Junior High School

"What are you doing here?" Victoire drops into the seat next to her, looking a little out of place in the nearly empty school library—it's usually crowded during the lunch period, full of students who would rather spend their time doing something useful than wasting it with their friends, but then again, for most of them, if they had friends, they wouldn't be eating in the library, sneaking in bites of food when the librarian wasn't looking.

Rose rolls her eyes, "Isn't it obvious? I'm finishing up that paper for Diviniation." Truth be told, it was interesting that the school was incorporating all sorts of new classes into their curriculum for some of the younger students, but Professor Trelawney was completely batty, always going on and off about how there was going to be some great war in the Wizarding World, and then went on to predict all of their deaths and major events in their lives—and the worst part was that sometimes, Professor Trelawney was eerily correct.

Victoire yawns, bored, "Yeah, well I'm procrastinating on that paper since it isn't due for another three months—"

"I like to finish things ahead of time." Many students, talented though they are in loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future, Professor had said.

"Maybe you're just trying to distract yourself. Lily told me about everything that happened, but I haven't heard Molly's side of the story yet, so don't think that I'm picking sides or anything."

Rose rolls her eyes again and wonders if it's possibly to tear her eye muscles if she overuses them this much. "This isn't a war, Tori, you don't have to pick sides or anything like that. Just let me finish my homework ahead of time, and stop pretending as though everything that I'm doing has an ulterior motive—you and Lily both."

Victoire shrugs her shoulders. "Then, I guess that you wouldn't care that Scorpius is taking Molly to the Spring Fling next weekend. Or that they're finally official, completely and utterly official, unlike you guys who were sort of official but it was more of a closeted relationship, I think."

Rose clenches her fists and rolls her eyes the ceiling another time, steady breaths, fingers unlaced and tightly clenched upon a thin pencil, ready to snap and break (perhaps, just like her). "I'm sorry Victoire, but I don't know what you're trying to do—Scorpius and I are on friendly terms, and Molly's my cousin and I don't hate her or anything, so please, just stop trying to stir up drama." But for Merlin's sake, they're in junior high school, and apparently, if one member of the friend circle has a somewhat complicated love life, the other members of the friend circle think that it's their utmost duty and responsibility to complicate everybody else's life a thousand times more, Rose thinks, dipping her quill back into the ink. "I really don't care."

From the look in Victoire's eyes as she leaves, Rose can tell she's lied in vain.


Summer Home, Present-Day

In the midst of summer nights, Rose dreams of the Darkness—

(Somewhere, a river gurgles.

Birds and an assortment of brightly colored snakes hiss, whispers on their tongues of destruction and solitude; nestled between the mountains of solace and solitude lies the Citadel - she can see it in the distance, looming towers, sweeping banisters, something of a home, something lost and found, it whispers to her. A carriage travels down King's Road, lined with gold, a sitting target, waiting for bandits from the Woods (the Northerners, they are called, the Northerners who will one day reclaim their kingdom) to attack them, slashing their throats with the power of weaponry and superiority in numbers.

Men, the tin soldiers, line the carriage, clunking around, feed trodding loudly upon the cracked pavement, faces covered by steel and iron; nothing more than tin boxes, really. "Rose, darling," the voices call out; they sing her name upon the edges of trees, carrying it through the wafting wind.

Blue eyes pierce through the darkness, fingers reaching hesitantly to uncover the window; her nurse looks up, brown eyes sharp and knowing and admonishes the action, "Rose, resume your knitting. We are to arrive at the Castle in nothing more than four hours; if you are not to finish your work before the festivities, you shall not arrive at the festivities."

Rose raises an eyebrow, "It is the King of another land's coronation; I will be there, I am a Guest of Honor - if you are to stop me from arriving there, my father will find another to replace you."

