Hi everyone, I don't usually share my personal life here but I hope you don't mind a bit of news. I actually just got married :) No wedding, no celebration, just papers. We planned to for awhile, but this climate made it more urgent than ever—we wanted to have rights to each other in case of future emergencies (we have careers in different countries, which is complicated by lockdowns and travel restrictions due to the pandemic). That said, there's a lot going on in the world at the moment and that can be tough on our collective mental health. Please make time to take care of yourself, wherever you are.

Regarding updates: I try to post on any given Sunday, but my job is too unpredictable for a fixed schedule. Please give this fic a Follow if you'd like email updates! Sending love to everyone who reviewed the last one, I appreciate your kindness and patience with me.

MakeMeProud & wanderingconstellations – You guys I'm definitely keen to write the historical and ABO Scorose at some point! So many ideas so little time ahhhh.

This was a difficult chapter. Hope you enjoy! Happy to hear your predictions…

Chapter 35: The Visitor

When Poppy finally strode through the Fat Lady's portrait into the Gryffindor common room at midnight, she did not expect to see Rose crouched by the fireplace.

Her friend was marking something on one of the many parchments arranged around her in a circular fashion, resembling a witch in the midst of some wayward ritual. The hearth had reduced to ash, the dying embers painting tiger streaks across Rose's pale skin. Across the walls, the painted figures in the portraits had settled in, whispering goodnights across gilded frames. Even the embroidered lions in the house flags were yawning.

It was a bit late to be studying, especially by Rose's standards. She wasn't exactly the keenest of students.

And yet. There she was.

Poppy was suddenly filled with a sense of dread.

At the sight of Poppy, Rose had stumbled her feet, suddenly looking far too alert for this time of night. "Poppy," she said, her voice slightly pitchy. As though she was nervous for whatever reason.

It was laughable, really. When Poppy should be the nervous one.

She didn't meet Rose's bright-eyed gaze; she couldn't. So she merely gave a half-wave and made a beeline for the stairs—only Rose chose this moment to adopt the reflexes of a Pygmy Puff. In a flash, she'd tip-toed nimbly over the scattered parchments, passing through the maze of plush sofas and chaise longes before abruptly blocking Poppy's path up to the dorms.

Poppy froze, hands clenching around the strap of her book bag.

"We need to talk," said Rose, looking more serious than usual.

They didn't have anything to talk about, as far as Poppy was concerned. Because she was still mad at Rose, for her frankly stupid and careless behavior at the Great Lake; for needlessly putting herself in yet another life and death situation in the name of curiosity. As though that justified her terrible decisions.

Poppy was thoroughly sick of it.

That, and she could sense Rose had caught on to a few things she just wasn't ready to address.

So Poppy said, "I'd rather not."

There was a familiar pinch in Rose's expression now. She'd seen Rose direct that look at Hugo and Lily, whenever they were mean or tactless. Or Albus, when he acted like an idiot… which was often enough. But Rose had never looked at her like that. Poppy felt a vague pang of hurt, the dreaded voice in her head getting louder by the second, whispering that she was once more at fault for everything that had gone wrong.

She sincerely believed it.

It was why she refused to look up from her shoes, even when Rose's hands clasped tightly around her arms.

"Poppy," she heard Rose say softly. "I can't stand it when you don't talk to me."

Poppy shrugged her off, attempting once more to make for the stairs. "We can talk tomorrow."

But Rose stubbornly got in her way again, a gentle plea entering her voice. "Please. Did I do something wrong?"

It was this very thing that made Rose so loved, and also—so unbearable. That she was so damn ready to share any unspoken burden, even if it wasn't of her doing. This was the kind of ridiculous generosity that could only be afforded by a girl who never had to make a single day's effort to be adored.

Even so, Poppy loved Rose. Beyond these girlish jealousies; beyond even her own inadequacies. She had learned over the years that it was unfair to fault Rose for the blessed oblivion that granted her charming optimism. One of the many positive qualities that eluded Poppy—

And perhaps always would.

"Rosie," Poppy said at length, trying to keep her voice even, "I already told you—I'm not feeling well. So please. Can't we let this go?"

A knot formed between Rose's eyebrows. "No," she said, her soft voice surprisingly firm. "I'm sorry you're feeling ill, Poppy. But we have to talk. For your sake."

Poppy squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly exhausted. She felt raw and exposed; an open wound on the verge of bleeding out. And here was Rose, begging to tear off the dressing.

"What is it, then?" she asked dully, even if she didn't want to hear it.

