A/N: I've been reading a lot of great ScoRose fanfiction lately, and now I'm inspired. Haaalppp.
So here's the first chapter of what I hope to be an interesting, and fresh take on our favorite next generation HP couple.
YES, this fic is an enemies-to-lovers slowburn, and YES I know this trope has been used a trillion times with this particular pairing, but frankly, I don't really care.
Enemies-to-lovers and slowburn are my ultimate guilty pleasures.
If you're one of those hipsters who shits on fanfiction simply because the trope used is unoriginal, then this story is NOT for you. I am warning you now.
UPDATED WARNING:
This fic is not for the faint-hearted, and covers topics such as abuse, mental health issues, violence, substance use/abuse, toxic relationships, and infidelity. This is not your average fluffy romantic ScoRose story. So please stay clear of this if you are triggered by any of the above!
Please note that Rose's abhorrent behavior is not meant to be glorified or lauded by any means. I do not condone toxic or abusive behavior. However, her characterization (as well as Scorpius's) is central to the plot of the story I am trying to tell. If you're willing to stick around through the bullshit, her growth will be rewarding to read.
Otherwise, please Read & Review! I wanna know what y'all think.
-Everlasting Faerie Light
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter Universe.
—
Flames hungrily engulf an eerily organized pile of newspapers, the thick smoke billowing upwards into the clear blue early-afternoon sky,
A young, red headed witch with all the softness of a venomous tentacular glares at the melting, curling wad of burning paper in the middle of her front yard, jets of blue fire spewing from her outstretched wand like a blowtorch, the color of her nonverbal Incendio charms painting her freckled face with a poignant malice.
A few passing witches and wizards walking down the sun-kissed cobble-stoned streets of Diagon Alley's residential neighborhood stare reproachfully at this contemptuously intimidating witch furiously burning a large stack of Daily Prophets she had blatantly stolen from Flourish and Blotts this morning.
Innocent pedestrians don't dare stop to question the young witch, of course, for if looks could kill, she would be the wizarding world's next mass murderer in a heart beat.
Rose Weasley does not give a flying fuck that she looks like a raving lunatic.
As far as she's concerned, the whole goddamn world thinks she's an unhinged, violent psychopath, and at this less-than-stellar point in her life, she figures she may as well give the public what they want.
She can just see tomorrow's headline now—
Unhinged, and Possibly Dangerous: Daughter of Minister of Magic and ex-Holyhead Harpy Beater Rose Weasley Now a Pyromaniac?
Or
Ex-Holyhead Harpy Beater and Daughter of Minister of Magic Rose Weasley Steals Over a Thousand Copies of the Daily Prophet from Flourish and Blott's and Burns Them In Her Front Yard Just One week After Sending Kenmare Kestrals Seeker Athena Nott to St. Mungo's.
Incendio. Incendio. INCENDIO.
The flames shooting out of Rose's wand grow in considerable size, and she can feel the heat from her fury-fueled nonverbal charms wash almost languidly over her face. The pile of Daily Prophets have already been reduced to complete rubble, yet Rose cannot find it in herself to stop.
It does not take a genius to notice when Miss Rosie Weasley isn't feeling too rosy.
Though she possesses the ability to be subtle, poised, and rational af the best of times, she has proven time and time again that she is anything but subtle when it comes to her anger.
In fact, her anger is the reason why she's out here right now in the early part of the afternoon, wearing nothing but a black bralette that left little to the imagination and a pair of oddly patterned pyjama shorts that could easily pass as a pair of oversized knickers, obsessively blowtorching the living shit out of over a thousand copies of the Daily Prophet.
"Don't you think you're being a tad excessive?"
The sound of Lily Luna Potter's imploring voice from behind her does little to deter Rose's consistent (and at this point, completely unnecessary) pyromania. In fact her ocean-blue eyes narrow even more in stubborn contempt as she bites back in response, "Not at all."
Lily lets out a small sigh and pushes her slightly-too-big, black-framed glasses back up the bridge of her nose. She can't help but feel a twinge of amusement at the sight of her atomic bomb of a cousin out in the middle of broad daylight furiously burning a pile of newspapers, wearing nothing except for the ugliest knickers to ever exist. Some things just never change.
