormally quiet and introspective…that was a matter of debate.

“What did you tell him?”  Rose demanded to know as soon as the door to her bedroom closed behind her and Tom, casting the privacy ward she’d learned over the break from her godfather when Arcturus had a moment to spare for her away from the festivities, then activated it with a few firm slashes of her wand before slipping it back into her holster.

The temptation to hex might prove to be too strong if she kept it in hand - depending on what Tom had to say for himself, anyway.

“The truth.”  Tom shrugged out of his sister’s hold with ease, far more entertained than was probably wise at the irate expression on her face.

At least it was a full emotion, not a weak, stunted reaction that had threatened to become commonplace in the weeks since Rose’s upset during the meeting with her head-of-house Professor Nott.

“That Madame Dubois is a problem.”  He continued when Rose just glared at him.  “Come Rose.”  Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “The woman is a bigot and a haughty trollop putting on airs.  You can’t tell me in all honesty that if Lord Rosier manages to have her booted from Hogwarts that you’d miss her for more than the spiteful joy you gain out of irritating her on a daily basis.”

“Considering that he asked if I wished to marry someday.”   Her tone was scathing as she continued to stare down Tom, even as he wandered over to her bookshelves and started poking around, keeping well-away from the crafting corner of her room with its plethora of sharp objects.  Smart boy.  “You understand if I have to wonder what else you might have said to him.”

Tom paused, freezing in mid-motion while pulling down a book from its shelf, then rested his palm flat to the book spines as he turned his side to her to see her fully instead of looking over his shoulder.

“He asked that?”

“Yes!”  Rose nearly shrieked, all the nerves and anxiety tangled with disbelief and relief and, and everything that had pummeled her ability to remain calm pouring out of her.  “And then he all-but-promised I would be able to have a love match, Tom!  A love match!   Or at least,” she swallowed harshly, working on forcing the overwhelming emotions behind her Occlumency to sort out later.  “That I would have a choice in my husband instead of one being chosen for me. ”  Her breathing was harsh in the otherwise quiet atmosphere she had previously taken care to create in her room.

Well, Tom marveled, imagine that.

“That makes our work of avoiding a betrothal contract easier, at least.”  Tom shrugged, turning back to the shelves.  “I don’t see why you’re so upset.”  He lightly complained.  “It all worked out to my eyes: Lord Rosier will handle Madame Dubois,” he rattled off.  “He’ll feel like he’s doing something to make up for the years of distance - besides lobbing galleons at you.  You get to avoid having an arsehole we’d have to discreetly murder dumped in your lap.  Seems like a resounding victory for one afternoon’s conversation.”

Rose grit her teeth and closed her eyes for a long moment, counting first in Latin and then Greek in her head to hold onto her composure, then highlighted the implication that her impossible prat of a little brother had missed:

“He’s treating me like a daughter, Tom.”  She said, almost biting out the words.  “Giving him opportunities to act as a father will, in turn and time, reinforce the idea.”

“So he spoils you even worse.”  Tom had the audacity to shrug at her as he took the book that had caught his eye and went to lounge in her overstuffed reading chair that was large enough to hold both of them.  Or for Rose to completely curl up within, when she was of a mood.  “Such a horror, princess.”

“The more he is allowed to settle into the idea that I am his acknowledged daughter rather than a contingency plan, and that he is my father in full, the more expectations that will come along with it.”  The idiot wasn’t said but it was damn well implied by her tone.  “It has already started with having to spend Yule at the Rosier Estate.  Do you know what the main expectation is for a noble daughter from a main line is, little brother, no matter what Lord Rosier said about the matter of my choice? ”

Tom felt a chill tingle up his spine like spider legs tracing his skin when she got that too-sweet lilt to her voice.

He did know the answer - being an audience to the battle between Madame Dubois and Rose had made him an expert in it - but he liked living too much to voice it, knowing a rhetorical question when he heard it.

“An acceptable marriage,” she spat the words.  “Which for the oldest acknowledged daughter of Lord Rosier means a noble son and heir.”

“Well,” Tom pursed his lips but wasn’t nearly as worried as his sister in the depths of her dramatics.  “Murder remains on the list then.”

“Tom, no.”

“Don’t let Lord Rosier press you into a marriage with an arsehole and I won’t have to.”  He reminded her, giving her a look.  “You’re losing your mind over a potential future almost a decade away.  Calm down, Rose.  And look on the bright side,” his grin was sly.  “Even if he goes back on his word and tries to push one of the worst arseholes on you, we can always ruin you or elope or somesuch.”

“You’d hate being married.”  Rose pointed out with a huff of a laugh at the absurdity - her own, as well as her brother’s - as she flopped onto the end of her bed, tossing one arm over her eyes.  “You still think kissing is gross and unhygienic.”

“It is, Rose.”  Tom protested with a scowl, thinking of all the germs and noise and ick involved whenever the upper years forgot basic human decency and put on an accidental show in the common room.  “Rose, stop laughing at me!  It is!”

From the pinched look on Madame Dubois’s face when they returned from the holiday, as well as Rose suddenly no longer having to scramble about the castle to attend either the latest or earliest practice slots allowed for a first year, Lord Rosier had already started on “handling” the main issue that Tom had brought before him.

There was no discernable difference in how Walburga Black acted, either towards Tom in the common room - the only time the bitchy third year tended to deign to acknowledge Tom’s existence, if in general as a form of ridicule over being “Lord Rosier’s pet mudblood” on the rare occasions none of her higher-ranking cousins were around to hear her - or towards Rose in the public areas of Hogwarts.  Tom was slightly disappointed that his scheme had failed to yield maximum results, but also not surprised.  Lord Rosier, being a traditional sort with the only exception being how he’d procured himself a spare heir in Rose, would likely assume that any behavioral problems that his friend’s niece possessed would be sorted out by removing the “bad” influence in the form of Madame Dubois.

(It wouldn’t, Tom knew that if anything Walburga would act out more without having a witch with connections like Madame Dubois around to impress, but that was an issue for another day, once the bigoted cow was removed from Hogwarts instead of merely curbed in her behavior.)

And curbed she undoubtedly was.

The first week without Rose feeling the sharp edge of the witch’s tongue either directly or through snide asides, they might have been inclined to have passed off as a result of good humors following the holiday.

That it continued unrelenting into the Winter Term, with Madame Dubois keeping her remarks to herself and settling into all-but- ignoring Rose except when she had no other option, made it clear that Lord Rosier had not been inclined to taking his time in fixing the problem.

Rose was more like her father than she would likely ever admit, but Tom valued his life too much to point it out to her.

As it was, with Madame Dubois effectively defanged, Tom and Rose were able to settle into Hogwarts fully, with only the most minor of irritations remaining to keep the rest of their first year from being entirely smooth sailing.

Tom was still a half-blood in Slytherin, with his determination to wreck the curve both working for him - as the older years appreciated the House Points he collected like a niffler in a gold mine - and against him as his own year mates were often put out over his thrashing them academically.

And in spellwork, as both Victor Crabbe and Gerontius Goyle, fellow first year Slytherins, found out the hard way when they tried to “put the mudblood swot in his place” when they returned from the Ostara Break at the end of the Winter Term.  One term of dominance apparently could be passed off as a fluke.  Two on the other hand was an affront to the boys’ pride.

As that was all either boy, who were starkly average when it came to magic and barely more intelligent than the average broom, really had going for them: their pride as purebloods.

It certainly wasn’t dueling prowess as it took Tom all of two seconds to have them disarmed and pinned to the wall of the common room.

To total silence on the parts of the other Slytherins, bar a few disdainful looks towards the unfortunate pair over having their arses idly handed to them by the Rosier pet project.

All without Tom even having to get out of his seat.

Needless to say that between that display, his flawless manners, intelligence and grades, and friendship with Rookwood as well as having the patronage of Lord Rosier and the tolerance of the main-line Blacks, Tom went from solidly middle-standing in his year to just under Julia Flint - and if she weren’t a Malfoy cousin, would’ve had him dominating the year as a whole instead of just the boys.

No, all was well in Tom’s first year at Hogwarts, minor growing pains aside.

A fact that made Rose happy indeed, even if she wasn’t aware of certain factors like the minor jockeying for position via hazing he’d undergone, or the confrontation with Crabbe and Goyle.

Which made the announcement at the End of Year feast all the more welcome: Madame Dubois would not be returning to teach at Hogwarts the following year.

Yes, all was going exactly to plan in Tom’s world.

Now if only the poltergeist that had possessed his sister - also known as hormones - could loosen its hold on the once-rock-steady witch, all would be right with the world.

Rose knew that Tom was blaming puberty and hormones for her emotional…wobbles following her first-term meeting with Professor Nott and then the meeting of minds she had with her father, but she wasn’t inclined to enlighten him otherwise.

He wasn’t necessarily wrong.

Merlin knew that having to deal with her first bleeding all over again after they returned from the Yule Break had been a milestone she could’ve done without.  Especially since the methods she preferred for handling the… everything that went along with menarche and every period that followed didn’t even exist yet.   Which she’d known.  But there was knowing and knowing.

Having to utilize the unholy lovechild of a maxi-pad and a cloth diaper under her skirts to handle her period was the sort of wake-up call she could’ve done without regarding life in the 30’s thanks.  Even as a witch.  Especially as a young witch, as had been made clear to her when she hauled herself to the infirmary, both to update her medical records and to see what her options were.