Rose bit down on her lip, surveying Poppy with care as she chose her next words. "Why were you reading my letters?"

That damned letter again. If only she'd been more careful—how, how, how did Rose find out? As much as Poppy racked her brains, she could not connect the dots. A sourness rose in her throat, the prospect of a confrontation with her best friend almost too awful to bear.

She couldn't tell the truth.

She couldn't lose Rose.

"What letters?" Poppy uttered, choosing to play dumb.

"Fabian's," Rose said quietly. "The one I lost. Al told me you were the one who had it."

How the hell was Albus involved, of all people? Poppy's head was spinning now. The night at Crossley's returned to her in flashes… The toxic stink of his chambers, the professor's fingernails scraping roughly against her scalp. The sneer curling his mouth when she sought his affection. Albus emerging through the blur of her tears, a wondering expression in his vivid green eyes—

For some reason, this particular memory ignited Poppy's dormant temper. She couldn't help the venom that coated her next words. "He's never had a good thing to say about me, and you know it."

"Al wouldn't lie. You know this—"

"He has no right to be talking about me at all," Poppy snapped hotly, her vision fogging at the edges. "He's never wanted you and me to be friends, and obviously he'll do what it takes to make sure you think the same."

"What Al thinks has nothing to do with our friendship," Rose cut in, redness spotting her cheeks now. "And I do want to be your friend, but you're not letting me!"

"If you really want to be a friend," Poppy exploded, "just leave me alone!"

A stunned silence fell between them. The portraits were stirring, reproachful looks on their painted faces. Rose was staring at her, her expression shuttered; as though she could not believe they were actually fighting. Poppy wiped her eyes impatiently, the horrible hollow growing in her chest robbing her of breath. Perhaps, she thought miserably, this was what it truly felt like to have her heart broken.

Somehow—she couldn't imagine how she could weasel her way out of this with their friendship intact.

But then Rose spoke up once more.

"I won't."

"What?"

"I said I won't." Rose's face, usually so soft in quality, was suddenly reminiscent of her mother's famously stern countenance. "I won't leave you alone, Poppy. No matter what you say. I could never."

The lump lodged Poppy's throat made it hard to speak. Rose moved closer still, her gaze fixed and steps tentative. For some inexplicable reason, Poppy was reminded of the time the two of them came across a shivering, soft-shelled rodent in the thicket on one of their walks, the poor thing hiding its wounds but wailing for mercy…

"I saw your jumper and badge at the bank. Just before I fell in. You're the only Head Girl I know." Poppy blanched, but there was a dogged insistence in Rose's tone. "It was you, wasn't it? In the lake when I got attacked by Grindylows."

Poppy's breaths shallowed, panic pattering in her centre. It was clear her friend was not letting her off the hook this time.

"I know Crossley has something to do with this." Rose's face was impassive, her words deliberate and careful as she watched Poppy. "Are you testing something for him? Is that why you stole Fabian's letter? Because he suspected it, too?"

Was there really a point denying any of it now? That injured rodent flashed in Poppy's mind once more, this time curling into itself as though resigned to certain death. Only this was Rose, and she would never hurt a fly—

"I didn't want to." The admission, when it finally came, seemed to leave Poppy on its own accord. "I didn't—want to read your letters."

"Someone must have made you." Rose gave her a wan smile. "Because they're very boring."

"I didn't want to. But I did." Poppy shook her head, her breaths trembling. There was a ringing in her ears as the words tumbled out, halting and faint at first, before—"I just wanted to please him. I did everything he wanted so he would—care about me. But I'm beginning to realise now that he doesn't at all, and…" Without noticing, her vision had gone blur, her cheeks suddenly warm and wet. "I was—so stupid—"

"Don't call yourself that."

"You wanted the truth. That's the truth." Poppy turned away, unable to meet Rose's eyes any longer. She took a few minutes to gather herself, forcing herself to say the next words. "Yes, it was me in the lake. But Professor Crossley… had very little to do with all this."

She could hear Rose huff under her breath. "Why are you still protecting him? He took advantage of you. It's against the law to experiment on a student, Poppy!"

"I know, but—" Poppy wiped her eyes impatiently. "I told you. I wanted to impress him. So I did whatever it took. I… I was the one who proposed this experiment in the first place, back in fourth year. I had discovered a book of ancient brews, and thought I could possibly improve on one of the formulas. Underwater Transfiguration is near impossible, but with the right potion, perhaps..."

"So it worked." It was hard to miss the outrage in Rose's voice. "Until you realised underwater creatures could sniff you out."