"You aren't to speak to me like that. You are to speak with respect to your elders—"

"My elders, yes, in terms of the King and the Queen, members of royalty, but remember your place, Septa. If you don't mind me saying, it isn't very fit for a woman to act as though she is superior, much less a woman of your colour." The words are sneered, and stated quickly, slight amounts of fear and trepidation seeping through, only to receive the answer of a submissive nod; the corners of Rose's lips curve into a sneer, and she stares outside the window, dreaming of paradise.

Walden was to be something of paradise, if one was ever to reach such an utopia—Rose presses her flushed cheeks to the side of the window, letting the cold mist settle upon her skin. "As I was telling your father, you are ready, my Lady, ready to claim the throne as your own." Saying words to see that my father will not send her back to the streets, she thinks; Septa is nothing more submissive and cunning than the rest of them; it seems as though, from everything that she's read in books and studies, every person in the Seven Kingdoms wishes to sit upon the throne at Walden.

She's seen the throne, before—only in pictures, of course; it's something carved out of dreams and the purity of traditional magic, and within a few days, it will be hers (until somebody prettier and younger comes along). Rose sighs, "This is not a matter of thrones and fun and games; this is not a game. This is a competition; radical ideas from the East, what do they call them? Survival of the fittest, I believe."

"Remember your home, what you are." It is not the first time that Septa has told her this—to remember that though you will be a Queen of the Realm, the Queen at Walden, Walden does not run through your veins; you must remember where you are born, iron runs through your veins, nothing of flimsy stardust, hopes and dreams; it doesn't feel that way, staring outside the window, dreaming of high castle walls and rows of servants, everything that a girl could possibly aspire to be. "What are your words?"

"Growing stronger," Rose recites, words harsh and cold on a black-flecked tongue of golden teeth; she takes a deep breath, concentrating on the Woods—there have been tales of monsters and creatures in there. She had been enchanted by them as a child, but she is not a child anymore—still, sometimes, Septa tells her stories, stories of winter and the shadows that walk amongst there, gathering in number; not just witches who practice black magic and are burned at the stake, but mystical villains or all sorts, conspiring.

There's a knock upon the door, then, an alluring voice calling out from the windows; the eyes of the Septa flicker with hesitance, before settling down upon her lap. "Did you hear that?" Rose asks, voice brimming with fright.

The Septa clasps her fingers together tightly, eyes looking elsewhere as she only says, "Everything is fine, m'lady."

(But, no, nothing is fine, nothing is fine at all.) The cry of the wolves is heard in the distance, howling sounds with yearning and need; "I knew this, I've been told about the people from the North, the rulers of the North—they are vicious savages, are they not?"

"Hush, child. Just because they are not like you, it does not mean that they are savages; they eat upon the hearts of dragons, letting the blood drip down their faces, and their children bathe in this blood. But they are growing stronger, fury runs through their veins and blood, and there will come a time where the Northerners will strike down upon Walden."

Rose smiles, "No, they won't. That is something of fifty-so years ago."

"History repeats itself, m'lady." An unsettling silence forms as she taps a four-noted rhythm upon her lap, fingers clenched tightly; the calling of the voices begins once more, and her neck jerks sharply to the side, fingers quickly moving to untangle the curtains from the windows, eyes pressed to the windowpane, looking for something, anything, to identify with the noises—birds, Rose thinks to herself. Yes, there are birds in this area—Walden is not far from here, and you've learned in your lessons that the birds of azure shade rest upon the treetops.

She looks, with hesitance, upon the treetops which reach up to the sky, curving around one another, and sees that they are bare of anything; droplets of rain splatter upon them, upon the dirt of the ground. Animals, then. Wild animals. Wild animals are going to attack us. Septa grows nervous, hands clenched together; Rose can see the way her nails are carving into flesh, white-red skin exposed. "It's them, isn't it."

It's not even a question anymore, not really; they pound on the doors, whatever these creatures are, quicker and quicker, four-noted beats, the beats engraving themselves in her own mind; there is the slamming of the door, and then silence. She can hear the fighting of the soldiers and looks out the window for a brief moment, just a brief one, before Septa shuts the curtains and tells her to hide, face of valor and servitude, on the floor; they are nothing more than tin soldiers with ill-fitted equipment and golden swords.