Nevertheless, people are really starting to stare, and Lily knows that the last thing Rose needs right now is more public scrutiny.
The lithe, petite redhead makes her way down the stone steps of their front porch and closes the small grassy distance between her and a still pyro-happy Rose. She places a small, comforting hand on her cousin's tense shoulder, a small, knowing smile present on her lips.
"While I can always appreciate a good bonfire, Mr. Cransby has been watching you for a good five minutes now, and he looks about two seconds away from owling the Daily Prophet as we speak."
Rose falters ever so slightly at Lily's words. She steals a sideways glance at the flat across the street from theirs, and sure enough, in the middle of the fenced yard sits Mr. Cransby in his sunchair, staring at Rose as if she had contracted a nasty case of spattergroit.
"Not to mention you're burning my dirigible plums. Again," Lily chirps almost dangerously, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on Rose's freckled shoulder.
Rose lets out a dejected sigh, her anger not dissipating, but compacting itself down into a grudgingly quiet dissent. The flames shooting out of her wand come to a spluttering halt.
A sizable stream of water escapes Lily's wand, quickly dousing the charred remains of Rose's burn pile, as well as the flame- engulfed dirigible plum trees.
"Let's go inside," Lily coaxes gently. "Too many witnesses," she adds, shooting an irritated glance over her shoulder at the house next door.
Rose follows Lily's pointed glare, and another white hot flash of anger surges through her chest at the sight of that gossiping cow Imogen Bones gawking at her without the slightest semblance of shame.
The curly-haired Weasley cannot help herself.
"What the bloody fuck are you staring at Bones?" she snaps nastily before turning her whole body around to face a stuttering Imogen Bones, who now resembles a lost goldfish. "Close your mouth before I go over there and sectumsempra your tongue out."
Lily can't help but blow a frustrated breath through her teeth.
"Rose," she snaps at her cousin before clamping her harpy-like fingers onto the ill-tempered Weasley's shoulders, forcefully steering her away from Imogen Bones and back towards the house.
Rose grunts in irritated protest as Lily hauls her up the rickety stone steps leading up to their ivy-covered front door. "Ow… Lily… don't fucking push me, you trollop!"
"You're being a brat," Lily responds curtly, shoving her older cousin's protesting form through the front door of their rickety London flat.
The younger Potter girl slams the door shut behind her and locks it shut with a swift swish of her wand. She immediately rounds on Rose with fierce annoyance etched on her small heart-shaped face.
"What the bloody hell were you thinking, Rose?"
Rose watches as her younger cousin waves her clenched fists at her in exasperation.
She can't help but roll her eyes.
If she could have one galleon for the number of times she'd been asked that question in the past two days… she'd be as rich as the Malfoys.
At her cousin's lackluster response, it comes to Lily's attention that her Rose does not respond well to being lectured.
The younger Potter takes it down a few notches, transforming her irritated scowl into a small, bitter smile. "Look— I'm just looking out for you. I don't like Imogen Bones or Mr. Cransby either, but the press has really been on your arse these past few days, and you looked like a murderous lunatic out there."
Rose crosses her arms and scowls, her usually wide blue eyes hardening into slits. "I'm already a murderous lunatic. Didn't you get the bloody memo? If not, I'm sure the stupid fucking Daily Prophet will suffice."
Her voice is chalk-full of venom.
Lily sighs. She hates when her cousin gets like this, though she cannot entirely blame her.
Ever since Rose's violent stunt on Athena Nott a week ago after last week's harrowing Quidditch match against the Kenmare Kestrals, the press has been relentless in their mission to paint Rose Weasley, eldest daughter of the Minister of Magic and niece of the famous Harry Potter, as unhinged, dangerous, and violent.
After all, the guiltiest, shallowest parts of humanity cannot help but relish in a juicy scandal. Especially when it involves a member of a prominent wizarding family such as theirs.
