Saturday 3rd December

It wasn't until Rose spotted Richard in the courtyard—his eyes scanning the crowds for her, presumably—that Rose felt the first tremors of nerves in her gut. She'd been to Hogsmeade with boys before, but never on an official 'date'. Merlin, he wouldn't take her to Madame Puddifoot's would he? She'd never set foot in the gaudy tearoom, and would prefer to keep it that way.

He'd finally spotted her, "There you are!" and pulled her into a tight hug. Rose was a little taken aback—she wasn't really a hugger—but she managed to fit her arms around his waist, hoping he couldn't feel the galloping of her heart against their pressed together breastbones.

"Shall we go grab a carriage?" he asked, finally pulling away.

"Yes, yep!" her voice was two decibels higher than normal.

They managed to keep up Quidditch talk for the carriage ride, though the topic was practically exhausted by the time the carriage started to slow,

"Well, no hard feelings for next weekend's game, eh?" he ribbed light-heartedly.

"I'll be fine, I'm sure." She returned his smile, "But I can't make any promises for Georgette."

He laughed, "God, rough bint isn't she?"

Rose was sure he didn't mean it like it sounded, and she found herself jumping to Georgette's defence, "She's just pretty serious Quidditch, and for good reason too, her—"

But Richard's attention had slid from her, "Looks like we're here." The carriage had stopped, "After you?"

He'd offered his hand, she took it, focusing on descending the icy steps of the carriage without slipping, and not how her fingers were interlocked with his.

When they reached the bottom of the steps he made no moves to let go, and Rose thanked the cold and snowy weather—there'd no sweaty palms in these temperatures. They started on the path to the main village.

But the silence was growing, and Rose found herself struggling to find an interesting enough topic to encourage conversation between them.

"So," Richard began, after the silence had started to grow uncomfortable, "your mother is going for Minister of Magic, isn't she?"

Rose wiggled her nose—it was starting to sting from the cold, "Yeah, she's campaigning to take over when Shacklebolt steps down at the end of next year."

"A female Muggle-born Minister, huh? That'll be interesting."

"Yeah, she'd be the first of the combination. She's really interested in the pure-blood supremacy laws which are yet to be dismantled, which is kind of a major issue, especially after nobody bothered to look into them after Voldemort's reign of terror—" Rose cut herself off, recognising that she was rambling, and blushed. They were on the main strand now—littered with Hogwarts students rugged up in beanies, scarves and gloves.

"Do you think Muggle-borns really know enough about the Wizarding world to go for Minister though? No offence," he added quickly.

Rose's steps slowed, "What do you mean?"

"Well, your mother really wasn't raised a witch, was she? For the first decade of her life, she had no idea that the wizarding world existed. So, don't you think there's some crucial insight she's missed out on?"

Rose stopped, "But my mother has spent more of her life in the wizarding world than out of it."

He was still holding her hand, so he stopped too, "Hey, look, I didn't mean to offend you. Let's not talk about it, I can see you're going to get upset about it."

"I just don't get what you mean by—"

"Rose," he was stepping closer to her now, twisting a strand of her hair around his finger, "let's not ruin our day. I'm sorry—pretend I didn't say anything. Yeah?"

Richard looked properly apologetic, and Tessie had always said Ravenclaws and boys could be stupidly blunt sometimes, and Richard was both. She actively ignored her reflex offence, and sighed,

"Alright, you're right." This was an actual date, and she was sure he didn't mean to insinuate what he had. Don't ruin it, Rose.

His voice dropped low, and he was stepping closer—Rose ignored her immediate reflex to step back, holding her ground,

"And anyway," he murmured, "Has anyone told you how gorgeous your hair is?"

"Th-thank you." She stuttered, going about as red as the locks in question.

"I was thinking," he continued, "we could go see the Shrieking Shack, if you wanted."

"I—uh—" he was barely half an inch taller than her, which meant they were practically eye-to-eye level, "I actually wanted to get some Christmas shopping done first, if that was alright?"

She was conscious of the people milling around—his proximity was the pre-kiss kind—and Rose wasn't eager for witnesses, aware of the Hogwarts rumour mill,

"Yeah, that's fine," he smiled suddenly, releasing her hair and stepping back, "I've got all day. Where to first?"

He still hadn't let go of her hand, and she nodded towards the bookstore,

"There first, if you wouldn't mind."

After she picked up Tessie's present, she browsed the other shelves, seeing if there were any new books she might pick up. Richard's interest was sparked by the Transfiguration section, and she saw something resembling Ravenclaw emerge from the boy.