Outside, the soldiers greet death like old friends, falling upon the grassy road, one by one; thump, thump, thump. There is a brief moment of silence, where all Rose can hear is the pitter-patter of rain and the beating of her erratic heartbeats, and then the monsters burst through the door; "There's a safehouse, at the corner of the Woods; tell them I sent you - my Lady, run!"

She doesn't bother looking back for her Septa—it's a matter of survival; it doesn't matter if you are to outrun the monsters, it matters if somebody is left behind to distract them long enough for you to get away; Rose glances over her shoulder for a moment, clutching the bottom of her dress, shoes bloodied and dirtied, quickly discarded and kicked off.

She runs, hungry breaths through the forest; it's only when she stops in what feels like forever, that she bends over, ragged breaths and raspy voice, knocking on the door with bloodied hands and wails. "Let me in, let me in!"

The door opens with a creak; "Scoundrel, are you? Beggar?" There is a man on the other side, composed of gaunt face and whitened hairs growing upon a small head, and Rose looks at him as though he is the monster, shrouded in mist, but stifles a scream and clenches her fist together; you must be brave, you can be brave; you are royalty, bravery runs through your veins.

(But it is more of stupidity than anything else). "Septa sent me here."

"Septa, then? They're all Septas—from the North, they call them Septas too; which one, then? Mordane? Yaxley?"

There's a brief moment where her mind goes blank, and Rose looks upon the ground, shame running through her eyes, because she doesn't really know the name of the woman who practically raised her, the woman who gave her life so that Rose would have a chance to survive for the meantime. "I don't know."

"Then, I won't be able to let you in, now will I?"

There's a clamor from inside the safehouse, the falling of iron and steel dishes upon the floor; "Let the poor girl in," a burly looking woman orders, words barked out, nothing of the maternal words that Rose would have assumed that the peasant people whispered into their child's ears at night; none of that, not really - lies and secrets are for the rich. The poor have nothing to hide. They have nothing to lose; Rose steps into the house, bare feet placed upon poorly fitted hardwood flooring, nothing of the magic Walden was supposed to contain.

The woman, April, smiles thinly, teeth falling apart, rotting. "Yeah, you see the thing is, girl, you're not the first member of royalty that I've gotten here, so I'm not going to ask you for your nice and fine ID cards and all that stuff; I'll just give you a room for the night, and at first light, you can be off on your high horse, off on your way back to your golden castle. Room's here," she notes, "Down the hallway, first one on the left."

She manages out a thin smile of anger in response, lips pursed together, and lies down upon the bed; in the distance, she can hear somebody slamming through the door, the sound of a world ripping apart, but falls into the arms of sleep. When Rose wakes up again, the light blinding her, she stretches her arms out, reaching into the unknown obscurity; a droplet of blood falls upon her white garments.

She raises her chin towards the ceiling, eyes hesitant to look upwards; she blinks and her eyes flicker to the body draped across the ceiling, pretty blonde curls and skin paler than ivory, engulfed by the flames of a beast. They dance, whispering to her, to come play

Her scream echoes throughout the safehouse until it is a strangled whisper until it is nothing.)

Rose wakes up, screaming, eyes crazed with insanity—

Heavy breaths, and then silence; It's not real, it's not real, the monsters aren't real, Rose reminds herself. The scientific community would have found such monsters by now. It's not real, you're okay, it's all going to be okay. Rose composes herself, and tries to forget the dream sequence.


Later in the day, Rose looks upon the city in the far distance—there's the slightest bit of snow thawing, even though it's mid-way into the months of summer, resting upon the small hills of dirt piles and the like; people run about in the dock, small sized ships sailing around with brightly colored tourist centers here and there. There's a knock on the door, then; Lily walks in, look of nervousness upon features. "Lily," Rose greets, "Thanks for the cat. Pigaupsy's fitting in quite nicely, though I haven't seen him around for a few hours."