And frankly, Rose is fucking sick of her life being used by the press as a consistent reminder to the whole goddamn wizarding world that even the Weasley-Potters aren't immune to imperfection.
"I did get wind of today's paper, though," Lily implores solemnly, a look of pity flashing in her eyes. "Ten thousand galleons? That's rich. Didn't the bint attempt to use an unforgivable curse on you?"
"Twice," Rose grumbles. "And the stupid dolt missed both times. I almost wish she did get me. Then I could be the one to sue her for ten bloody thousand galleons. After I break her wretched face of course."
"Well… you clobbered the living shit out of her with a beater's bat, so you did at least manage to achieve that last part," Lily almost deadpans, though that guilty smirk can't help but sneak its way onto her lips.
She would be lying if she claimed that Rose's violent fits of rage over the years never once amused and/or satisfied her.
Lily knows that that sounds awful in hindsight, but when the seemingly poised and clever daughter of Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley loses her marbles, all living hell breaks loose, and the young Potter girl cannot help the glee felt at the prospect of some sort of violent, well-deserved justice being served.
If only everybody else could see it that way.
Rose scowls even harder. "Didn't hit that dingbat hard enough if you ask me."
Lily can't help but chuckle in response, despite the very well-known severity of Rose's current predicament. She places a reassuring hand on her older cousin's shoulder.
"Let me make you some special tea," the younger girl implores. "I'll whip up something that'll definitely cheer you up."
Rose's sharp blue eyes meet her cousin's soft hazel ones, and the raging fiendfyre enveloping her gut diminishes to a warm, crackling bonfire.
If there is anyone in this whole bloody world that can tame the beast known as Rose Weasley, it's the quirky, yet ever graceful Lily Luna Potter. After all, the youngest daughter of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley possesses quite the affinity for dangerous beasts.
A reluctant smile makes itself present on Rose's lips. How can she say no to some of Lily's special tea? "Fine. But I swear to Merlin if you put flobberworm mucus in my drink again, I will hex the shit out of you."
"Or bludgeon me with a beater's bat?" Lily quips smartly, a grin tugging at her lips.
Rose snorts in response, feeling an urge to laugh for the first time since last weekend's disastrous Quidditch match. "Shut up and make me my tea, woman."
—
The bright summer sun streams in through the large living room window, casting rays of broken light unevenly across their rickety flat. Though their living space is fairly quaint and somewhat crowded, with only two bedrooms and one washroom, the haphazard design of the wooden beams that criss-cross across the ceiling remind both Rose and Lily of the Burrow— hence the reason why they decided to sign a lease and move in to this specific Diagon Alley flat five years ago.
Lily, being both a magizoologist and herbology enthusiast, took it upon herself to make the whole flat look like a jungle the moment she moved in. Years worth of collected and cared for magical plants (though none of the extremely dangerous variety) crowd the entire flat, their branches and vines twisting and turning amongst each other to create a green cacophony of vibrant life that brought the dark, woodsy interior of the whole flat to life.
Though Rose does not consider herself to be the "outdoorsy" type like her younger cousin (who spent countless hours exploring the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid), she doesn't mind living in a living, breathing, indoor forest. After all, plants tend to transform any atmosphere into one chalk-full of zen, and Rose knows better than anyone that she needs a little more zen in her life.
Plus, thanks to consistent plant filtration, the air inside their flat is significantly cleanerthan any existing location within London.
Rose sits curled up on a red armchair situated in the corner of their plant-engulfed living room, her steely concentration focused on the book she has opened up in her lap.
Quidditch: Through the Ages.
Old but gold.
She takes another sip of the special tea that Lily made for her. She can taste a hint of calming draught in this particular concoction.
Bless her younger cousin's gentle soul.
Just as Rose turns the page, a burst of green flames erupts from their stone fireplace with a prominent whoosh, and out steps a tall, slender woman with dark almond shaped eyes and jet black hair that falls just past her shoulders.
The woman hurriedly wipes the soot from the front of her white healer's robes, a stressed expression etched upon her otherwise elegant face. She attempts a smile of greeting at Rose.