He suggested Contemporary Transfiguration Theorems, a book which he swore helped him in sixth-year Transfiguration, so she grabbed that, and she found a steamy romance novel for Magda's Christmas present—the girl was a sucker for them.

Richard raised his eyebrows when he saw her selection, "My mother's really into those kind of books," and Rose blushed,

"It's for a friend."

But Richard just winked, "Hey, no judgement."

They were at the register when the bell at the door chimed, signalling someone else had entered the shop. Rose didn't pay much heed until she caught the snooty tones of Lauren Avery,

"—don't see why we can't just head back to your dormitory, it'll be nice and empty right now."

Malfoy's tone was short in return, "I told you, that if you wanted to accompany me to Hogsmeade, I had actual errands to run—"

"I didn't actually think you meant 'errands'," the girl purred, "I thought that was just a code-word for fuc—"

"Jesus, Lauren, can you at least have a modicum of decorum while we're in public?"

But then the pair had rounded a bookshelf, suddenly spotting Rose and Richard at the cash register. Malfoy froze, his eyes on her.

There was a long an uncomfortable silence—Lauren glared at her, Malfoy was watching her warily—all while Rose was trying to pinpoint the sudden source of guilt she felt, as though Malfoy had caught her with her hand in his metaphorical biscuit tin,

"Didn't think those were your taste, Roza," Malfoy nodded at the book on the top of her pile, which just had to bloody be Magda's romance novel. The wizard on the front flexed his muscles, winking at the camera as a fair maiden hung off his arm, simpering.

Rose blushed, for the thousandth time that day, "It's not for me." She hissed, wishing she'd just gone and picked the book up in her own time.

But Malfoy's eyes had shifted, to Richard, noticing the way the boy had shuffled closer to Rose in an unnecessarily possessive gesture,

"Selwyn," Malfoy nodded, a little too curt to be polite,

"Malfoy," Richard returned, mimicking his inflection.

The silence continued, the cashier watching on cautiously, as though he could sense the weirdly intense air both boys were projecting.

"Can we leave now?" Avery whined, and the high-pitch of it pulled Rose from the strange trance. She quickly gathered her books off the counter,

"You wanted to see the Shrieking Shack, didn't you?" Rose asked Richard, eager to move from the store, and as far from Malfoy as she could physically be.

"Yeah," he replied, putting his hand on her lower back to guide her for the door, "let's go."

Malfoy watched them leave, a crease between his brow that had no right to be there.

It wasn't until they shut the door behind them, the bell tinkling their exit, that Richard brightened a little, his strange mood left in the bookstore.

"I love the Shrieking Shack. So eerie and isolated." He grinned.

"But you know it's not actually haunted, right? Teddy Lupin's dad—"

Selwyn waved a dismissive hand, "Yeah, but that takes away from the spookiness of it! C'mon."

"Wait," Rose tried to keep up with his striding steps, "in all that fuss, I didn't get a bag for my books."

"Oh!" Richard stopped, pulling out his wand, "Here!" he cast a levitating spell, hovering the books beside him, "Honestly Rose, your life will change when you turn seventeen."

Rose couldn't help feeling a little patronized, "Right. Yeah."

But Richard didn't notice, charging to the path which led to the Shack.

The little clearing was empty when they got there, giving visitors a generous view of the crumbling building, even more black against the snow. It was a smudge in the white, an impressive mark on the otherwise perfect landscape. On the fence surrounding it stood a little plaque, which Rose rested a palm against,

In Memory of Remus Lupin,
For his effort and bravery in the First and Second Wizarding Wars
And his sacrifice on 2nd of May, 1998

Rose knew Teddy had visited the plaque every 2nd of May while he'd been at school, always making the walk alone. Rose, among others, had offered him company, but he'd always politely declined.

"Spooky, isn't it?" Richard's voice pulled her back to the present, and Rose's hand slipped off the plaque. She hadn't realized it had been going numb.

"I think it's kind of beautiful, actually. In a decayed kind of way."

It was like Richard hadn't heard her, "Are you scared?"

He was moving closer, still levitating Rose's books a few feet off the ground, and Rose wasn't sure whether he was talking about the Shack, or being in his presence, as her heart had started to race for all the wrong reasons,

"Are you?" she quickly deflected, noticing how quite alone they were, and how far the shack really was from Hogsmeade's bustling centre.

He snorted, "Nah, I don't get scared by stuff like this,"

He kept advancing, and Rose was too spaced by the whole scene to notice he was practically on her, until he grabbed her chin and directed her lips to his.

