1.
He had been in love with her since the moment he first laid eyes upon her, and that was why they stole her. Aged eight, with hardly a thought in her mind that didn't revolve around the monsters under her bed or making new friends at school, Rosaline MonDieu was stolen from beneath her covers, not to be seen again until the eve of her sixteenth birthday when an unseen force would drop her on her parents' doorstep to be ushered inside by her weeping mother and father. For that night, her mother would anxiously make cups of tea until mugs would be scattered across the coffee table, most of which had not been touched and gone cold across the hours. Contrastingly, her father would pace in front of her, running his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, trying to grasp that first, his daughter was back; second, this was not a dream; and third, there was an emptiness that surrounded her, a strangeness that sent chills down his spine, that made him almost certain that this girl was not the same little princess he had sung to sleep almost eight years before. By the morning, a representative of the Ministry of Magic had arrived to ask questions and assign a name to whatever insanities Miss MonDieu may have been suffering from.
It took a full year for her to integrate back into the life she had been taken from. She began to take up rituals with her parents – going on walks that took up almost their entire Sundays; visiting her Grandparents on the first Saturday of every month; curling up on the sofa every night with a cup of tea cradled her in her hands as they watched television together – until eventually they almost thought that she was back to normal. Two days after her seventeenth birthday, a man with a long, twisting and mostly-white beard arrived at their door in a sweeping dressing-gown style of robe to provide Rosaline MonDieu with the opportunity to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Suspiciously eager, the girl had leapt at the chance and passed the various tests with flying colours. And that had lead her here: to the front of Hogwarts' Great Hall, surrounded by snivelling little first years, staring hard at a weathered old hat mounted atop a rickety stool.
"…As with every year, we have a lovely little bunch of first years joining our school," Professor Dumbledore went on, twirling his beard around his gnarled and knotted wand. "But we also have a young lady joining the seventh years: Miss Rosaline MonDieu."
He gestured towards said girl. Since her return, Rosaline had filled out. As a child, she was chubby and always wore her hair in pigtails; when she returned eight years after her kidnapping there was very little meat on her, her ribs practically penetrating her skin, her face hollow and her hair limp. But after twelve months of hiding at home eating cake and drinking tea, Rosaline had regained her colouring. She was still slim, her stomach uncomfortable with the weight of an average meal, but her reddish-brown hair had become glossy, cutting off short at her shoulders and framing her worn out face. Her beauty was unprecedented in its own way and this was fortunate for when all turned to look at her this factor allowed them to almost forget about her tragedy and think only about her slender frame and pretty face.
"Come on up, Miss MonDieu," Professor Dumbledore called down, waving her up onto the podium. Her hands tightened at her sides, a familiar weight resting against her back, something cold tucked into her boot. Taking three long strides, she climbed the steps just as a youthful-looking thirty-something aged woman lifted the brown hat to provide a seat for Rosaline. Swallowing tensely, the brunette sat down and let the woman put the grimy thing on her head.
"Ah, dark secrets in here are there?" the hat seemed to murmur as it sifted through her thoughts. She wondered about what magic had provided it with this skill and then recalled her training, envisioning a corridor and slamming doors on almost every scrap of information she held in her mind. The hat chuckled but he seemed uneasy. "Got things to hide, have we?" One door handle rattled, a second door almost caved under an unpredicted weight. Gradually, the hat tested every door along the hall, growing more and more anxious as we went. "What sorts of things could be so important that you hide them behind these walls? How am I supposed to judge if you won't let me see inside." Rosaline kept her expression impartial as he finally came across the door at the end of the hall. It was unlike the rest: made of a circle of impenetrable steel with one of those coded wheel-handles that you always see in those bank heist films. He paused to stare at it and then she opened it slowly, revealing information that she had kept locked inside for almost a century. "Ah, here are some items to inspect."