Or, rather, weren’t.

It was wholly disheartening to learn that while the wizarding world had developed potion regimens to help with all of the awful physical/hormonal symptoms that went with being a “witch of childbearing age” (gag her) they weren’t available to her.   At least, not yet.  Until she’d had semi-regular cycles for at least seven months, the sign according to Matron Pennyroyal that her system had matured to the point that a potions regimen wouldn’t cause issues with her development.

In the meantime, she was limited to what she was allowed to use to handle the major red flag - pun absolutely intended - that she was entering the main flush of puberty and maturation.

The Matron taught her the full complement of spells that she would normally learn during the health seminar series hosted annually during second year.

Spells to keep her feeling - and being - clean and hygienic despite bleeding, to keep any mess from overflowing and ruining both her uniform and her reputation, as well as a few minor healing spells to ease discomfort without interfering with the natural course of events.  Such as adding temporary stretch to her garments in case of bloating.  Or to calm cramps if they threatened to have her laid out in bed and unable to attend classes.

Once she’d met the benchmark of regular cycles, the potions regimen would handle most of what the spells were designed to do and more.

Not that Rose was content to wait that long.

Just because she wasn’t allowed to do anything to herself to handle menstruation, didn’t mean that she couldn’t figure out a way to make the whole awful reality that was entering puberty easier to bear.

Like…vanishing runes stitched into her underthings to handle the mess of it all.

Or charmed warm packs to help with cramps beyond the limited allowed usage of the relief spell.

Permanent comfort charms added to her clothing.

The list of possibilities was long and tempting to focus on, but she still had a little brother to keep up with academically and wasn’t able to utterly devote her attention outside of classes to solving her Aunt Flow issues.

Though she didn’t rule out the possibility that some of the ideas she had already existed, and simply weren’t accessible within Hogwarts.  If it weren’t considered an “uncouth” subject to talk about, Rose would’ve already sent a letter off to both Nanny Emma and Wine Aunt Rose.  As a squib and a muggleborn, respectively, either or both would likely have a different perspective on how a witch should take care of her body.

Matron Pennyroyal looked like she’d been employed by the Founders.   Rose had no reason to disparage either her care or that of the actual Healer on staff, but…  She wouldn’t be surprised if the elderly mediwitch stuck to what she knew and was comfortable with when it came to such things rather than keeping track of new innovations.

Nevertheless, Rose survived hitting another major milestone in a witch’s life - even if at times when she was curled up in bed with Geron behind her and a hot pad on her abdomen she wished she hadn’t.

More than a decade without menstrual cramps had spoiled her and made their recurrence feel all the worse for the reprieve.

Tom at least showed off his Slytherin survival skills by quickly learning when it was best to shut his mouth and hand over any chocolate rather than risk riling her temper.

Smart kid, since even as a grown woman in her first life there had been times when she had a difficult time seeing reality through the veil of hormones messing with her brain.  Nothing was worse than feeling like everything was terrible one day and then waking up the next and realizing that hormones had fucked you over good.  One week the world could be ending and everyone was out to irritate you and the next you look back and go: oooh, I was pre-period hormonal.

Having constant access to what amounted to a lethal weapon simply made it more important rather than less that Rose keep track of her mood and hormonal shifts - lest she blast someone through a wall because they got a little snippy with her at the wrong time of the month.

Probably Walburga Black, but she was hardly an island of awfulness and more a symptom of widespread bigotry.

A loud, obnoxious, bitchy symptom, but a symptom nonetheless.

Not that Rose thought that absolved Walburga from being such a classist bitch, as the Black witch chose to be horrible above-and-beyond most others, but that there was reasoning behind it beyond just Walburga being a bitch.

Tom wouldn’t see it that way, but she wasn’t forcing him to either given that he had to deal with the purebloods down in Slytherin constantly rather than selectively like Rose - and with less shielding.  She was insulated by her birth and being considered at least a first-gen pureblood in a way that Tom wasn’t.  She was Lord Rosier’s daughter, however scandalously acquired, he was only the ward.

It made a difference, if often only in small ways, but a difference nonetheless.

Rose was the goddaughter of Lord Black and Lady Delacour, Tom was without godparents to supply that extra level of protection.

So if Rose noticed a shift in how Tom was watched by the other Slytherins about a week after they returned from the Rosier Estate for the Ostara Break, she didn’t comment on it.

He had to live with them for the next six-plus years, she did not with her position in Ravenclaw where blood status still mattered, but not as much as it did in Slytherin and surprisingly Hufflepuff where the emphasis on loyalty attracted a shocking amount of pureblooded children.

Still and all, despite enjoying the odd debate in Magical Theory or Defense, as well as her personal efforts in learning detection spells to plunder and pillage the Room of Requirement to fuel her magical tailoring/fashion efforts, Rose was glad to be done with her first year when June and final exams rolled around.

Her first year had given her much to consider.

Both about the world she was living in, and her own place in it.

Time to just… be at Rose Cottage was necessary to continue sorting out her own thoughts without the scrutiny of teachers or the burden of schoolwork.

Lord Rosier as well as her godparents had made it clear that she would be spending time at various events, as well as visiting all of their homes over the break, but first: home, and comfort, and rest.

She would worry about everything else another day.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Twenty: Time Marches On

31 October 1941; Hogwarts

Lady Enora Rosier celebrated her fifteenth birthday the same way she celebrated every birthday since she turned twelve: at Hogwarts, with her brother and those she’d become friends with over the course of the previous school years.  Now in her fourth year, that circle of friends had grown.  Her relationship with her father and godparents was deeper and truer.

The year prior in 1940 heralded her favorite birthday of all.  The first after it became fact and not assumption that she was once more a mere spare heir with the birth of her younger brother.  She had a pair of half-siblings courtesy of her father and step-mother.  Estelle would be turning three years old soon.  Etienne, now their father’s heir and the Heir of House Rosier, was just over a year old, though as neither had yet to have a show of accidental magic, there was still a bit of wiggle room in some minds.  She had no doubts of her own.  One of her siblings would have magic enough to be Welcomed as she once was and accepted into Hogwarts.

If not either Estelle or Etienne - which was so unlikely outside of issues like with Tom’s misbegotten uncle and unfortunate mother that multiple children from the same set of parents would be squibs that she didn’t really give it thought except in her worst what-if moments - then the new pregnancy that her father had written of only a few days ago.

Now it was just a matter of time and patience.

In the meantime she was freed - thoroughly emancipated - from the shackles and duties of solely carrying the future of House Rosier as well as their father’s expectations upon her shoulders.

On paper, the fifteen year old Rose had everything she might have wished for that first year at Hogwarts.

And yet, every birthday that followed after her twelfth served as more solemn occasions than the first despite the pockets of happiness she’d found.

War had broken out on the continent at the beginning of her second school year, and the magical peoples of the countries involved weren’t long behind that of the muggles.

Rose had known that the peace she’d grown up under couldn’t last forever, but she’d had hope nonetheless that if the world she was living in now was different than that she’d expected then perhaps there would be other differences beyond those she’d already experienced.

She hadn’t been willfully blind.

She could see in the words of the Daily Prophet or even catching snatches of conversations on the street that tensions were rising even before she originally left for Hogwarts.

Something had to give.

And in 1939, something did, with Gellert Grindelwald and his loyal army of fanatics marching alongside that of Hitler and the Axis Powers to invade the magical communities of other countries alongside the invasions faced by the muggles.

The staff and Professors might work hard each and every day to reassure their students that they were safe, but it was a futile endeavor.

Even though the war didn’t touch them within the confines of Hogwarts, they still read the papers, still received letters from parents and loved ones, and still dealt with the realities of a world at war in both ephemeral worries as well as the very real factors of rationing and shortages.  The magical world wasn't as effected as the muggle, but there were still changes to availability if nothing else that altered how many students saw things they used to take for granted.  Not all of the food the magical world consumed came from magical sources, as well as almost none of the raw materials for textiles among other items - and filling the gap through trade with other magical communities was...a touchy subject.

(Rose had wished for wizarding fashion to start catching up to modern muggle wear...but not like this.  Not due to having to ration fabric and as a result needing to focus on making less voluminous clothing with less layering acceptable to wixen.)

Wizarding Great Britain had chosen not to engage in conflicts on the continent or elsewhere, instead choosing to raise the war wards of wizarding spaces such as the school, ministry, and Diagon Alley, and watch events play out from within the protection of their enchantments - which, unless dealing with another isolationist magical government, meant that there were few magical communities among their closest neighbors who were willing to deal with them, and those that would either demanded a premium price or were dealing with their own shortfalls.

Should Gellert Grindelwald ever move towards invading Britain that would change, but despite entreaties from the muggle government as well as a general outcry against what many saw as “cowardly” behavior, Minister Spencer-Moon as well as the Wizengamot remained unmoved in their decision, even in the face of economic strain that they hadn't predicted.

It didn’t stop young wizards - and even witches - from joining up among the muggle ranks but any such actions were not sanctioned by the government and could even see them facing fines or jail time if they were caught.