"Where's he gone, then?"

"I'm not quite sure—Lysander said that he'd take him around, for a walk." Her responses are half-hearted and Rose is more focused upon looking into the distance than anything else in the moment.

"Pigaupsy's not a dog, you know." Lily inhales the fresh air, opening up the blinds, and then sitting down on the mattress again. "You love him, then don't you?"

Rose takes a deep breath—perhaps Lily Luna was better than most, just getting straight to the point, though diversions and roundabout words were always something she had taken for granted over the years, with the company she associated herself with; they always pretended to say something and didn't mean it, at least the ones she had gotten close to. "I hate him, Lily. I really hate him."

"So, you love him," Lily concludes in a matter-of-fact tone. "All the girls back at school always talk about if they hate a guy, if they say that, it means that they love the guy."

Rose gives her a half-hearted smile, "Well, that's a bit messed-up, isn't it?" Life's just a bit messed-up; there are those mysterious deaths in the papers, and Mum and Dad keep on hiding secrets from me—I know they're hiding secrets, because why would they never let Hugo or me into the attic? Hugo's sneaked up there a few times, and he says that they just have sticks and old books there.

"Only as messed-up as you're making this situation into. You sound like a bitter ex, for Merlin's sake," Lily casually mentions, shrugging her shoulders.

Rose's eyes narrow, because this isn't how Lily Luna Potter is supposed to be—she's supposed to be a sweet little girl with a penchant for causing trouble and spreading gossip, the little sweet girl transformed into somebody who isn't afraid to speak her mind, with a tongue sharper than a sword. Perhaps, Rose thinks, while everybody's been changing, I've been holding onto the past for far too long. "I'll confront him."

Lily gives her a half-hearted smile, "I'm not saying that what Scorpius did was wrong, because it was wrong, it was completely and utterly wrong, but for your own sake, try to move on from the fast. Forgive but never forget."

Rose smiles, "I'll keep that in mind."


The Battle of Hogwarts—

It was something that had gone down in history as a fixed event; started on a Tuesday, ended a week later—it wasn't much of a war, couldn't be considered as a battle by Muggle historians. There were a number of casualties on both sides, but if the numbers had been added up instead of the unidentified number of deaths, it would have been obvious to see who really came out the Victor. "Do you know anything about the Battle of Hogwarts, boy?" The Master questions his latest student, a young boy by the name of Morvyn, son of the Dark Lord.

He nods, "I was born out of hate and anger and only molten iron rests within my blood—"

"Not that, not that." The man's voice is old and frail and fraying at the edges, something hoarse; it is something unlike his own father's sweet and silky voice, something unlike the melodic sounds of the birds that have been captured by the Death Eaters, one killed a day for their own pleasure and sick amusement. "Do you know anything about the history? You were born, yes, but something important."

"Excuse me, I'll have you know, that I am one of the most important people in all of the Wizarding World! Perhaps those other Muggles and the other wizards don't know of me yet, but just wait until Father decides to strike. They'll know who I am."

"Do you want to learn about the Battles?" The Master is composed of wispy hair that hangs down from his face, and unlike the rest of the members, the emblem of a Death Eater is not engraved upon the back of his right arm; he dons flowing black robes like most, however, contrasting with the kindness etched onto his face, and Moryvn sneers at men like the Master, and would outwardly do so if the Master wasn't somebody that all of the children were taught to respect with the utmost sincerity.

"Not particularly." There's no point in lying, not really.

"Then why are you here, child?"

Moryvn rolls his eyes and wonders why hadn't his father just told the Master about his powers—about how in the middle of the night, he was able to do horrible things to the people he had disliked, even if the hate was just for a moment; he dreamed of carving their eyes out, bodies pressed upon the ceiling, and dying in the curling flames, spitting their two-fanged venom. "I am to learn magic, to learn spells—expand my powers. One of father's men said that they're growing each day, so he brought you along to teach me how to develop my powers. So, teach me magic. Give me a wand. Something. Anything."