He began prodding around her mind. He peeled open albums of memories, picked through boxes of feelings, scrutinized murals of childish thoughts and ideas. His opinions changed randomly: a picture of her laughing with her family might make her Hufflepuff whereas an idea about strangling someone with a skipping rope made her Slytherin; an emotional attachment to someone and a need to protect them might hint at Gryffindor or a love of books and learning shoved her into Ravenclaw. Uncertain, he tried going back up the hall, attempting a few of the doors again, and then he returned to think. It must have been almost twenty minutes before the hat finally decided. With a begrudging and doubtful voice, he announced loudly "Slytherin!" and the hat was plucked from her head.
Slytherin roared victoriously but their faces weren't happy: they were blood-thirsty – as though they expected a war would break out over Rosaline in which they could kill without restraint. Unfortunately, it seemed to them, this didn't happen. At the end of the table, spaces had been opened up for the first years and this was where she sat herself down. To her right, a boy with shoulder-length black hair, a severe face, and a withdrawn expression glanced up at Rosaline from his corner of his eye, his gaze otherwise directed down at the book he had placed across his empty plate. His pitch black eyes examine her with curiosity as though she were a new species of spider. The sensation was chilling and she desperately longed to whip out the item tucked into her boot so that she might cut out those pits for eyes. However, just as she had been taught to act mercilessly, she had been disciplined in the art of restraint – something that would help her to achieve her goal here.
Looking out instead across the sea of faces in the Great Hall, her eyes fell upon the Gryffindor table. A little further up and thus closer to the doors, four boys sat watching the ceremony with cunning glints to their eyes. One was tall and scrawny, his limp locks flopping into his eyes and his skin unnaturally pale; a second was as fat as he was skinny with thinning greasy orange hair, his nose turned up slightly like a pig's; the third and fourth were arguably more attractive. They were both tall and well-built but the third had long black hair and stormy grey eyes that attributed to his dark handsomeness whereas the fourth had untidy dark hair and hazel orbs tucked in behind thin, circular glasses. For a second, Rosaline recalled her training.
+ Four Years Ago +
"We have been preparing you for five years now," Master Espritnoir stated coldly, pacing in front of Rosaline's pathetic form. He was a tall, domineering man with skin the colour of sand and eyes like blood. In charge of her Preparation, he had an arm and a leg in Rosaline's treatment and much of her had been lost because of his malicious ideas. The five years had not treated the girl well but they had been efficient: she could now battle and beat almost all of her trainers – except for him. For some reason, whenever she was thrown in an arena with Master Espritnoir all of her self-control and skill sprinted for cover, leaving her weak and vulnerable and terrified. She swallowed hard as he looked her way. "You have excelled at all of our tests and it is finally time for you to learn of your purpose." He turned towards the door, stepping out of it and leaving the thick metal slab deliberately open. When she did not run after him straight away, he tilted his head slightly so that his scarlet eyes flashed at her over his shoulder. "Are you coming, child?"
Master Espritnoir was a fast walker as well as an impatient man – this meant that falling far behind him as he wove through the fortress that they had taken refuge in was not an option. But neither was running. Over her last three years, Rosaline would leave her cell a lot more often and learn to keep up with his hungry strides, but at that time she had almost no experience and had to scramble to keep up.
Death Eaters flowed through the corridors as if they were walking on air. Some seemed permanently attached to their masks; others sauntered around with ungroomed naked faces. Rosaline had still not decided which version she was more afraid of.
Eventually, Master Espritnoir halted. Candlelight flickered across his gaunt face as he pulled open a beautiful oak door that, Rosaline had assumed, lead to an equally beautiful room. A gruff voice called them in. Master Espritnoir pushed her through.
The room was elegantly decorated and in no way modest despite its cold grey surroundings. A fire crackled in an open fireplace, casting into shadow the man sitting on the maroon sofa. Rosaline watched as he leant over the glass coffee table and lit his cigar with the tip of his sleek black wand and then gasped in awe when he turned around to gaze at her. In an instant, she recognised him and dropped to her grimy knees on the luxurious red carpet that covered the stone floor.
"Master Indécis," she whispered nervously under his gaze.