Inside Hogwarts it was as if - despite the headlines that screamed at them every day - everything had simply carried on like normal in the wizarding world with only the minor change of straight-skirts taking the place of the Edwardian gathered/pleated skirts along with tailored shirts replacing frilly blouses with the fiber content of their textiles relying far more heavily on English wool, linen, and even leather for their dueling robes than imported silk or cotton.

Including the celebration of birthdays, which for Rose that year - an auspicious year, as turning fifteen was when pureblood parents started testing their suitability in regards to marriage prospects - fell on a Wednesday.

Fourth Year was treating her both better and worse than Third Year had done.  Being Tom Riddle’s older sister - two months or not it still counted, Tom - was no easy feat.  Then there was the added pressure of now having two younger-younger siblings with potentially a third on the way.

To Rose’s eternal surprise, her father hadn’t changed his warmer and more lavish behavior towards her with the advent of legitimate heirs.

It was as if once he’d given himself permission - or society at large had done - to treat her as his daughter in fact and deed as well as blood, he’d refused to hold back for another moment.

It took Rose a lot longer than she’d like to admit to realize that.

Or that it had taken Tom pointing out a few home truths for her to start accepting it, and with it Lord Rosier as her father instead of merely a benefactor.

She wouldn’t be running freely to him for a hug anywhen soon, but she’d learned to call him father in her head as well as aloud and/or in public so that was something at least.

Siblings on the other hand - siblings she could handle without having to have an intervention orchestrated by her closest friend.

Rose knew what it was like to be both an older sister and a younger one.  The elders set the expectation in those around them for how the children of their family would be perceived.  Younger ones either reaped the rewards or the approbation of their elder siblings’ reputations and actions.

With her and Tom it was different given that their ages were so close.

Yes, there was an expectation of her to be brilliant, but that was only in part because of Tom.  The rest was due to her own merits.  No, she wasn’t a prodigy like her brother, but the teachers had come to stop expecting her to have an innate grasp of magic the way he did after the first couple months of first year.

What she had done was show that she was willing to put in the work to at least try and keep up with her powerful prat of a brother, and as a result tended to nip at his heels in the class standings.

There were exceptions of course.

No one would ever be able to convince her to devote the amount of time to Potions (far too many disgusting ingredients) or Herbology (all the boring parts of Botany, and mainly was a supplement to Potions) that she did to Charms or even Magical Theory which she’d kept as an elective the prior year despite having the option to drop it.

She and Tom didn’t even choose to take all the same electives, leaving them each space to spread their academic wings.  Tom attended every single seminar on Civics and Governance, as well as continuing to self-study Culture while Rose only attended the former when it didn’t block anything more interesting or she didn’t have an emergent assignment due.  As for Wizarding Culture for the Young Witch, well…even having Madame Dubois replaced beginning in her second year hadn’t managed to end her distaste for the subject, and she’d been more than happy to be shot of it when the opportunity came with choosing electives.

She could still dance during the events that the culture club put on at least once a term without it, and she wasn’t - generally - in the habit of forcing herself to suffer unnecessarily.

Rose was far more eager for the seminars on Magical Myth, Lore, and Literature or Magical Languages in preparation for taking Ancient Studies as a NEWT subject than pretending she cared about being a future debutante.

But even if she wasn’t engaged in a subject because of her own curiosity or interests, or wanted to do well out of sheer spite driving her to keep Tom from gloating or getting too big a head due to his talents, she wished to leave a mark on Hogwarts.

Her brother would likely set a record next year during the OWLs that other students to follow would struggle to ever break - both in number of straight-Os, and the raw scores behind the marks.

But Rose wasn’t the top witch of their year for nothing, and she was just as capable of an impressive showing - if often in a different manner - than her brother.

She wanted to be a proud representative of her House, rather than a cautionary tale - and she wanted it for herself, as well as for those she loved.

Which for the moment, meant hurrying to tuck away the presents that came with the morning owl post at breakfast, or else she’d be late to Magical Defense with Professor Veridian, and ruin the perfect record she’d maintained for the class ever since First Year.

“And what are the weaknesses of the Flagrante curse?”  Professor Trajan Veridian asked his mixed class of Fourth Years.

As he’d come to find over the decade he’d taught at Hogwarts, mixed-house classes always tended to be the most interesting to teach as they often crossed many divides such as social status, wealth, blood status, and more when it comes to the individual backgrounds - and therefore points-of-view - of the students.

He did not miss his early days teaching at Hogwarts, where he would often find himself teaching the lower years and would have many classes composed of members of the same house alone.

Far more boring than the potential debates that sprung up when a muggleborn Gryffindor decided to cross wits with a pureblood Ravenclaw, for example.

Once the students were able to choose elective courses in their third year, the class mixes that resulted, as a natural outcome of having to create a workable schedule for both staff and students, became much more interesting as far as he was concerned.

This particular class was approximately a quarter of their year in total, and a good mix across all the houses - which as he’d come to find with this group, made for some spectacular debates when they really got going.

Often at the provocation of the most innocent looking one of them all: Ms. Rosier, who had her hand up.

“Ms. Rosier.”  He called upon the quiet instigator with hidden glee.  Perhaps it was the duelist in him, but he tended to enjoy his sneakier students the best, though he did strive not to favor them over any other.

“As the searing heat the cursed object emits is not hot enough to burn through sufficient insulation, it can be nullified with the simple use of cloth padding even without magic.”

“An interesting and well-reasoned deduction, Ms. Rosier.”  Trajan nearly grinned as several hands shot up around the room, more than one of her classmates eager to either add to or rebut her point.  “Five points to Ravenclaw.  Mr. Carrow?”

“Rather than resorting to muggle tactics,” Aldwin Carrow only just restrained himself from sneering, as he didn’t want to have Riddle forget to restrain himself during dueling practice, as had been known to happen - accidentally of course - to those who got on the bad side of Riddle and/or Rosier.  “A simple cooling charm can moderate the heat of the curse until the counter can be applied.”

“Partially correct,” Veridian responded with a nod.  “As depending on the strength of the curse-caster, the cooling charm would have to be equally or more powerful to counteract the heat of the curse.  Take two points for Slytherin, Mr. Carrow.  Ms. McGonagall?”

“Wouldna the housekeeping charm for preventing stove and hot vessel burns also work to counter the heat of the curse, Professor?”

“In theory, yes it would, Ms. McGonagall, though a better yet application of the curse’s weakness yet remains, take two points for Gryffindor.  Does anyone have any idea what that better application might be?”  He looked around the room, then called upon Ms. Rosier’s most common verbal sparring partner.  “Yes, Mr. Riddle?”

“Using both insulating barriers such as a cloak or robe along with the applications of burn prevention and/or cooling charms would ensure that the cursed object doesn’t simply burn through the fabric, Professor.”  Tom answered, folding in the others’ observations.  “Or simply conjuring oven mitts.”

“Well done, Mr. Riddle.”  Trajan agreed, the teenager having spotted the gaps in all three options previously presented.  “Ten points to Slytherin.”

If Trajan thought that he saw well-behaved Tom Riddle smirk at Enora Rosier, only to get a silent raspberry blown at him from across the room…well.

He only thought he saw such improper behavior.

No need to sanction anyone over something he only might have seen.

Lucretia Black had been watching the pair of Enora Rosier and Tom Riddle run a mastery course on managing public perception since the day they arrived at Hogwarts - and it would be one of the entertainments that she would honestly regret no longer playing spectator to after she graduated at the end of the school year.

She was witch enough to admit that when she first met the pair at Rosier Manor before they even began Hogwarts, she hadn’t been impressed.

There weren’t many reasons for a child of any gender to live hidden away from polite society to the point that most people were unaware that they even existed - even to their closest friends and allies.

As neither Enora Rosier or Tom Riddle were lacking in power, looks, or health the only thing that Lucretia even as young as she’d been at the time - or anyone with a wit of sense for that matter - would assume that the lack, therefore, was one of simple good breeding.

The pair entered Hogwarts three years prior as an oddity to society.  The secret daughter, and the unknown ward, of House Rosier.  Two children, of opposite sexes, raised in close confines and calling each other as familiarly as one could.

Within six months of entering Hogwarts, neither Enora Rosier nor her companion lingered in an ineffable in-between of the school hierarchy.

It wasn’t that anyone forgot their veiled and mysterious backgrounds.

It was that in comparison to who they were and their personas, most at Hogwarts simply didn’t care.  

Which was part of the purpose behind how the school was run.  It was school.   For nine months of the year for seven years, the students didn’t have to care overmuch about issues beyond Hogwarts’ walls.  The sentiments formed during Hogwarts didn’t always linger - or conversely fade away - away from the school, but it was still a place of respite nonetheless.

At Hogwarts, all that really mattered insofar as the odd pair was concerned was how they presented themselves within the school more than anything outside of it.

Tom Riddle as the brilliant magical prodigy.

Enora Rosier as the affectionate, doting older sister who was nothing short of the most Ravenclaw of Ravenclaws.

Both impressions that would linger in the minds of their schoolmates, even as most students tended to forget all but their closest friends - or irritants - within weeks of leaving the grounds of the castle.

They were entertaining to watch.

Still, Lucretia wasn’t fool enough to place her galleons on the two biding their time until they could marry like many did.