Rose's eyes fall on Evangeline Chang, their third flatmate and Lily's long-term girlfriend of four years.
Rose remembers when Lily came out of the closet during her seventh year at Hogwarts, much to the chagrin of all the horny blokes that had lusted after her for ages. It was the one time that the youngest Potter had received any sort of public scrutiny and unwanted attention from the press. There were several Witch Weekly articles about her and her first girlfriend— MaryAnn Heap, a blonde, curly haired Hufflepuff with knockers the size of quaffles.
MaryAnn, of course, turned out to be a dunderheaded dolt. As did all of Lily's girlfriends after MaryAnn for the next two years. It started to become clear that Lily had a very specific taste— busty, blonde, and brainless.
That is until Evangeline Chang came into the picture four years ago.
Slender with raven black hair, not to mention extremely clever, Evangeline Chang was the epitome of everything Lily did NOT seek out in a potential girlfriend. But unexpectedly, the youngest Potter was immediately infatuated.
"Hello, Evangeline," greets Rose with a small smile on her lips as she turns the page. "On your lunch break?"
"Yes, but I've only got twenty minutes. Busy, busy day. I doubt I'll even be off work until after ten tonight," Evangeline rambles in response. "Is Lils home right now?"
Rose blows a few stray curls out of her face.
"Last I checked she went out to the back garden to take care of a doxy nest that apparently popped up overnight."
"Oh good," Evangeline chirps cheerfully, though Rose detects the sarcasm coating her words. "I should probably check to make sure she's alive. Doxy venom is extremely poisonous."
Rose snorts. "She is well aware of that."
A look of mutual understanding passes between the two women, and Evangeline makes her way towards the sliding glass door that leads out to the back garden.
However, she pauses and turns back around to face Rose.
"Oh, by the way, I saw your mum at St. Mungo's today. On some ministry-related charity business, I reckon. She told me to tell you that she is coming over at 7 pm tonight via floo powder."
"What?!"
Rose blanches furiously, her copy of Quidditch:Through the Ages falling to the floor with a resounding thud. She feels an unwelcome heat travel from the back of her neck all the way up to her cheekbones as violent red splotches coat her freckled face.
Evangeline shrugs, an apologetic look etched on her face. "She didn't give me a reason. She just said to be ready."
"Three fucking guesses," growls Rose as she rakes her fingers through her tangled plethora of fiery curls out of anxiety. "You've seen the prophet, I presume?"
"Yeah, and it's absolute rubbish. Ten thousand galleons?" Evangeline sounds genuinely fired up, and Rose feels a surge of affection for the girl. "She tried to use an unforgivable curse on you twice! Not to mention she's prejudiced! There are several witnesses who heard her go off on some blood purity propaganda balderdash last weekend. If you ask me, I don't think she'll win this case. Not for bloody ten thousand galleons!"
Rose lets out a bitter laugh, now tugging at one of her loose curls incessantly, her frustration bubbling like molten lava in the center of her stomach. "The odds are actually very much in Nott's favor, but it doesn't even matter," she snaps darkly. "The damage is already done. My mum's approval ratings have plummeted since last weekend, and the stupid Prophet is having a field day. She's definitely coming over here to attempt some form of damage control since I'm just sooo fucking unhinged."
The vexed Weasley punctuates the last two words of her spiel by slamming her clenched fist down twice against the arm of her chair in sallow disdain.
"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, Rosie." Evangeline scolds lightly, (earning her a pointed glare from Rose). "Your mum loves the shit out of you, and we all know it. Try not to lose your temper with her; it's never done you any good before."
Before Rose can protest angrily in response, the raven-haired girl glances at the muggle watch around her left wrist and curses out loud. "Shit! I only have fifteen minutes! I hope Lily didn't already die from doxy poisoning."
And with that, Evangeline Chang glides through the glass door leading out to the exterior garden, leaving Rose to agonize over her dreadful, self-inflicted predicament alone.
—
It is not a severe, confidence-crippling lecture that Rose fears from her mother.
No, that lecture already happened.