They met with a clash of teeth—Rose's mouth open in shock, and his movement eager, too aggressive. Rose tried to find a way to break away, but he was pulling her closer, reducing her mobility and ability to escape,

Then his hand, out of nowhere, was on her thigh, skimming higher as Rose squirmed to get away, but he misconstrued as excitement as his fingers sought the apex of her thighs—

There was a crash, Rose pulled away to see her books in a pile of the ground, their pages quickly absorbing water from the snow, and she was almost grateful for the distraction—

"Shit!" she yelled, dropping to her knees to fetch them,

"Ah, shit," Richard said, "I uh—lost my concentration. Here,"

He cast a drying charm, but the texture of the pages weren't right—they were still crinkly,

"Don't worry," Rose replied, not meaning it, standing slowly and clutching them tightly to her chest.

"Let's head up to the Shack, you can put your books down on something in there—"

She cringed, imagining what he'd possibly expect of her behind closed doors, "No I think—" she was stepping backwards, shuffling away, knees stinging from the cold,

"Here, at least let me fix your tights—they're all ripped on the knees," but he was pointing his wand at them anyway, muttering a charm…

…and they disappeared.

"I thought you said you'd fix them!" she cried, the sensation of losing clothing at his hand inducing nausea.

"That's fixing them, isn't it?" he asked too innocently.

"How is that—?!"

He was stepping towards her again, she matched his steps backwards, "I hate tights, they just get in the way—" he complained.

Rose felt sick, clutching her books as though they were a barrier between her and Richard, "Get in the way of what?"

"Don't be coy, Rose—"

"I think—" she announced, fumbling in her coat pocked for her wand. Underage magic be damned—Richard was being a complete creep.

"You don't need to draw your wand, Rose. It's not like you can use it legally, anyway. Not like me."

His words made her stomach plummet, "I'm going back to the castle, Richard. I need to—" she fumbled for an excuse, her voice shaking, "I need to fix my books. Bye."

Without a word of confirmation from him, she turned on her heel, all but running down the path back to Hogsmeade.

"Rose," the frustration in his voice encouraged her to run faster, but he didn't seem to following her, "are you serious?! Rose, come back right now!" His yells grew fainter as Rose crossed the treeline, "Pricktease!"

She'd just made it back to the main strand when Albus was rushing towards her, slowed a little by the thin layer of snow on the ground,

"Jesus, there you are. Scorp said he saw you with Selw—" Albus' brow furrowed as he looked her over, "Wait, didn't you have tights on this morning? Rose… are you alright?"

Rose clutched her books a little tighter, "I just want to go back to the castle. Please, Al?"

"Yeah, of course," Al looked concerned, but recognized that Rose wasn't willing to divulge at present moment, "here, let me hold your books."

She let him grab them off her—not in a magical grip, but just in his perfectly capable, secure human hands. Rose found herself sighing in a ridiculous kind of relief, and Albus shot her a quizzical look,

"C'mon," she said, "let's grab a carriage."

Sunday 4th December

Rose had remained silent on the events of yesterday's Hogsmeade trip, and it unnerved Albus. Usually she shared everything with him—he was the first she came to with anything. They'd always been like that, practically since birth. Before Hogwarts, they'd shared a bed at least four times a week, top and tailing in his room. He had bittersweet memories of waking up to her toes tickling his face.

Sometimes—in the earlier days, not so much now—he'd smuggle her into his dorm, and they'd share his bed again, whispering quietly to one another in the dark. But as her feud with Scorp had deepened, in both intensity and longevity, she avoided the Slytherin common room, and especially the dormitory he shared with Scorp.

Yesterday evening, Al had asked Scorp about coming across Rose in the bookstore,

"Odd question, but was she wearing tights when you saw her?"

Scorp had frowned, "I'm pretty sure—why?"

They'd been in their dorm, empty but for the two of them. Scorp had been at his desk, working on an essay, and Al had been in bed, a book idly resting open on his lap, but he couldn't get into it,

"It's just—" he wasn't sure what to share what he'd seen, knowing Rose would be mortified to know that he was telling her mortal enemy. Albus tread a careful line with Scorp and Rose—knowing that what he said could easily create a sense of betrayal in either, so he attempted to avoid speaking of one to the other.

And he knew by Rose's silence, and the fact she hadn't reached out to him, that this was an event of a much more serious nature.

Rose was the type of person whose anger invigorated her, but when she upset she withdrew.