From what she could tell, Tom Riddle wouldn’t understand romance or lust if it came up and smacked him in the face with a Confundus charm.  Either the younger teen was a very late bloomer or he had no interest, no matter how many people were fooled by his pretty face and charming manners.  He was more inclined to sit quietly, devouring the contents of the Hogwarts library with a hunger that outpaced most Ravenclaws, and wrinkle his nose at a couple being over amorous in the common room than he was to so much as hold hands with another human - except his sister, who he allowed into his space liberally and without issue - than he was to send longing glances.

Which was the root of the confusion regarding the nature of the pair’s attachment, she supposed.  Since Riddle wasn’t close to any girl but Enora, and they weren’t blood related, it was simply assumed that they were childhood sweethearts.  Destined for each other from the moment Enora - not Lord Rosier, but Enora - decided to bring him under the protection of House Rosier.

People were idiots.

Riddle may be a Gaunt, but Rosier was not and had never looked at her brother with anything other than sisterly affection and often exasperation.

A look Lucretia knew well, having felt it on her own face more often than not given how thick her own brother could be.

Still, given that Lucretia had a rather small bet that was certain to gain a large payout when the pool was settled regarding the two, for once the idiocy of others was working in her favor.

Though she would miss watching infatuated witches - and no few wizards - following Riddle through the halls of Hogwarts with their hearts in their eyes, only to scurry away like rats out of a sinking ship the moment Rosier came into view.

Thanks to being almost as academically insane as her brother, Rose only had two blocks in her entire week's schedule with more than a single hour without classes - and even then only because her free period was dovetailed by lunch - with Wednesday after Defense being one, and as a result she was able to return to her dorm room and go through her birthday gifts instead of having to wait until after classes were finished for the day.  She had no one to blame but herself for the packed schedule.  Rose could have chosen against taking Care of Magical Creatures as it had nothing to do with her plans for the future and was only a personal interest/fun class.  But that was entirely the point: even though it added another three hours of class and accompanying homework onto her shoulders, Rose genuinely enjoyed the subject.

It was worth having to rush out of the castle after Potions on Friday afternoons to go learn about crups or kneazles or nifflers, or put aside her homework on Thursdays after lunch to wander down to the animal paddocks if it meant having a bit of time to simply enjoy being a witch and learning about all the magical world had to offer - and without, for once, the onus to keep up with Tom's performance while she was at it.

After she greeted Geron, naturally, the Iceni Trollhound now fully grown and towering over her.  Her sweet hound had grown to five feet tall at the top of his back, with his strong neck and head rising higher still.  With her own diminutive height - which, as the healers had predicted, had thus far topped out at just over five foot two inches - Geron could easily plop his chin down onto the top of her head or her shoulder if he wanted to.

It made for good hugs, having the canine equivalent of a small bear as her familiar and companion, but Rose couldn’t deny she was looking forward to fifth year when she would have a solo dorm room as Prefect.  Moon and Jes were comfortable enough with Geron that they usually didn’t mind how much space he took up, but having what amounted to an entire person-sized hound living in their space wasn’t for everyone.  Moon spent the majority of her time with her friends outside of their shared space, and Geron was certainly a part of that decision.

Even if she hadn’t wanted to keep up academically with Tom to keep him from getting bored and spending too much time spelunking in the Restricted Section of the Library, she would’ve put in the effort that was top grades and a sparkling behavior record to have her own room starting fifth year regardless.

Wrapping her arms around Geron’s broad chest as the hound greeted her with jumping to his paws and wagging his tail furiously enough to whip up a minor hurricane, she greeted her friend before urging him back to laying down.

She didn’t know what her gifts contained, and didn’t want to run the risk of anything potentially delicate getting squashed or even broken under his sheer mass.

He was her sweet boy, but sometimes like many large dogs - magical or not - he didn’t account for his mature size or strength, forgetting that he wasn’t a puppy anymore when he plopped all over her lap or took up her entire dorm room bed for his nap.

Tom being Tom, his schedule was packed to brimming even with self-studying what subjects he could, along with more than a few of Rose’s own housemates, granting her a window of privacy that she wouldn’t have otherwise had.  Which was perfectly wonderful in her opinion.  She loved her brother and appreciated her friends, tolerating the majority of her housemates.

That didn’t mean she wanted to spend every minute of every day with them.

Rose had no problem with knowing that a career as an Unspeakable - for instance - had automatically been removed from her future prospects because she didn’t receive either an OWL or NEWT in Divination.

She was far more interested in focusing on receiving the required straight-Os in History of Magic and Ancient Runes, as well as in the self-study/seminar subjects of Magical Languages and Myth, Literature, and Folklore so that she could take the exclusive (and interdisciplinary) program on Ancient Studies during her NEWT years.  Technically, she would only need an O in either Magical Languages or ML&F as long as she received an EE in the other.  But - and it was a major caveat considering how cut throat competition was for Ancient Studies as only a handful of sixth years were ever selected, much like Alchemy - grades and OWL results were only part of the equation.  She would also need signatory approval from both her Head of House and the Headmaster to enroll in the program.

Thus: straight O’s, and studying additional languages than those required for the Magical Languages OWL which at a minimum tested proficiency on Classical Latin and Greek but as it was such a niche subject allowed students to supplement the minimum standards with additional languages or dialect variants.

Rose was going to put her “non-standard” lady’s education to use, especially since language had always been a love of hers, even if during her first life she’d struggled to learn more than English.

As Rose, she’d been educated on multiple languages from the cradle, and as a result had a brain that was far more adept at language acquisition and learning.

Having a pair of father and godfather that absolutely doted on her and her whims certainly helped and was a benefit she had started taking ruthless advantage of after her first year of school and learned, via Professor Nott, about the Ancient Studies program.

The very idea of it had enchanted her as a former student of a liberal arts college in her first life that emphasized interdisciplinary studies and upheld them as one of the best ways to learn about any subject.

Which was one of the reasons - the doting, not the studies - that she was eager to open her gifts.

Once her father and godfather had felt like they’d made up - though they’d never posit it that way - for their neglect during her early years via showering her in jewelry appropriate for a young witch of her station, they’d started playing to her interests instead.

Thanks to that guilt, Rose owned quite the collection of sparklies.  Uncle Arcturus lavishing her with stud earrings - always studs, either shaped gemstones or round beads on a simple post without extra adornment - which as she learned was the “typical” gifts from a godfather to a goddaughter if not usually done as expensively as by Lord Black.  Diamonds, sapphires in matching sets and with slight variations in blue, pink sapphires, rose quartz and moonstone round beads, all in different sizes from delicate options more a suggestion of color and sparkle all the way up to the large diamond studs that had been his first-ever gift to her.  

Outside of the deep blues of the sapphires, Uncle Arcturus stuck to the “appropriate” pastel color palette for a young witch - but never pearls or coral, as those were, traditionally, a father's gift to their daughter.

Which, as her presents from her father had shown, Lord Rosier was more than willing to bestow.  Her heirloom coral parure had been joined by sets of pearls from flawless white all through the pastel color spectrum.  Petal pinks, lavender, delicate blue, and even a set with the barest kiss of green.

Between Yule and her birthday, as well as extras to celebrate her grades at the end of every school year, Rose went from having no real jewelry at all on her eleventh birthday to having enough to rival any other heiress except Lucretia Black or Immaculata Malfoy by the time she turned fifteen.

Nonetheless, she’d been happy when both ridiculous wizards had switched to throwing galleons at her in a more functional fashion.  She couldn’t call it practical.   The only practical gift-givers in her life, including her brother, tended to be witches.

Lady Heloise with her hair ornaments that were always appropriate for Rose’s age and station.

Nanny Emma’s crafted or crafting gifts.

Wine Aunt Rose’s self-care or self-defense items, etc.

Functional rather, in the form of often rare and/or old books, or in one instance a hideously expensive set of custom rune stones from her father following her Outstanding result on the end-of-year Runes exam back in June.

They were fashioned of a mixture of magical creature bones and gemstones, blood bound to Rose, and so magical that just touching them sent a zing up her arms.

No, the men in her life had no sense of scope, though after years of dealing with them, she’d moved from put off and even a bit horrified to accepting.

It was just the way they were, and that Uncle Arcturus was even worse with his own daughter Lucretia actually helped her come to terms with it.

Along with Tom’s starkly pragmatic belief that they should fleece “the poncy idiotic toffs” for as much as they could get, but she digressed.

(Such a Slytherin.)

A flick of her wand had the gifts that had either arrived via owl or been given at breakfast flying out of her expanded bag and stacking themselves neatly on her bed.  The pile was far larger than it had been during her first year, when Tom had surprised her with a quiet celebration at breakfast.  Proof, she supposed, that for all she focused the majority of her effort on school and the rest of her time on Tom, that she still had managed to make friends.

Even outside her most immediate circle.

With a sigh and an eye roll, Rose used magic to open the requisite gift from Walburga Black.  The awful witch was now in her sixth year but hadn’t gotten any better after Madame Dubois had stopped being a direct influence on her.  If anything, as predicted, she was worse outside the immediate view of authority figures.

It was too bad, was the general consensus, as even her uncle’s connections as Lord Black and the good looks she’d inherited as a Black along with a decent amount of magical power couldn’t compensate for either her sneer or attitude.