The Master laughs, voice of gravel, eyes a thousand years old. "You will not learn magic without learning its history; you need your roots, boy. You can't just assume that you'll be able to learn how to kill and how to decapitate heads with just a few flicks of your wand; it's never been that easy, otherwise the Muggles could be learning magic now."

"I'll learn how to kill the Muggles, then, will I?" Muggles, despised little creatures—one of the main goals of the Death Eaters had been originally to eradicate the Muggle species, insignificant humans who bumbled around, causing more trouble than they needed to, but then the other wizards had decided that they weren't going to let this happen, something of, You kill them, you'll have to kill me first.

"After you learn how to respect your Elders, after you learn how to—"

"I'm not going to Hogwarts! I'm not, I'm not, this isn't supposed to be like a stupid school where you learn how to respect your elders and follow the rules and all of that nonsense. I need to learn how to kill."

"Do you wish to learn how the Dark Lord was destroyed?" Moryvn only nods—it makes logical sense, to learn about the ways in which the most powerful Dark wizard of all time was defeated by a collection of students banded together, scarlet and gold in their veins, bravery and courage and intelligence and cunning and mercy perhaps could triumph darkness, in the end. "He was destroyed by his own pride. And somebody, boy, you will be destroyed by yours."


Sunlight beams scatter their radiance across the crooked pavements, burning eyes; they burn holes into the sides of the retina, past the cornea, into the depths of the pupils which flicker with disgust, and with a quick flicker of the hand, a barrier is created, blocking out the sun. "You know," Callum Pettigrew mutters, panting, breaths taken sharply, "When I heard that you were doing some training with the Master, I didn't think you were learning useless spells. When's blocking out the sun ever going to help you?"

"I'm not learning from the Master, he's learning from me, too," is Moryvn's indignant reply.

Callum barks out a laugh, "The Master learning from you? Moryvn, you've been doing magical training for what, six years now? He's been training and learning for his entire lifeit's still pretty amazing that your father managed to track him down to teach you."

Moryvn shrugs his shoulders, "Well, he is the Dark Lord; he can do anything."

"You have so much confidence in a man that you barely even know; when was the last time that you spoke to your father, without the entire council of Death Eaters standing by, watching your every move?"

Moryvn's eyes narrow; it's the truth, perhaps, but his father is a great man, and he doesn't have time to spend with anybody insignificant, but that won't be for long—he'll be a significant wizard before long. The Master had already told him that his skills were beginning to show; untapped potential and such. "When was the last time you spoke to your father—oh, right, he's dead."

"That really wasn't called for, now was it?"

"Grow up, Pettigrew; your father's dead, yes, but you see, my father's actually dead. All that's left of him is rotting flesh, and for some reason or another, he's managed to turn that rotting flesh into the body of a young man. The death of your father: that wasn't tragic, that was stupidity. Your father, Peter Pettigrew; he was a loyal and honest servant, but he was stupid in the end. He chose the losing side, side of the mortals."

"Yes, your Grace," Callum spits out.

Moryvn inhales a deep breath, darkness seeping through his corrupted lungs, and something of an apologetic, smug smile transforms upon his facial features. "I was just trying to help you; you know that weakness—"

"Yes, weakness is associated with death, and that the Dark Lord will kill any of his members who he believes are weak without a second of hesitation."

"Exactly. Another round, then?"

"I'll take a break, I think." Callum takes a swig of scotch, falling down upon the courtyard's pavement, taking in the view. "A boy could get used to a life like this."

"Sixteen years, aren't you? Shouldn't be drinking that stuff." It isn't the first time that the two of them have found themself in this scenario—perhaps, years prior, they used to be the best of friends, but as they grew older, Moryvn learned of his importance in society, of how all of the other children of respectable members of the Death Eater association, respected him, and expected that out of everybody.