"Little Bird," he responded, nodding his head her way. "You may rise, sweet one. Master Espritnoir, pour us both a glass of brandy would you? There's a good sport."
Grimacing, Master Espritnoir picked his way towards the drinks cart while Rosaline nervously rose to her feet. She had seen Master Indécis around several times, always watching and waiting, studying her as she trained. It was Master Malfoy who had struck her around the head once upon a year before, telling her with a curled lip that she should kneel when Master Indécis approached her. However, since then Rosaline had not seen the Master and had assumed he would not return. Instead he had come back after an entire year to tell her, in person, of what she was tasked with doing. When master Espritnoir gave her a crystalline glass, she gulped down the brandy with a sour expression on her face, hoping the alcohol would give her back her confidence. Laughing, Master Indécis waved her over with a smile, patting the space beside him.
"Come now little Bird," he sang gently as he passed her his own glass, taking back hers and handing it over to Master Espritnoir. Frowning, the man returned to the drinks cart to refill the glass. "I did not realise you were an alcoholic."
This made Rosaline blush. She looked down into the amber liquid and wondered what her parents would think of her if they knew that, aged thirteen, she was drinking brandy like a fish in water. She didn't suppose the fact that she liked the taste and the effect and the intoxicating sensation of it all would help win their sympathy either. All the same, she thirstily knocked back the second glass, then the third and fourth. By the fifth, the room was beginning to spin and Master Indécis looked concerned.
"Little Bird," he hummed, brushing her limp hair away from her face to feel her forehead. "Maybe you shouldn't drink any more. We need to talk seriously." She nodded dumbly, her tongue feeling oddly numb and useless as it lay in her mouth. "Are you okay to talk with me?" She nodded again. It made her feel dizzy. "Good. Because this is important. You have been tasked with a job – an assassination, to be specific. You are going to kill S–"
+ Present Day +
"Helloooo?" a voice interrupted Rosaline's thoughts. Spinning towards it with a glare, she was surprised to find herself face to face with a chubby little first year. He blushed under her gaze. "Sorry, you weren't answering."
Gritting her teeth, Rosaline breathed out slowly through her nose and tried not to kill him. Her foot was hitched up on the bench, her fingers feeling in her boot for her knife. He had taken her by surprise and so her instincts had taken over. Sighing, she slid her foot back under the table, knitted her fingers together and directed her body towards him. "Sorry, I was daydreaming. What is it?"
Smiling shyly, the boy gazed up at her with eyes as big as saucers. "Is it true that you were kidnapped when you were eight years old?" he asked curiously. Rosaline gawped at him.
It seemed that entire hall had fallen silent. Maybe they had or maybe she was just imagining it, but either way she had quite a few eyes on her now. To her right, she felt Book Boy tense curiously, his arm brushing lightly against hers before he tore it away.
Reaching up, Rosaline massaged the bridge of her nose and sighed. "Yes, it's true."
A few soft whispers sounded but nothing loud enough to drown out what Rosaline might say.
"Awesome," the first year gushed. "How long were you kidnapped for?"
Rosaline sneered. "About two minutes." There were murmurs of surprise and then disappointment. "But…" she went on, staring around slyly at the people around her, "…I was held by my kidnappers for eight years." Now excitement seemed to rocket. Someone laughed – they'd probably realised what Rosaline had meant by being kidnapped for only "two minutes" – and Book Boy pretended to be interested in his book but she could tell he was intrigued.
"C-Can I ask you something else?" the first year questioned quickly, seeming about ready to burst with delight. Rosaline nodded curtly, dishing some potatoes and duck breast onto her plate. "Who kidnapped you?"
Silence. Again. The question had caught Rosaline off guard. Now the entire hall was definitely silent – even the teachers. Slowly, carefully, Rosaline put down the meat fork, trying not to make too much noise, and then turned to the boy once more. Her expression was passive, emotionless, like a robot's. She could tell he felt uncomfortable under her frown. "Wizards. And that's all you need to know."