From what Tom had told her about the goings-on in the Slytherin Common Room, everyone was glad that as Immaculata Malfoy was Lord Malfoy’s daughter, she kept Walburga from being her year’s prefect thanks to Professor Slughorn’s social-climbing given that the witches were about even academically.

This year’s birthday stunt was a set of minor “love elixirs” that caused fascination and infatuation - thus keeping them from being regulated or flat-out illegal - for up to a week depending on the extent relationship between object and target.  Rose sighed, rolling her eyes.  It wasn’t even a clever jab over her lack of engaging with the relatively innocent flirtations most witches her age were involved with or, even more likely, Rose’s marital prospects as an upcoming debutante.

Rose vanished the contents of the - admittedly pretty, and real crystal - bottles with a precise jab of her wand, then used a crystal-cleaning and sterilizing spell normally for potion vials on the emptied containers.  Being able to do so immediately and with prejudice one of the benefits to her birthday falling on a weekday when she wouldn’t be expected to open her gifts in public at breakfast.  A levitation spell had them moved over to her desk and out of the way, as she described the gift and giver for her Quick Notes quill and parchment that were hovering at her side.  No matter how snarky or awful or just plain not to Rose’s taste (usually at Yule given that they were opened with an audience when it came to the latter) Walburga’s gifts tended to be, she would still send out a thank you card.

It was both expected and appropriate.

That Rose took any chance to undercut Walburga’s complaints about her, making the older witch seem spiteful and petty at best, was also a factor.

The next round of gifts were minor ones from housemates or distant acquaintances, more tokens than anything.  Candy she checked for tampering.  A new set of quills from her Ravenclaw study group, a book on Ogham script from the Magical Languages club, etc.

Then came gifts from her friendly-acquaintances, or as Tom always called them her “hangers-on.”  Fellow students - or distant relations like the majority of her Delacour/Rosier cousins - that she kept up the Rosier Daughter facade for without exception.  Not people she trusted, even in a minor way, to be herself with but that she spent time with outside of regulated settings like school clubs or class like her fellow Ravenclaw yearmates who never quite made the jump to being actual friends like her roommate Moon or Windham on the boys’ side.  This set of gifts tended to fall under the “Ravenclaw Pride” heading.  Scarves, gloves, hats, pins, ribbons, even dyed quills all in Ravenclaw colors as that was how most of those gifters knew her: as a Ravenclaw’s Ravenclaw.  Her distant cousins would fall on the Rosier Daughter side of things with cosmetics or bathing supplies like bath salts or hand cream, the odd silk hair flower, etc.

At last having run that gauntlet, Rose came to the gifts from those she was close to in her family and friends, the presents she always looked most forward to.

She always appreciated everything else - Walburga’s bullshit aside - but it wasn’t the same as gifts that were chosen and tailored specifically to her wants, needs, and likes instead of being based off of assumptions or given as a matter of custom or social contract.

Her Ravenclaw friends (Jes, Pandora, Callum, Shacklebolt who hated his first name, and Xerxes) never failed to please with their collective stance that just because they were all Ravenclaws didn’t mean they needed to type-cast each other, staying away from any gifts that were strictly school-coded.  Like books or planners or even quills.  Instead they focused on non-academic hobbies.  A bolt of gorgeous lilac silk jacquard with silver dots, dashes, and thin stripes from Jes, spools of real-silver embroidery thread and dozens of amethyst beads from Pandora to match.  Basilisk -hide gloves with permanent enchantments that would have them comfortable and grow with her from Callum thanks to his connections to creature breeders.  A new dragonhide wand holster in Antipodean Opaleye that could hold up to three wands from Shacklebolt.  Quirky Xerxes never failed to make her laugh, this round with an ostrich-feather quill that was so floofy and dyed in the colors of the rainbow that it categorically couldn’t count as being studious since she’d never be able to use it at school with a straight face.

Outside of her Ravenclaw friends, her other school friends did tend to lean into the Ravenclaw stereotype.  Not that she was ever sad or disappointed to receive books as a gift.  Even if it was one she’d already read or owned.

It was just… expected and when it came to gifts, if almost nowhere else, Rose did like to be surprised.

It was part of the fun of gifts beyond mere social convention.

Elias Selwyn who was in his final year gifted her Newt Scamander’s newest release: The Compendium of Creature Care, Self-Updating Edition which would come in handy if she decided to continue Care of Magical Creatures into NEWT-level and cost a pretty galleon besides.  Tom had gotten used to the Hufflepuff and looked at him with the same sort of bemused tolerance her brother gave Geron.  Even so, there had been more than one sly comment from Elias’s cousin Cato Prince over the wizard’s continued…interest in Rose.

Comments that she resolutely ignored from Orion Black’s best friend, as even if she was interested in dating or courtship, which she wasn’t, Elias was too…

Damnit, Tom was right, he was too puppy-y for her.  The wizarding embodiment of a golden retriever.  No matter what good things the magical tendency for “glow-ups” during the magical maturation spikes at thirteen and seventeen had done for Elias, she couldn’t see him as more than that slightly officious boy who’d squired her around MacGregor Manse before her first year.

Flirting, let alone anything more serious, with Elias would only feel slightly less incestuous than doing so with Tom.

Hardly a recommendation for romance in her opinion.  Her brother was a Gaunt, if only by heritage and not raising and influence.  Not Rose herself.

Cato himself, never one to be outdone if he could help it once he got invested, came through with a runic blackboard and linked calligraphy brush that was recommended by the Department of International Cooperation for those wishing to learn to foreign writing systems.  It was a group gift, and an expensive one.  Expensive enough that while Cato bought the physical items, others pitched in to get the rune stones that would determine which language systems they worked with, along with a carrier to keep everything together.

Antonius Nott, very much his father Professor Nott’s son, purchased the set on Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs.  Little Alphard Black, Walburga’s younger brother, chipped in with Lucretia to buy the set in Japanese kanji and the set’s carrying case.  Octavian Rookwood supplied the runestone for Chinese hanzi.

It was a genuinely amazing gift but the real surprise to Rose was that Orion hadn’t joined in with his friends, sister, and cousin on the joint present, stunning Rose speechless with the professional and enchanted (as well as gorgeous with shining metals, rose quartz inlays, and an Opaleye case) set of tailoring and sewing tools.  

Ever-sharp fabric shears.  Never-dull needles of varying lengths and thin/thicknesses.  Empty spools waiting to be wound with thread that promised to never snag or tangle.  Endless-length measuring tape with memory enchantments programmable for up to a dozen subjects.  A magnifying glass with an ever-steady hovering and projection set up.

It was a wonderful gift that had her almost in tears for the thought that had been put into it - and likely would have had her doing something gossip-worthy (one way or another) if it weren’t for what their fathers pulled that year with a joint gift of their own.

Fifteen was a bigger milestone for a witch than a wizard due to the conventions surrounding marriage, especially in the upper class of Wizarding Great Britain.

The biggest to-do for wizards came at their seventeenth birthday, when they officially and legally came of age.

Tom hated what Rose’s fifteenth birthday represented and as a result refused to go overboard with his birthday present that year, getting her a fresh supply of knitting yarn in cloud-soft alpaca from the Vertic Alley shop she patronized rather than anything exorbitant.

Wine Aunt Rose seemed to agree with Tom’s disdain for the age disparity between witches and wizards, sending Rose a few more muggle books to scandalize the good purebloods of Hogwarts in works from Virginia Woolf.

A new winter cloak in Prussian blue from Ginsy lined with arctic rabbit fur at the hood and cuffs, a dainty bracelet of gold, silver, and gold-rose links from Nanny Emma, and an actual tiara from Lady Heloise in silver and diamond starbursts (so much for practicality) and then Rose was staring in equal parts dread and excitement at the joint gift from her father and godfather.

For good reason.

Neither one of them had any sense when it came to spending money, and if even Lady Heloise had upped the ante into extravagant, then she had no idea what to expect from those two.

Which ended up being…wise…once Rose read the card and opened the perfectly-wrapped-as-always gift.

Those… fabulous idiots.

It was a gorgeous upright travel piano in gleaming rosewood that was a marvel of enchantment and rune work.  Precisely tuned, using the built-in shrinking and expanding enchantments at a touch of a wand made no difference to the sound of the horrifically expensive instrument.  It even included a comfortable, padded bench seat that slid into place and changed size along with the piano itself, as well as a built-in ‘practice bubble’ that amounted to a modified silencing ward that would keep anyone not seated at the piano from hearing it at all once the ward was raised.

It was the single most expensive and intensely designed/enchanted gift Rose had ever been given - with the exception of Rose Cottage itself, which didn’t quite count as that wasn’t necessarily a gift.

Her slow-growing jewelry collection might outpace it for worth, but that was as a collection, not any one single piece including her heirloom parure.

Inlaid on the fallboard where on most pianos would be the maker’s or manufacturer's name or logo, instead was a blooming rose motif in mother of pearl.  The padded seat was silk velvet in shimmering soft pink.  Every inch of the gleaming instrument had been designed and constructed to suit Rose in a stunning display of both wealth and care.

The sort of once-in-a-lifetime gift that Rose would - and could because of the enchantment work, so long as she followed the suggested maintenance and upkeep schedule in the information packet - carry with her all her life.

Sitting there, on that perfect seat with her fingers resting as gentle as a honey bee on a flower petal on the polished ivory keys of a perfect gift, Rose swallowed back tears, and smiled.