Tessie had told Al as much; they'd spoken briefly after breakfast that morning. Rose hadn't been forthcoming with her dormmates either, just quietly going about her business.

Now he was walking the edge of the lake, taking a mini-respite from the artificially warmed air of the castle before dinner. He liked being near the water, hearing the calls of the remaining birds from the surrounding trees, the skittle of pebbles as the edge of the lake drew them in and out.

He preferred to forego warming charms on these walks, feeling the full effects of the great outdoors. Out here, pinpoint in the middle of the undisturbed Scottish wilderness, away from pollution and noise, the air was possibly as pure as it could get.

A distant sound, breaking water, pulled his attention from the shoreline. Squinting, Al could make out a shape bobbing on the water, dark and indistinguishable. Could be a bird—or could be a creature of magical origin breaking the surface for a gulp of air.

Albus' interest in creatures and beasts—of both mundane and magical—had started at age four, upon finding an injured hedgehog stumbling around the backyard of the Potter's. Albus had become immediately invested in its recovery, watching as his mother practiced an array on healing spells on the tiny creature, before sending it away.

Since then he'd always brought home sick, hurt or abandoned animals, frustrating his parents to no end. His first use of unintentional magic had been at age seven, performing the equivalent of an episkey on a dove's broken wing. After going vegetarian at age nine—he'd learnt the hard way where chicken nuggets came from—his parents realized that it wasn't a phase, but a serious interest.

So, he'd received Oscar—his ferret—for his tenth birthday, named for the Muggle Irish writer Oscar Wilde. Albus liked to believe he was the best cared for ferret this side of the world, receiving a carefully balanced diet and exercise regime from Albus, who'd done extensive research on the topic.

Oscar was getting on a bit now—however well cared for, ferrets only lived a maximum of ten years—and Albus was quickly facing the idea of having to put his best (non-human) friend in the ground.

Albus was half-way around the shore when he nearly tripped over a small pile on the pebbles, which took Albus a minute to recognise as clothes.

Clothes, on the shore? Surely someone wasn't—

Albus scanned the shore again, spotting the dark shape he'd observed earlier. But now—as it seemed to have gotten closer—Al recognized a head of dark hair, and the body that was presumably attached, slicing through the water towards him.

Merlin! The mysterious figure must have a death wish. The Lake was so cold there were practically chunks of glassy ice drifting across its surface, and even the Giant Squid had settled into a sort of hibernation. Were they alright?

Albus headed a little further down the shore—moving away from the clothing pile. While he was concerned for the swimmer, and the potential hypothermia they could develop—Albus felt a little embarrassed at the idea of watching the person emerge, as though there were something a little pervy about it.

Torn, Albus decided to linger a little way down the shore, just enough to watch out for the health of the swimmer, but not enough to seem like a lurking creep.

The swimmer's feet hit the stones—close enough now to identify him—and Albus tried not to watch as broad olive-toned shoulders broke the surface, followed by an equally bare torso. As the water slipped off his figure, steam started to rise off him, his body heat evaporating the icy water.

Albus—half an eye on the swimmer, half pretending to be looking across the lake—felt his face flush, as the swimmer continued to wade forward, the water falling back to reveal waist, to hips—

Surely he wouldn't be…?

Albus sighed as he peeked the waistband of swimming trunks, a dark green strip of safety.

The swimmer wasn't shivering—his lips weren't blue—so Albus doubted the swimmer was in any immediate danger. But Albus didn't have any immediate urge to vacate, silently watching as the stranger shook his head hard, water spraying from his soaked hair. Then the stranger was digging his wand out of the pile—Albus recognized the wrist movement as a drying charm.

The stranger still hadn't noticed him, and Albus supposed he had moved quite a way down the shore out of embarrassment. Flicking another look out across the lake, for the sake of pretence, Albus found it harder to pull his gaze off the stranger, as he began pulling his clothing and shoes back on.

Albus continued to watch—silently fascinated—as the stranger finished donning his coat, tugging a scarf on, before making his way back for the castle.

So, this stranger didn't mind throwing himself into an icy lake—wearing nothing but swimming trunks—but had to wear a scarf for the five hundred metre walk back to the castle?

Maybe he'd been using a warming charm on himself in the water, but he hadn't taken his wand, so he couldn't have held the magic.

Whoever he was, he wasn't in Albus' year. It wasn't impossible to guess his house, as well, as he'd been wearing his casual clothes. But judging but his height—and enviable physique, Albus slyly noted—it was unlikely he was much younger.

Albus had lost track of time, captured in his thoughts, took a while to notice the darkening sky. The sun had well set by the time he reached the castle again, the dark blue of dusk slipping to black.