"Yes. It wasn't enough to look like them… there are so many biological factors wizardkind could never hope to imitate in full. Because of you, Rose, and your work with Fawley… I soon realised how wrong it all was. That creatures, unlike people, cannot be fooled so easily." Poppy swallowed heavily. "…Like I said. I was stupid."

Rose had taken her hand, squeezing it tightly in her own. "You're not," she said quietly. "But you do realise we have to tell Professor McGonagall about this. This experiment with Crossley."

"No."

"No?"

"It was all me, Rosie. Professor Crossley never wanted anything to do with this. Not until last year, when he saw my transformation for himself, and realised… how important this breakthrough could be. What this finding could—do for his career."

"He wanted credit." Realisation dawned on Rose's face as the pieces fell into place, a rising colour in her cheeks as she fought to keep her temper. "Fabian said he heard Crossley wanting to present at the upcoming Potioneer Conference."

"They run in the same academic circles, the two of them." Poppy looked away, exhaling shakily. "I think—I think Professor Crossley might have mentioned this experiment to a few people, and when he found out Fawley might try to sabotage it, he told me to keep a close eye on your correspondence. But I'm glad I did, because I didn't realise how wrong this all was until I read Fawley's letters. In the wrong hands, my work could be weaponised against an entire species of creatures—"

"If wizards could hunt Merpeople and its kind for their own uses," Rose said with thinly veiled disgust, "they would."

Poppy nodded blindly, shame creeping into her gut. "Fawley made it clear in his letters. That was when I wanted out."

"But Crossley wouldn't let you."

"Not until I found a way to fool the Grindylows." Poppy glanced up at Rose. "Though if there's anything I'm relieved to have failed, it's this."

"So it all began in fourth year." Rose stared at Poppy, worrying her bottom lip. "Poppy—you have to understand that we can't keep this from McGonagall. Didn't you say she asked you to investigate this matter? You have to tell her."

"I can't. I'll get him in trouble, I—"

"So let him. We'll gather the evidence, make our case, get him bloody fired for this—"

"I said no," Poppy said forcefully. "I won't."

"You must. It's the right thing to do—"

"I love him."

Rose stopped short, her impish features frozen in shock.

Poppy lowered her head, suddenly far too ashamed to look at her friend.

"I love him," she repeated. "I won't get him in trouble for something I did. It's not his fault I—I wanted more of his attention."

"It's his fault because he gave it to you!" There was a renewed fury in Rose's words. "There are boundaries, he's a bloody professor, he should have known better! This has to stop, Poppy. He's—he's a predator, he—"

Poppy gripped Rose's wrist, forcing her friend to look at her. "Please, Rose—why are you so damn mad about it? This has nothing to do with you—"

"You're right I'm mad. I'm mad at myself for not seeing any of it. I'm mad because he's taken advantage of you, and somehow made you think you're responsible for all of it!" Rose paused, her own eyes suspiciously wet. "Poppy. You're the one who told me what happened with Jamie wasn't my fault… so why would you take the blame for this? Please tell me, because I don't understand at all!"

Poppy stared wordlessly at Rose. Before she could respond, a dark spot had appeared on the carpet before her feet.

Then another, and another.

God, she was crying.

Why was she crying?

"This is different because I was willing, Rosie," she said heavily.

"Just because you were willing doesn't make it right for him to—"

"He did so much for me. I wouldn't be Head Girl without him—"

"No. You made Head Girl because you're brilliant—"

"They were going to give it to Nott, but I begged for it. And he made it happen." She was crying in earnest now. "What Wilkins did to you… you didn't want that. But I wanted Professor Crossley to love me. I would be—nobody without him. I'd have nobody without him. Can't you understand that?"

"That's not true," Rose whispered fiercely, restraining herself from shaking Poppy's shoulders. "He's made you believe that. Can't you see? He's taking advantage of you. He's just made you think that he loves you—"

The look of pity in Crossley's eyes returned in a flash. "He doesn't love me. I know that much."

Rose's face crumpled. "…Oh, Poppy."

How humiliating this all was. Another pathetic sob rose in Poppy's throat. "Rosie. I know it's wrong, and I understand if you—hate me for this, if you think I'm disgusting, and never want to speak to me again—"

"I don't hate you," Rose cried. "I hate him."

And Poppy would not recall anything she said over the next hour… not with the world she so carefully built finally crumbling to pieces around her. But she would always, always remember the moment Rose hurled forward to wrap her arms tightly around her, holding her as tightly as it took to keep her from utterly falling apart.