Love for two ridiculous, complicated, pigheaded men filling her almost to overflowing.

Stupid, foolish wealthy wizards.

How she adored them - against her own will at times - so.

Chapter Text

Against the Sun

Chapter Twenty-One: Samhain’s Child

Eventually, Rose had no choice but to rise from her new piano seat and pack it back away if she meant to make it to lunch on time - and prevent Tom from sending out a search party and/or plotting revenge against whom-so-ever upset her if she was late.

She took a deep breath after she tidied the briefcase-sized wooden chest away with care, setting it just so inside her wardrobe so she could access it with ease later.  A moment’s work with her wand banished any sign she’d been overwhelmed, along with a few pets of Geron’s long back.  What threatened to slip through her typical placid facial expression occlumency took care of, at least well enough to pass inspection by the likes of her brother or any other sharp-eyed Slytherins.

“Good break, Rose?”  Tom asked, nonetheless, having almost seer-like abilities when it came to her moods.

“Perfect.”  She replied with a soft smile for him and their friends as she joined them at their chosen table.  “Everything is perfect.”

Tom almost broke character at that, deeply suspicious given that if Rose was true to form, she would have opened her birthday presents during her free time slot.

With the way the hormonal idiots in his house were starting to talk about Rose with consistency rather than a one-off here-or-there, it better not be one of them who put that tone in her voice.

Or he’d show them exactly why pursuing his sister was an idea that would prove starkly bad for their continued health and well-being.

“Oh?”

Rose merely gave him another one of her practiced little smiles, and called for her meal instead of illuminating him, but that was fine.  She couldn’t dodge him forever, and he knew he’d have a better chance at getting a clear answer from her about her rare mood in private.  He could wait if it meant improved odds of success.

“Did your tea leaves today not tell you?”  She lightly teased him over taking Divination as an elective, which was right after their joint Defense lesson, the same as he mocked her interest in Care of Magical Creatures.  She at least understood the draw - and gave the subject some credence as it was taught by a legitimate professor rather than a hack - while Tom likely would never get why she liked animals so much.

“We’re working on how the eastern and western methodologies of horoscopes based on the stars differ, Rose, you know that.”  He groused at her, not amused.  “It’s a valid magical study not mere conjecture.”

“Apologies, brother.”  She grinned satisfied at getting a rise out of him.  “Of course comparative magical practices are valid, you’ll get no argument otherwise from me.”

Tom merely sniffed, still prickly, though as he spied her expression turning sly for a moment and almost sensed mischief he quickly got over his pique.

“Remind me to warn Orion and Cato, would you?”  Rose said as if idly changing the subject, but in a tone and volume meant to carry.  “It seems Miss Black has taken an appreciation for Fabula’s Fascination Draught and Candytuft Counter.”   

She shared a smirk with her brother as gossip immediately sprang up around them regarding the odds of Walburga Black lowering herself to love potion her cousin or one of his friends in order to gain a husband.  Like shooting fish in a barrel, and quite the suiting revenge for Black’s latest round of bitchiness.  Rose didn’t even have to say anything that could be taken as slanderous, the implication alone was enough.  It was even true, from a certain perspective.  

Worst case, Walburga would complain - again - about Rose to mummy.  Wherein nothing would come of it as while her mother indulged her, by now after years of harping on the same subject of Rose, no one else in her family gave anything she had to say about Rose any credence.  Even her father, who was almost as indulgent of Walburga as Lord Rosier was of Rose, dismissed the witch’s complaints on that topic with alacrity since they’d so often proven either baseless or unsubstantiated.  

Best case…well, it will hopefully have Orion on his guard.   

That only the strongest love potions were restricted or monitored by the Ministry and merely banned at Hogwarts was fucking horrifying.  Unfortunately they were such an inground part of wizarding culture that no one even bothered trying to do more than teach their children the symptoms of love potions on themselves or others, and how to counter them.  Or supplying their offspring with protections against them, like the new-and-improved anklet that had been Rose’s Christmas gift from Wine Aunt Rose last year.  

In Orion’s case, she hoped he was more wary than most as while the majority of their fellow students weren’t wary enough of love potions, even relatively mild ones, how her friend ended up married to Walburga even in a story no longer made sense to her.  Not without significant familial pressure and/or actual potioning coming into play.  Rose couldn’t discount the possibility, especially as if Orion had a protection against potioning like Rose’s own, his uncle was likely familiar with the parameters of it - and potentially, how to get around them if Pollux decided his daughter should be the next Lady Black.

Tom agreed, one corner of his mouth tugged up as he felt a bit of relief wash over him, overtaking his worry regarding the…blip in Rose’s affect.

If she was well enough to plot and engage in her usual game of tit-for-tat with Walburga Black, then there wasn’t really anything to concern himself over.

He’d still ask, naturally.

He wouldn’t be him if he didn’t.

Forewarned was forearmed, whether it was a case of a particularly well-chosen gift from one of Rose’s hangers-on or Lord Rosier, and if there was anything that Tom liked even less than Rose did, it was being caught off-guard.

Ancient Runes and Arithmancy were both rigorous enough electives that they only had a single section per cohort, making them the pivot point around which the third-through-fifth years’ schedules were structured.

Case in point: Rose and Tom, who like in their first two years, shared the vast majority of their classes once electives came into play.

After her core-shaking conversations with Professor Nott and her father during her first year, Rose had taken a long hard look at who she’d become as Rose - and also who she wanted to be in the future.

More than a reincarnate who remembered a story from once-upon-a-time.

Or the Rosier spare heir.

Or even Tom Riddle’s and Dominic Rosier’s and Arcturus Black’s beloved sister/daughter/goddaughter.

Who she was.  What career - if any - she was interested in.  The path that she actually wanted to tread instead of one chosen for her or that she just happened to fall into.

Self-determination instead of allowing herself to be pulled along like a kite on a string or pushed along like a kite lost on the breeze.

From the moment she’d realized what the basis of the world around her was - something close to (but not exactly like) the Wizarding World of Harry Potter - she’d known that her best option for a long and healthy life as a not-quite-pureblood during Tom Riddle’s era was to get baby Voldemort on-side and keep him from going off the rails.

Rose thought she’d done a pretty good job of that, thus far, which left her with her secondary concerns: building a life that was fulfilling and (hopefully) with the potential to be happy.

Survive then thrive was an important mindset when your brother had a potential future as a dark lord.

What it all came down to, when her reflections were done and she’d both patched up her mental landscape and gotten working mental shields into place with all the meditation she’d engaged in, was quality of life.

What was a career - not a job, a career - that she would like now that she was a young witch with nearly limitless opportunities?  What would give her enjoyment and fulfillment?  Were there things (classes, opportunities, even potential friendships) in her life she was willing to give up in order to open doors for herself?  What were the trade-offs she was willing to make - and just as important, what weren’t?

What did content, let alone happy, look like for her now?

Rose wrote out those questions and more, kept track of her answers - and if they changed - for the entirety of the summer before her second year and periodically during the school year before she sat down with Tom to make her elective choices.

Years later, she still referred back to them and noted changes or new thoughts on the topics as they popped up.

Four electives were the most that any OWLs-level Hogwarts student was allowed to officially study, though they could choose to self-study and even sit the OWL and NEWT in a subject so long as they scored well enough on the mid-term and final exams for it - whether with the formal class or on their own time as scheduled with the subject’s Head or the professor over a given year.

In Rose’s case that worked out that there were four NEWT-only electives that, in the end, made the majority of her decision when it came to her OWLs electives due to their prerequisites.  Left to her own devices, Rose never would’ve punished herself with what amounted to magical math in Arithmancy.  Higher-level math at that: algebra, geometry, trig, calculus, etc.  And yet, she took it alongside her brother (however grudgingly) because she needed to score at least an Exceeds Expectations on the Arithmancy OWL in order to take Spell Craft: Adaptation in Year Six and then the sequential course in Spell Creation in Year Seven.

If she was willing to forego Spell Craft/Spell Creation during her NEWT years, she could’ve skipped Arithmancy altogether, as the other NEWT electives that had Arithmancy as a prerequisite made it an either/or situation with Ancient Runes.

But she wasn’t, the idea of adapting and putting her own twist on existing spells enticing enough - beyond the beguiling subject of spell creation - to lure her into taking on Arithmancy.

Rose’s choices weren’t all as pragmatic as her performance in Arithmancy.  She took Care of Magical Creatures for no reason beyond her love of animals.  Not for love or money would she continue with Culture, and she didn’t bother with self-study for Muggle Studies either, despite either of them being an easy Outstanding to fluff up her OWL results to prospective employers or apprenticeship masters when she was older.

She left that sort of maneuvering to Tom, who thrived on it and the challenge to excel despite the heavy course load.

Rose might wish she was allowed to drop core subjects, but that was the only real cloudy patch as she was busy carving out her own little bit of sunshiney-wonderfulness by continuing her explorations in magical fashion and handicrafts when she wasn’t poking at the Animagus Transformation.

Hogwarts didn’t even broach the subject of Animagi until NEWT studies, but Rose didn’t want to wait that long.  The main Hogwarts library had books that talked around Animagi.  Animagi were talked about in regards to the laws governing registration in the Civics seminars Tom dragged her to.