Immediately after the series of very unfortunate events that occurred following this last weekend's infamous Quidditch match between the Holyhead Harpies and the Kenmare Kestrals, Rose Weasley had received the thunderous, wrath-filled lecture of a lifetime for a solid hour and a half.
With her mother's deadly disappointment and (insincere, though still hurtful) threats of disownment, Rose would have rather been thrown to the Daily Prophet hounds. However, once she had gotten it all off her chest, Hermione Granger-Weasley dropped her anger completely, and now uses her current status as the British Minister of Magic to pull any and all strings to alleviate her daughter's dismal situation, despite her steadily dropping approval ratings.
Rose is grateful that her mother is proactive (and no longer holding a grudge against her like her Quidditch-obsessed father), but she can't help but shake the feeling of a crushing, debilitating guilt. After all, it is her fault that her mother's and by extension, her whole family's reputation has gone to shambles. She is a twenty six year old female who can take responsibility for her own actions; she cannot help but feel that she doesn't even deserve any sort of help getting out of this mess.
And that is why Rose is afraid to face her mother. She cannot stomach the intense guilt that claws at her chest whenever she sees her.
She doesn't want to see the dark bags under her mother's eyes while she proposes another failed attempt at fixing Rose's future employment prospects.
After all, Rose did clobber Athena Nott in the head with a beater's bat. Not once, not twice, but as many times as it took to pulverize her skull and completely disfigure her face. Of course Nott suffered serious injuries that left her unconscious for three days straight, but it was still nothing that St. Mungo's couldn't handle.
Not that Nott's nearly full recovery really matters, anyways.
Nobody wants to hire an unhinged bint
charged with attempted manslaughter, even if said unhinged bint is Golden Trio offspring.
It is about five minutes until 7 pm, and Rose paces back and forth in front of the fireplace, anxiously awaiting her mother's arrival.
Out of nervous habit, Rose had changed four separate times, obsessively attempting to assemble an outfit that made her seem the most "put together."
About one hour ago, she finally decided on a white blouse and a modest black jumper. She even re-washed her face and attempted (but failed miserably) to tame her unruly red curls.
Rose can't help but jump in skittish alarm at the whoosh of green flames erupting from the stone fireplace.
Out steps a middle-aged Hermione Granger-Weasley wearing a set of sleek, very professional looking black robes, her brown curls (miraculously) pinned back into an elegant knot. She holds herself with an air of stringent authority, her default facial expression one of tight-lipped austerity.
However, a contagious warmth floods the older woman's features as her eyes land on the younger Weasley.
"Rosie," she greets affectionately, walking forward to envelop her daughter in a hug.
Rose allows herself to melt in her mother's arms for just a moment, taking in the familiar scent of fresh parchment with the slightest hint of juniper. However, the gnawing guilt makes her stomach clench, and Rose instinctively and uncomfortably pushes against Hermione's embrace.
Hermione lets go of her daughter, her face falling ever so slightly at what she deems to be rejection. Instead of addressing the matter, however, she places both her hands on Rose's shoulders, studying her daughter's face with sharp eyes.
"How are you feeling?" Hermione asks tentatively.
Rose shoots her mother a condescending look before responding in a sarcastically cheery tone, "Never better."
Hermione cannot help but smirk at her daughter's cheek. "Oh, you have a death wish, my darling. You know better than to be sarcastic with me."
"Oh, I'm terribly frightened. Really, I am. No sarcasm intended," Rose says, returning a smirk of her own, before releasing an exhausted sigh, wariness now replacing her previous good-natured sarcasm. "I've been— decent at best. The press is driving me bonkers, and I have an innate desire to drop kick a baby, but I've been managing as well as I can."
A mixture of both frustration and pity flashes across Hermione's eyes for just a brief second as she beholds her daughter, but the look goes unnoticed by Rose, who is doing her absolute best to look everywhere but her mother's eyes. She cannot bear to see any semblance of disappointment there.
"Well, I have good news," chirps Hermione brightly, releasing her gentle grip on Rose's shoulders. She makes her way to the large maroon armchair situated at an angle in front of the fireplace, and sits down, placing her small beaded rucksack on her lap.
