Disclaimer: All characters not mine, all of the plot is, and so on and so forth. Enjoy!

Also, thank you to Matisse Gacioppo, who's doing a lot of after-the-fact Beta work.

16 August 2024

Potter Residence

Godric's Hollow

6:00 P.M.

Well, stick a fork in me. Scratch that. Coat me in batter and deep fry my bum. Or serve me raw, like those Japanese rice rolls mum loves bringing home from the Muggle mart three blocks from home.

Yes, that's quite right. I think Aurors eat nothing but raw food.

Oh crap. I have to eat raw food all the time.

Calm down, Rosie! For Merlin's sake!

Something explodes downstairs, and someone—Lily?—shrieks in delight. That can't be right. It's probably James, Fred, and Uncle George with their Blasting Bogeys; ugh, when those three put their heads together, it's equal parts disgusting and disturbing. Well, maybe a tiny bit funny.

Jokes are funny, except when the joke is on me. And boy am I in for a big one soon. This joke is a meticulously engineered marvel of hilarity. It is a fine instrument, this joke. It was set up precisely for me. So I can meet my downfall, in a magnificent display of the Universe's impeccable cosmic timing.

In the event of my (premature, but well-deserved) demise, I will request that my parents be given my personal effects. I plan to have this journal with me then. That way, they will finally have the answer to the burning question of the day, which is

How I, Rose Granger Weasley,

Managed to Trick the Ministry of Magic

Into Making Me an Auror Initiate

(and events thereafter)

I mean, it's quite offensive how shocked everyone is. Everyone. My own flesh and blood, the people I look to in times of trouble, have thrown me under the proverbial stagecoach. Well, not exactly, but come on. The way they reacted, it was like I was some ditzy buffoon who had as much chances of getting into the Auror Training Program as the Chudley Cannons ever coming back from Quidditch death.

Maybe I should back up a bit. Around a couple of years.

This all started in my fifth year. Albus was fussing (when does he not?) about the career interview we all get around that time of the year. We, meaning Hogwarts students. I already had mine earlier during the day; girls get asked before boys, and my interview went along swimmingly.

"Your grades are adequate, Ms. Weasley, and you have a sufficient number of E's for a range of careers in the future," Professor Birchgrove, our Head of House said. "Do you have an idea as to what line of work you'll take?" she added.

I nodded, and the professor looked at me with those massive, owlish eyes. Being held in the Birchgrove Gaze is like sunbathing nude under a life size magnifying glass. I was starting to feel like crisping bacon, until I remembered I had to talk.

"Right. Um," I started. Why does my brain clog up during the most crucial moments? Professor Birchgrove raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"I was thinking of, um," I stammered. Tuesday of that week I joked with James that I wanted to be a dragon dung specialist or a Muggle Art thief, but I can hardly tell the professor those, can I?

Anything, Rose. Say anything.

"I have always wanted to be an Auror." Wait, what?

I'm buggered.

"You'll be fine, Albus," I said, flicking through Witch Weekly. "You're a natural."

"What did you tell Professor Birchgrove that you wanted to be, Rose?"

"Why does it matter? What I told her won't help you one bit. Might make you more nervous."

It's true, too. I really think it would have. Especially since Albus is basically a ball of fret three-quarters of the time. Which I don't understand because he practically floats through lessons on pure instinct. Also more confounding is that people think his nervousness is honest and charming. Telling him I said I want to be an Auror would send his brain into a tailspin.

Although, Professor Birchgrove apparently thought it fine, because she just gave me the list of OWLs I must achieve to enter NEWT classes geared towards Auror Training. And now here I am, fresh out of Hogwarts, a Ministry-approved endorsement in my drawer telling the Head Trainer that I am being recommended for Auror Initiate status, level 1.

My school grades were okay, which I guess played a part in my getting accepted. The bigger slice would be from the panel interview with the Ministry officials, which I'm fairly certain I bombed. Otherwise, why would they be punishing me with a slot in Auror Training? More on that later. Someone's coming down this side of the hall.

Well, that was something.

That was Aunt Ginny, asking to enter. I've holed up in one of the Potters' guest rooms in the third floor; hardly anyone bothers me when I'm here. I Locomotor Mortis them when they do. They have the entire house to themselves; I just need some peace and quiet.

Also, I'm hiding from Roxanne and Victoire, because they made fun of my poetry two Christmases back, and whenever I'm writing in anything, they start quoting my verses in these sappy voices. I get it—I'm a terrible poet. No need to rub it in my face constantly.

"Rosie, dear, are you in there?" she said. I swear, Aunt Ginny is like one of those Food Channel hosts; all soft tones and subdued colors and good old home style cooking. She was rapping on the door gently, which isn't how we do things at our house. Dad pounds and hollers at your locked door. Mum is worse—she'd just Alohomora the lock, and dispel whatever other defensive charms you set up. Without even breaking her stride, or stopping for a breath in her outburst.

My aunt was not knocking anymore, but I knew she was still there, because there wasn't a crack of Apparition or a single footstep down the hall. I think of her standing there while I'm sprawled on one of their beds, and that gets me.

I let her in, and she smiled, holding up a plate piled with treacle tart. "I thought I'd bring you some, because you certainly wouldn't come upon a crumb of this when the rest of them are done." She shook her head. "Large family then, larger family now," she said. I nibbled at the dessert for a moment.

"Are you feeling well?" she asked kindly. I look at her lined face, and see a smudge of flour on her cheek. I shook my head.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Aunt Ginny, is it so surprising for me to have a go at being an Auror?"

"Oh, is that what you're bothered about? Want me to bring your mother here?"

"No, not really. We don't talk about touchy-feely things, anyway."

"For all it's worth," she said, putting both hands on my shoulders, "I think you're a fine witch. It's just that—well, you never really gave anyone reason to believe you'd want to be an Auror, so maybe that's where everyone's surprise is coming from."

And then a chain of Blasting Bogeys went off somewhere in the house, which made her jump and rush back downstairs, apologizing that she has to go, and cursing her brother and nephews under her breath.

Which leaves me here, with you, journal. Because I'm going to tell you a secret—see, when they send you an Auror Initiate endorsement, they include the name of your partner. Entering the training facility in itself is a test, you see, and none of my Auror relatives would tell me what kind of test. All we know is that we initiates will need to be in pairs. The partner's name is confidential and generated magically, according to age, school attended, abilities, and disposition. Every trainee has one; it's sort of like a buddy system. Don't leave the dorms without your buddy, et cetera. Your partner knows your name, you know theirs, and no one else would. Unless you tell them, of course. Which I plan on delaying for as long as I could.

My partner? The golden god of Slytherin, Scorpius Malfoy.

Okay, so, what you think of it so far?