At this point Rose thought her only options for factual information regarding the process was either in the Restricted Section or (possibly) a private library.

Like her father’s and godfather’s at their family seats.

No, let Tom take on setting an impossible academic record to challenge students for decades to come.

Rose had more interesting fish to fry.

But first, she accompanied her brother to their joint-Charms block with the other poor unfortunate souls who’d chosen to punish themselves by taking on both Ancient Runes and Arithmancy as electives.

Though, it must be noted, that most of her fellow sufferers of their own decisions also opted not to take a full four electives, stopping at three or even two.

No, when it came to true self-torture in their year, it was a small cohort - and each and every one of them either her housemate or friend with the exception of Minerva McGonagall who was far too Quidditch-mad to bother cliquing-up with the bonafide swots in Rose and Tom’s circle.

Tom was always insufferably smug over their “growing influence” over “the best and brightest.”

For her part, Rose was just happy to have someone other than her brilliant little brother to harass when/if she needed homework help.

“Coming, Rose?”

“Not all of us are giants, Tom.”  She narrowed her eyes in displeasure at the long-legged git.  “Don’t be a prat.”

“How’s the weather down there, short stack?”

“Ask me again and you’ll see for yourself…”

“Touchy touchy.”

“Tom…”

“Changing the subject,” he swiftly and blatantly avoided the high likelihood of imminent spellfire if he kept on the same tack.  “Which tomes did you reference for your Charms essay on Banishment vs. Vanishment?  I drew predominantly on Meridan’s Dissection and Discussion of Gamp’s Laws…”

Charms passed in a blur of practical work, Rose focusing on gaining precision with nonverbal summoning of multiple targets while Tom worked on his switching spells.

Tom’s spellwork was as powerful and quick as ever, but like many teenagers was impacted by interest and implied usefulness.  Her brother didn’t have use for switching spells the way that Rose did.  For the simplest, and most aggravating, of reasons: he was a wizard.

Witches were taught switching spells almost right out the gate in their home economics classes masquerading under the heading of Wizarding Culture.  The standards of dress and behavior were still so sharply gendered, that while witches were allowed to wear dueling robes to defense classes - for instance - it would be seen as either scandalous or gauche for them to wear them outside of defense.  Hence: switching spells, that allowed for quick-changes with a few waves and flicks of a wand.

Rose could change her entire outfit from the skin-out by second year with ease - but now that they were in the summoning and banishment classifications of charms work, the majority of the wizards in the class were lagging behind the wand-work of their female classmates.

Even Tom, much to his ire and frustration.

That witches were expected to learn and use a Fourth Year spell set in First Year was some bullshit that Rose didn’t have the time to get angry about.

Especially since the class of switching spells that were taught in Charms was different from the one that young witches were taught for clothes.  It had wider applications for one.  And was more fiddly, in Rose’s opinion, for two.

She and her female classmates were simply so accustomed to the theory and application behind that classification of spellwork that they left the boys in the dust despite the differences.

It was a good birthday, minor upsets aside:

Breakfast with her friends and brother, gifts, set up Walburga for drama, and then being able to trounce Tom in Charms.

Yes, quite the good day indeed, and there was still the Samhain feast, bonfire, and rites to go.

Samhain’s rites were the most solemn of the year, but Rose loved them.  She always felt warmth and connection when the Veil was thinnest, as if the Rosier ancestors reached out every year to welcome her.  She’d loved it even before she’d been welcomed into the family, but it had only grown stronger since.

The Samhain feast was always the quietest of the year among those Rose was present in the castle for, but that was as it should be.

Honoring the dead was a solemn and quiet type of rite and responsibility, even for someone who loved it like Rose.

This year for Rose it took on additional significance as with her transition into being considered a young witch eligible for marriage, in the morning the expectations regarding her behavior and manners would shift and change.  At school she could still be relatively casual with those around her, it was true.  But she would have to finish lowering the hems on her dresses and skirts and robes, and wear her hair fully up regardless.

After class, she would have to attend a meeting with both the Hogwarts healer and her family healer to ascertain her “mature” health - code for power and fertility as an eligible witch.  The Hogwarts population, those who were either traditional or of the higher social set, would be watching the post on Friday and Saturday.  Waiting for her father’s and Lord’s response to her results which would be signaled by an additional coming-of-age gift and invitations for her debut ball during the Winter social season being sent out.

If she were on break for her fifteenth birthday, it would be much less of a production.  Less eyes actively on her.  But she wasn’t, and there was no use crying over spilled potions.

The examination results would be what they would be.

Her father would react as he would react - she had no control over any of it.

All Rose could do was keep her head up, her composure strong, and celebrate her honorable dead.

Everything else was none of her affair until the moment actually arrived.

Silver eyes set in a handsome young face watched intently as light from the Samhain bonfires on the Hogwarts grounds painted golden flax hair in the colors of copper and fire.  As shadows played over high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face.  The play of dark and light shading violet eyes one moment, turning them darkest indigo, and then flashing silver the next.

“Careful brother.”  Lucretia Black murmured, as she stalked up behind her younger sibling on silent slippered feet, the edge of her solemn black cloak with its constellation embroidered hems held in careful hands to keep it from brushing the grass and giving her approach away.  “That princess comes with a most vicious guard indeed.”

“A veritable dragon.”  Orion Black took a sip of celebratory pomegranate mead, turning to glance over at his sister as she stepped to his side and turning his attention away from the person of his fascination.  “The worst kind at that: an over-protective brother.”

His grin was both all-too-knowing (as an over-protective brother himself) and unrepentant as silvery-blue eyes met his own pure silver in plain amusement.

“Even so,” he continued.  “You can’t say it wouldn’t be worth the hexing for daring the dragon to court his treasure.  Ignatius certainly thought so.”

Lucretia ignored the light blush that decorated her cheeks at the pointed remark towards her own courtship that thus far was continuing quite well and with minimal hexing on anyone’s part, thank you very much, and turned back towards the topic at hand:

Her apparently suicidal little brother, and the witch who’d caught his regard.

“It’s not only Riddle you’ll have to be wary of, Ri.”  Lucretia reminded him, his handsome face falling almost at once into a grimace as he shuddered.  “Wally already loathes her.  Start courting her openly, and our dear cousin will stop playing around and start cursing for trying to steal what Wally considers hers.”

“I’m no one’s.”  Orion sneered, quaffing the rest of his mead and wishing it was firewhiskey.  “Let alone Walburga’s, no matter her aspirations to become Lady Black.”

“Transparent.”  Lucretia tsked, tucking her arm through her brother’s and tugging him away, back towards the castle, before he grew intemperate and said something he oughtn’t where someone might overhear.  “Wally has always been foolishly transparent with her emotions and thoughts.  It’s when she gets quiet that I worry.”  She confided.  “Sending Lady Enora a rack of love potions is almost tame for her.”

“Walburga with love potions should worry anyone with sense.”  Orion noted bitterly, as one of the main targets for such an attempt at making a match.  “Merlin knows she’s not going to make a match without it, unless Father or Uncle manages to bribe a foreign wizard with our name and a hefty dowry.”

“Ri!”  Lucretia scolded him halfheartedly around a laugh.  “That’s unkind.”

“But true, Lu.”  He rebutted with an infuriating little smirk as they entered the castle and turned towards the dungeons.  “But true.”

All unknowing that the latter part of her conversation had been overheard.

“...no matter her aspirations to be Lady Black…”

“...always been foolishly transparent…”

“...Merlin knows she’s not going to make a match without it…”

And by the worst-possible audience.

Where other young witches just come of age would likely be anxious, Rose found it all a bit of a bother.

She wasn’t all that worried beyond the to-do that came with it and the additional scrutiny it would put her under.  She had no real reason to worry.  Mary Rose was a muggleborn, which took care of any real likelihood that Rose would inherit a recessive condition or infertility.  Rose herself had tried to take good care of herself and her body after being granted a second chance as a healthy child.  She was no athlete, but she ate well and exercised, and to her knowledge had never had an issue with being cursed or a major illness.

From her perspective, there was no real need for concern beyond how everyone else was going to react to her “coming out” or social debut as an eligible witch.

Bless her father, but every now and again the man showed that he possessed actual sense when it came to her.

Where another might worry when her coming-of-age gift didn’t arrive the literal next day after her health exam and the results were taken to Lord Rosier, Rose appreciated it given that “the next day” was a school day.  The whole kerfuffle that happened at Hogwarts everytime a witch or wizard came of age while at school was bad enough when the gift arrived on a weekend.  On a weekday it was nearly intolerable and that was with Rose not being the subject of all the gossiping and flurry of well-wishes.

How seriously the whole affair surrounding coming-of-age was in the Wizarding World depended on a few factors like social status, blood status, and how traditional the family was, but for the most part it was taken at least semi-seriously by most, quaint and old-fashioned by a few, and ignored by nobody.

With Rose as a noble, pureblooded, daughter who was acknowledged by her Lord Father and being in the line of inheritance, for her it was A Serious Affair.

At least, that was how it was considered by everyone around her, except for Tom who as always was a bastion of exasperation for the airs of the “toffs” they’d been surrounded by since their first year.

Sure, they had friends outside of the small circles of wizarding nobility, but even they were excited about wizarding traditions most of the time and so weren’t a respite from the spiking-excitement level when Lord Rosier’s owl arrived on Saturday morning with a large package in its talons.