Rose watches apprehensively as her mother accios a large green envelope from her rucksack and places it on the small coffee table in front of her. Hermione smiles up at her before gesturing to the armchair right next to hers. "Come sit."
Of course my mother tries to tell me where to sit in my own house, thinks Rose sourly.
As Rose makes herself comfortable in the armchair next to her mother, Hermione's eyes sweep around their jungle of a living room appreciatively. "Lily's work is impressive. You ought to have Neville come over for some tea. He would really appreciate the work put into this house."
"We don't invite our ex-professors over for tea, mum. It doesn't work like that," Rose quips with a twinge of amusement.
Hermione rolls her eyes in response. "I don't see why not! He's a very close friend of the family, and he's very fond of both you and Lily." Mostly Lily. "I don't understand your generation. I still go over to Hagrid's for tea all the time and he's both an old professor and very good friend of mine."
Rose doesn't press the matter. Instead, she eyes the green envelope on the coffee table in front of them. "So, you were saying you had some good news?"
"Yes!" the older woman responds quickly, an excited smile returning to her face. "I found you a job!"
When Rose doesn't respond right away, Hermione continues prattling away in a voice mixed with both enthusiasm and professionalism. "It's an administrative position within the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The job is full-time and comes with great benefits. You'll be in a position to help plan and coordinate all Quidditch matches held in the United Kingdom. I know how much Quidditch means to you."
Rose doesn't know how to respond.
Yes, Quidditch means the world to her.
So much so that as soon as she finished her N.E.W.T.s during the final week of her seventh year, Rose went straight to the pitch to try out for the Holyhead Harpies' open beater position.
She was hired on the spot. Her dad and her Aunt Ginny (who had retired from the Holyhead Harpies years ago) were ecstatic. Her mother had been proud and happy for her of course, but still pushed Rose to pursue a high-end ministry career since she definitely had the top-notch grades for it.
But as scholastic and academically inclined as Rose is, her love for the game trumped all other possibilities at pursuing a career outside of the Quidditch pitch.
But things are different now.
Rose knows she fucked up.
Thanks to her now infamous, off-the-charts temper, no professional Quidditch team in the entire United Kingdom will ever hire her again. Not even the Chudley Cannons.
Her professional Quidditch career is over, and it's all her own fault.
When Rose doesn't respond, Hermione pushes forward: "Of course— I had to pull quite a few strings and do a fair bit of persuading to make this happen. Not to mention the wizengamot had a few critical conditions they demand be met by you if you are to accept this position."
The curly-haired Weasley feels a flash of bitter annoyance surge through her chest. Of course there are conditions. When are there not?
"Conditions…?" Rose almost deadpans, beholding her mother with a grudging skepticism.
Hermione lets out a small sigh, seemingly annoyed at her daughter's less than enthused tone. "Yes. Conditions. For one, you are required to attend anger management sessions with Healer Jones at St. Mungo's twice a week."
Rose almost wants to utter a cry of protest, but she bites her tongue.
The hot-headed Weasley isn't new to anger management sessions at St. Mungo's. In fact she had started attending them during her first year at Hogwarts after she pushed Olive Finnigan into a teething venomous tentacular out of pure spite, and then broke Damon Zabini's nose for looking at her funny on the same day. At the alarmed request of Professor McGonagall (not to mention threats of expulsion), Ron and Hermione Weasley decided to put their fiery beast of a daughter through therapy.
Rose stopped her sessions during her final year at Hogwarts, and the following eight years of blissfully flying on the Quidditch pitch for a living kept her out of any sort of trouble.
Until now, of course.
"Secondly," Hermione presses, "You are to plead guilty to all the charges at your court hearing next month. If you do so, you will avoid time
in Azkaban, and be required to fulfill one hundred hours of community service instead. Not to mention you will remain a full-time ministry employee."
"I have to what?!" sputters Rose furiously, her freckled face turning an unflattering shade of blotchy red. "Does the fact that Nott was unashamedly spouting vile and prejudiced rubbish about our family and other muggle borns in public matter to anyone? Or how about the fact that she tried to Crucio me TWICE?!"