Of course, nobody would defy the son of the Dark Lord; Callum only shrugs his shoulders, a bit annoyed. "Stop telling me what to do; yes, I get that your father's the Dark Lord, but isn't as though you are him."

"I'll be him, one day. Drink as much as you'd like, but don't get used to it. You know what happens when you have too much pride

"Yes, yes, I know, you fall. Let loose, would you? Nothing bad's going to ever happen to you; your father's the Dark Lord."

"Lazing around, the two of you?" The Battlemaster strides in, golden weapons in both of his hands; he throws one to Calllum who clumsily catches it, letting it scatter upon the pavement, before picking it up, resuming a fighting stance, lazily. The other, he keeps in his hand, warm breath on the sheath; on the sheath rests the emblem of the Dark Lord, curved and distorted over the years. "How are you going to learn

"Mind your words; you're talking to the son of a King!" Moryvn retorts, eyes widened in rage.

The Battlemaster guffaws, chortling, "Son of a King; yes, you are son of the Lord, but the Lord is not a King."

You boys, you're both the same; you sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly, you're apparently all lions and dragons and eagles."

"You're just a Squib, do you here me? You're just a dirty old Squib, and I don't even know why my father hired you—"

"Yes, you do," the Battlemaster draws out, swords in both hands, clenched tightly, circling both of the bows; Callum has the courage to look afraid, while Moryvn remains snobbish, smirk imprinted upon drawn taut facial features. "I might have been from Muggle training, but fifteen years ago, when the Dark Lord was at his weakest, he couldn't exactly pick and choose, now could he? He was weak," he enunciates. "Weak, and he needed all the help he could get."

"Don't you dare talk of my father in that way."

"I'll do as please, your Grace—are you ready for your training session?"

"Always." Morvyn and the Battlemaster stand close to one another, circling each other; in Moryvn's right hand is an ornately made sword, left hand behind back, the Battlemaster with feet dancing, quick motions back and forth.

Then, a strike forward; Moryvn hits back with his sword, but the usual clink of weapons in which the Battlemaster's sword falls onto the floor and Moryvn declares his supermacy does not occur—the boy's eyes narrow, and he advances forward, quick lunging footsteps. Then, within a single moment, the Battlemaster disarms him, sword falling to the floor and hitting the pavement hard, and he falls down upon the floor, the practice sword brushing against the center of his neck. "Dead."

Callum barks out a laugh, "Teaching the Battlemaster, then?"

The Battlemaster's eyes narrow into even smaller slits. "Time for your lesson then, Pettigrew." Callum advances forward; then, a man strides into the room, flowing black robes a sign of the darkness that is yet to come.

"The Dark Lord—" It's never father, Morvyn thinks, he's too great to be my father, and everybody knows it. "—requires your presence."

His eyes narrow in suspicion; it seems something of a practical joke - at the age of sixteen, called into the company of the Dark Lord, to assist him? No matter how much pride he has collected through the past fifteen or so years, it does not make much reasonable sense that he will be able to assist his father. Unless the time has come? "The time has come?"

The Death Eater lowers his head, speaking quietly, "The time has come," he confirms.

"It's only been a few years—the last time Father had enough allies to attempt taking over the Wizarding World, it took ages; it's only been what, ten years? He can't be ready, not this quickly. It's just not possible."

The Death Eater smiles, "Come and see for yourself."


this is about 5.2k—it's more of a filler chapter too, and i think that next week's chapter will be a lot longer because this week i've been working a lot more on camp nanowrimo for april, plus badminton schedule's getting a bit hectic. thank you so much for all your reviews, guys!

i'll go into the whole backstory with scorpius and rose a lot more in future chapters, and like in this chapter, i think the setup for future chapters will be one section about a flashback in junior high, one shorter one in the modern day summer, and one with moryvn in herondale and the plans that the dark lord has. the dream sequences will be more important in future chapters along with rose's connection to diviniation. i'm sorry if this doesn't make sense, and please feel free to help me fix this mess, c:

please leave a review, (:

xx clara