Rose's thoughts were all busy again—stirred from her horrible interaction with Richard. Looking back on the situation, she couldn't help feeling a little naïve. Everyone knew what happened when people snuck off to the Shrieking Shack; it was one of the most isolated and least visited places in Hogsmeade. And Richard had been pretty insistent on taking her there—she should've anticipated what he planned to do.

But just the feeling of her tights suddenly disappearing—taken out of existence at the tip of his wand—made her feel completely violated. He hadn't asked, he'd just taken. And if he was fine to do it with her tights, why not the rest of her clothing? Was she seriously one wand flick away from being utterly humiliated?

The worst part was the guilt surrounding her feelings of upset. Sometimes, when Rose got stuck on something—especially something ridiculous, that she had no right getting upset about—she'd think about her parents, and what they'd gone through at her age.

Her mother had literally been tortured, Uncle Harry suffering so much worse at a far younger age, and the feeling of pathetic-ness was just another to add to the absolute clusterfuck of emotions she felt at any given time.

When she was younger, her anxiety had manifested as physical worries—what if the Gryffindor tower collapsed as they slept? What if her parents died in a car accident—didn't they know those were one of the leading causes of death? What if they suffered a fatal splinching—with the combination of Muggle and wizarding transportation they used, weren't they twice as likely to die? How deep did a cut have to be before it was possible to bleed out? What stopped the atmosphere from breaking, sucking every human out to space?

Now her worries were of the invisible, unanswerable type. Did people like her? Where did she fit in the world? Would she be able to pursue her dreams, or would she fall into an inevitable rut to which she'd be financially bound? Would she be able to help the unfortunate in the world? What if she never met somebody to love? Would she die alone? Why did all these concerns seem like trivial bullshit compared to that of her parents', when they were her age?

She listened to the sounds of her dormmates settling into bed, they muttered their 'goodnights' to her through the curtain.

A few hours later, Rose hadn't been keeping time, her curtain was tugged, a face peeking at her in the gap. She didn't need to see green eyes, glittering in the dark, to know who her night-time visitor was.

She shuffled over, and Albus slipped under the covers, putting his feet on her pillow. Her toes tickled against soft black hair, and the two wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position against each other.

And then she told him. He didn't have to ask, because she always knew she'd tell him eventually, like she always did. Rose shared so much with Albus that he was like an extension of her own mind, and almost every childhood memory she had she shared with him. Like when they used to climb onto Rose's roof in thunderstorms, lying down and letting the raindrops pelt their skin as they squealed in delight.

Or, the first time they'd ever been drunk, sneaking a neglected bottle of port from Ron Weasley's liquor cabinet.

Or, when he'd decided to go vegetarian, and she promised to do it with him, even if that promise only lasted a week.

Or, when he'd told her about how boys made his skin feel all tingly, and his chest feel all butterfly-ish, and girls made him feel not much like anything at all.

It was like whispering into the darkness, but she could tell by the way Albus squeezed her ankle—he did it quite tightly when she told him about the tights—that he was there, listening. And when she'd finished, she took a breath, before saying,

"But it seems so pathetic, really. Especially when I compare it with Mum and Dad, and I feel even more ridiculous for getting so upset about it."

He laughed quietly, and Rose felt a puff of breath against her feet, "I know. My Dad was fighting a literal soulless evil overlord, and I'm stressed about the fact I can go up the stairs to your dorm without setting off the slide charm."

Rose snorted with laughter, "It does sound ridiculous when you compare them out loud. My mother was scarred by a clinically insane inbreed, and I'm worried about my Potions grade slipping."

"Well, my father had his mind invaded by a noseless dictator, and I don't know who to cheer for in Slytherin v Gryffindor Quidditch games."

It was ridiculous, but they were giggling, "My parents spent a year destroying stray pieces of a soul, and I get worried that my calves are too muscular."

She could feel Albus' diaphragm shaking with laughter against her shins, "My father l-literally d-died twice, and I'm trying to think up inventive hiding s-spots for my Wicked Wizard magazines."

Rose let out an earnest cry of laughter, which she turned to smother in her pillow, as not to wake her dormmates.

They quietened after a few minutes, Rose's bed feeling a much cheerier space than it had felt all day.

"You'll stay, won't you?" she asked the darkness, and Al responded,

"Only if you charm your stairs into a slide when I head down them in the morning."

"Always." Rose promised, burrowing down into her covers, "Night, Al."

"Goodnight, Rosie."