Now Hermione is very much irritated. Her brows harden and her lips form a thin, flat line. Her usually warm brown eyes flash dangerously as she folds her hands together almost formerly on her lap. "You almost killed her, Rose. And your attack itself was very barbaric and unnecessary; some would even say cruel."
The word cruel resounds sharply in the silent space between them. Rose feels a familiar fire rumbling deep within her gut, but the severity of her mother's voice keeps it at bay. She remembers Evangeline's words from earlier: Try not to lose your temper with her; it's never done you any good before.
Hermione's face softens considerably when she does decide to break the tense silence.
"Nevertheless, the fact that she tried to use an unforgivable curse on you twice is a matter that most certainly will be looked into. And you better believe I plan to talk to the Kenmare Kestrals recruiting manager about Athena Nott. They supposedly have a no tolerance policy for blood prejudice."
"Nott also wants to sue me for ten thousand galleons, and the Prophet is on her bloody side," Rose mumbles miserably, her earlier stubborn defiance all but forgotten. "What am I supposed to do, mum?"
Hermione snorts in response at her daughter's sudden misery. "Rose, have you forgotten who I am? I am the sodding Minister of Magic, and over my dead body will I allow that miserable hag to take ten bloody thousand galleons from you."
She suddenly flashes her daughter a warm smile and reaches over to affectionately tug one of Rose's curly red locks of hair. "You need to remember that your best interests are always my number one priority, sweetheart. Your dad and I will always stand behind you and Hugo, no matter how stupid you two can be sometimes."
Rose feels as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders at her mother's kind words. She's always known this of course— that her parents love her and her brother to bits and pieces. "Is dad still mad at me?"
Hermione smirks. "To be honest, I'm not sure if he's more angry about the fact that you nearly murdered someone on the pitch or that he can no longer brag about one of his children being a professional Quidditch player. Give him one more week to cool off. He'll come around."
Rose cracks a smile and then turns her head to eye the green envelope once more. "Let's say that I do decide to take this position," she muses tentatively. "What exactly would I be doing on a day-to-day basis, and what does the pay look like?"
"You would be an administrative assistant. The position itself is fairly straightforward. A lot of paperwork, answering mail, processing important transactions and invoices for the department, customer service— other duties as assigned," Hermione responds primly. "You'll answer to the head of the department. To be honest, I am not sure who that is anymore, as DiMaggio is retiring. His replacement should be starting sometime next week."
Rose can't help but wrinkle her nose in distaste. So this is what the world has come to. Rose Weasley, once esteemed beater of the Holyhead Harpies, now a bloody secretary. No wait— administrative assistant.
"And the pay?" she presses sharply. She prepares for the worst; she knows there is no way in hell that being a bloody administrative assistant will earn her even half the money she made with the Holyhead Harpies.
"Your starting salary is determined by the head of the department, so I cannot give you an accurate answer. However, there is plenty of room for growth and there are significant raises every six months. Not to mention the benefits you receive working with the ministry are absolutely superb," Hermione prattles confidently. When she catches her daughter's less-than-convinced expression, she sighs and reaches over to take Rose's hand.
"Look, Rosie," she implores earnestly, warm brown eyes meeting stormy ocean blue. "You are extremely clever, and you have a great work ethic. You will be promoted within this department in a matter of months and you'll be making about as much as you did with the Holyhead Harpies in about a year if you behave. Just take this offer. You will not get an opportunity like this again given your current circumstances."
Hermione then motions towards the green envelope on the coffee table. "All of the necessary paperwork is in there. You just need to fill it all out and owl it over to the Ministry by tomorrow afternoon."
Rose stares at the green envelope harshly for a few moments. Her mother is right of course. This is the best shot she has at redeeming both her and her family's reputation.
With a dismal sigh that signifies a grudging acceptance of her fate, Rose relents. "So when do I start?"
Her mother's face breaks out into a relieved smile. "Next Monday. Eight AM sharp."
"Bloody brilliant."
—