Or that basically every other child of a “good family” who were of high enough status to be part of wizarding high society received a heavy vellum envelope edged in gold leaf.

Rose’s coming of age gift and the invitations for her debut ball had arrived.

In finery and spectacle at that.

Because: of course they did.

Her father wouldn’t be an exasperating, wonderful idiot of a wizard if they didn’t.

It took more willpower than Rose would ever admit to not to turn and find wherever Walburga Black was likely lurking in the Great Hall and bearing witness to said-spectacle, given how much of a heinous bitch - even for Walburga Black - she’d been the previous day when Rose’s gift and invitations didn’t arrive with the Friday post.

Honestly, that vicious teenager had no earthly idea how lucky she was that Rose was a transmigrator who’d been grown before being reborn, because if Rose was really fifteen, she would’ve hexed the bint bald by dinner otherwise.

Rose relieved her father’s owl of its burden with poise, offering the stately creature a sausage taken from one of the communal plates which he took after an affectionate nibble of Rose’s ear, shown by the coiled crown braids that wound around the width of her head.

Ignoring all the looks and whispers that the package caused, Rose daintily finished breaking her fast, wiping her face and hands then sending her plate back to the kitchens, before pulling the package towards her.

If she had her preference, she would take the package that was roughly a foot square and seven or eight inches high back to her room and open it in peace.

That wasn’t the convention, however, as coming-of-age gifts were meant to have meaning and make a statement.

Whether the recipient liked it or not.

Given the sheer size of the package, as well as the results of her exam, Rose already knew that her father had once more lost his mind and showed absolutely zero sensibility when it came to spending his galleons.

Not that she didn’t appreciate that he cared about her and no longer was afraid to show it, but she didn’t appreciate being made a spectacle of, and that was what the whole rigmarole surrounding coming-of-age was meant to do.

Honestly, she halfway believed it would be less showy if her father took out a billboard ad in Diagon Alley that announced his eldest daughter was now eligible for courtship and marriage, please send inquiries to Lord Rosier, etc.

But no, they were noble, and pureblooded, and had to observe wizarding traditions.

Which meant opening what was no doubt going to be a ludicrously expensive coming-of-age gift in front of the entire school for everyone to ooh and aww over.

Though it was better than the alternatives of being disowned in all-but-name or being cut from a family, or being set up to be pulled immediately from school after receiving her OWLs and wand rights, so there was that.

Rose took a breath and opened the plain but heavy protective cloth wrapping, revealing a gleaming rosewood jewelry box with the top delicately inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a poem.

One that she knew very well:

Yuletide’s child brings the light,

their magic held strong through the night.

Imbolc’s child heralds the spring,

calling forth all growing and green.

Ostara’s child is a most joyous birth,

their magic touched the richest earth.

Beltane’s child from wildness fashioned,

their hearts roar with purest passion. 

Litha’s child is pure and gay,

their spirits light as air and play.

Lughnasadh’s child stands strong and unbroken,

their minds are sharp and thoughts spoken.

Mabon’s child brings balance to the world,

seeking justice by wand or sword.

Last of all, Samhain’s child takes a breath,

their fearless souls shy not e’en from death.

Already a beautiful gift, if it weren’t for Rose being so accustomed to her father and godfather and their spending habits when it comes to their daughters - all their daughters, not just Rose - she would’ve broken character and totally lost her composure when she opened the jewel box and saw what it contained.

The box opened like a flower once she lifted the lid, the mechanisms and enchantment work moving in perfect unison to reveal the contents.

And what contents they were.

Motherfu-

Rose almost swallowed her tongue and she knew her eyes grew large in her face as she stared down at the most obvious and ostentatious piece of the parure: a kokoshnik tiara glittering and gleaming in the light of the great hall as it rested on a black silk pillow, with matching necklace and chandelier earrings arrayed on the pillow around it.

As a kokoshnik, the tiara came to a center point before sweeping down at the sides and was a complete banded-crown rather than having an open back.  It was wrought in an icy-white-silver gleam that Rose recognized as platinum, and the entire circumference of the kokoshnik was set with gemstones.  The centerpiece of which Rose recognized from when Lady Heloise taught her about the jewel collection of their house, but that from what she’d known had never been set.

Until now.

Rose bit her lip as the implication hit her full-force.

Not only was her coming-of-age gift hers, as was traditional rather than it being a family piece that would have to be returned one day or a part of her dowry, but it had been designed for her, using family stones, and planned and commissioned well in advance of her “suitability” health exam.

Holy fuck.   She’d known, she’d even believed, that her father loved her.  But there was loved her, and loved her.

In the center of the kokoshnik was the first of two perfectly matched in size, color, cut, and shape was a gorgeous blue-purple stone that echoed the color of Rose’s violet eyes.  Tanzanite.  Rare, lovely, and precious.  The centerpiece of the kokoshnik had been turned on point, rather than square, and was perfectly aligned with the high point of the tiara.  Its twin, both stones the size of a quail’s egg, was also turned on-point as the centerpiece of the accompanying necklace.

Either her father or the family jeweler had acquired additional stones along the Tanzanite gradient, as the center stones of both kokoshnik and necklace were flanked by vivid indigo stones, then came a median shade and then last light violet for a full-complement of the blue-violet Tanzanite gradient playing out in the pieces.

Surrounding the Tanzanite were gleaming and glittering colorless white diamonds, pale green sapphires, and light purple sapphires all intertwined in violet blossom-and-leaf motifs that were lovely but solid within the confines of the kokoshnik, and more open and airy in the necklace.

Each of the complementary main stones in the kokoshnik and necklace also grew smaller in size as well as color saturation, with the vivids three-quarters of the centers, then the mediums half, and so on.

It deserved to be repeated: holy fuck, and that was before all of the other pieces of the parure were taken into account.

The chandelier earrings were fashioned from matched pairs of Tanzanite set in a platinum and white diamond filigree that echoed the flower-and-leaf motif of the rest, and a single sapphire violet-blossom dangling below.  On the lined shelves of the box Rose spied two bracelets in the same colors as the earrings.  There was a dark purple brooch.  Violet-and-leaf diamond hair pins with purple accents.  A purple sapphire and diamond ring shaped like a violet rested snug within the holder of a shelf.

Lord Rosier, her loving father, had lost his fucking mind, it was official.

The ridiculous part was that she would be the only person who thought so.  Tanzanite was rare, but was similar in value to sapphires depending on the quality.  Purple sapphires were worth more than amethysts, but not as much as blue sapphires, emeralds, or rubies.  Lord Rosier could have spent far more on her coming-of-age parure, and it was only the rarity of the Tanzanite that would have anyone talking about it.

Especially considering that Immaculata Malfoy’s father, Lord Malfoy, had given her a coming-of-age parure with blue diamonds, and Lord Black had given Lucretia a set with royal blue sapphires, one the size of a duck’s egg.

In comparison, Lord Rosier was probably being discreet in his affection for her.

Rich people were so weird and had no sense of scope.

Knowing her part to play, Rose smiled and took up the ring, sliding it onto the middle finger of her right hand as Tom leaned over her shoulder and arched a brow at the gift.

“Pretty.”  Was all the Prince of Snakes had to say, though Rose heard the underlying tone of bleedin’ toffs even if no one else did.

“Very.”  Rose agreed, then closed the box back up and tied the protective fabric around it.  “Father as always has excellent taste.”

Which wasn’t quite accurate.  He had expensive taste and an excellent jeweler on retainer.  That wasn’t the same as having refined or excellent taste as a trait.  More having enough wisdom to employ good people.

On the bright side, it was the last time until she eventually-maybe got engaged that her father would be giving her jewelry, which was one of the reasons that he probably went a little overboard.  Cultural pureblood bullshit striking again.  From now on that Rose was “of age” the only jewelry that was appropriate for her to receive until a match had been made was from a serious suitor as a courtship gift.

Purebloods and their rules.

Rose would find them ridiculous until the end of time, but she had learned how to play by them - whether she liked it or not - and how to bend them if needed.

At Tom’s comment, gossip kicked up all around them, and Rose’s friends came over to gush over her gift - especially those who’d peeked and seen the whole assortment instead of the ring that she was now wearing.

In the midst of the hubbub, Tom slid Octavian’s opened invitation to “her” ball over to where she could see it, the roommates working in perfect sync after several years of reluctant-acquaintance that grew to actual-friendship no matter how Tom might protest that he “didn’t need friends, he had Rose.”

Rose merely arched a brow as she took in the richness of the invitation from the vellum it was printed on to the actual gold leaf embossing it, to the precision of the calligraphy.

Her father must have been wheeling and dealing for years with his social set.

There was no other explanation that Rose could think of for her debut ball to take place on Yule, the most important occasion of the winter social season.

Really?

Really.

What the actual fuck, Father.  What the fuck.

Lord Rosier seemed determined to make a spectacle of her.  Shoving her instinctive reactions to the entire morning away behind her occlumency shields, Rose smiled and chatted with her friends until she could make her getaway, gift in hand to tuck it safely away in her trunk.  That was all she could do unless she wanted to cause offense or come across as spoiled as Walburga Black - and that would not do.

Okay.

She could handle this.

(Fuck.)