The Gryffindor common room was a strange place to be at daybreak; all manner of bustle and drama were completely absent in these ungodly hours. The fire had long gone out, and the formerly rich scarlet and gold furnishings were completely drained of colour against the sickly blue of the incoming morning.

But this eerie quiet perfectly suited the rambling stream of thought that had kept Rose awake for the past five hours. She had been thinking so hard that it startled her when the first colours of dawn touched the sky beyond the arched lattice windows.

Poppy was curled up beside her on the same sofa, her head tucked against a velvet cushion as her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. She looked exhausted even in sleep. They had spoken for hours, crying for most of it, unravelling the awful burden that Poppy had shouldered on her own. For years. Shattered from James' foolish treatment of her, only for Crossley to prey upon the pieces of her that were left…

Guilt washed over Rose, the same accusing thoughts repeating through her mind.

I should have noticed.

I should have paid more attention.

I should have put a stop to all of it before Poppy got hurt.

It made Rose wonder, for the first time, if everyone else had a point. That her obsession with creatures could render her thoughtless and inconsiderate. And that these single-minded pursuits, as much as they meant to her, came at the expense of everything else in her life… including her friendships.

Or rather, the one friendship that mattered most to her.

Rose squeezed her eyes shut, trying to curb the churn of remorse in her stomach.

She managed to coax Poppy up a few minutes later, and they bumbled blearily back to the dormitories, where her friend went straight to bed. Knowing sleep was well beyond her, Rose hit the showers instead, intent on heading out early; she felt far too preoccupied to stay still. She couldn't help a faint smile at the sight of Arnold The Third nestling cosily into Poppy's hair, just as she headed out the door.

Fabian was likely awaiting her reply, Rose thought grimly. She owed it to him, seeing as he was the one who sounded the alarm, but the matter felt too delicate to put on parchment. Rose shoved her trembling hands into her pockets, wondering at her chances of catching Albus this early. Unlikely, she decided. Her cousin was famously poor at mornings.

The hallways were largely empty, the frost of the morning biting her skin as she ambled towards the doors of the Great Hall. As she approached, a strange sight made her stop and blink.

She looked again.

Standing at the entrance of the Great Hall was a creature of sorts. Or rather, Rose thought it was a creature. It was slender and tall, its lanky form obscured by a head of scraggley brown hair. Other details were just as baffling—it appeared to be wearing a ragged sheet, the mud-coloured fabric caked with filth. As her eyes tracked the strange figure, it became apparent that the outfit was once a wizard's standard set of robes.

Not a creature then. A fugitive, perhaps?

Rose's breath caught at the possibility.

But before she could examine the situation further, the man-creature turned. His face was streaked with dirt, his wild eyes piercing through the cloud of exhaustion that hung over her. Rose suddenly felt all too alert.

Unwittingly, she took a step back.

The man-creature's sharp gaze narrowed as he locked in on her.

He uttered a low grunt, lurching forward.

Paralysed by shock, Rose felt around her pockets for her wand. But it was too late. The grimy stranger had launched himself in her direction. Rose stumbled backwards, her arms held up to ward off an attack, but the man-creature had captured her soundly in his arms.

Before uttering, in perfect Queen's English, "Merlin's beard, Rose Weasley!"

He smelled of old sweat and crud, but the onslaught of physical contact made Rose panic. "Get away from me," she bit out, her voice shrill. "I swear I'll scream—"

"It's me, it's me!" hollered the man-creature, sounding on the edge of hysterics. "Your partner-in-crime, your man of the hour, your—"

"Let go—"

There was a sudden crack and flash of light, and the man-creature was flung abruptly away from her. Rose found herself dragged away, a familiar presence soothing her fluster even as it made her heart leap. Scorpius. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks tinged pink from the chilly air. His broomstick was lying forgotten on the ground a few feet away.

Rose had no idea that Scorpius was an early riser. Though there was something distinctly murderous in his eyes that suggested he probably wasn't the cheerful variety of morning person.

Not to mention his wand was still aimed squarely at the stranger moaning in pain on the stone floor.

"Did he hurt you?" Scorpius asked, his tone unnaturally calm as he stared fixedly at the man-creature.

"No," Rose said, tugging down his wand arm in alarm. "Scorpius, don't. I'm fine."

He glanced at her, his expression hard. "You're not fine. You're shaking."

That was true, but something like this was hardly grounds for murder. "He might need our help."

"Or he could be bloody savage." Scorpius' jaw worked as he turned his furious glare back to the stranger. "Excuse me if I'm taking precautions here."

"Dear Merlin, it's the mad man!" the man-creature uttered.

"You're calling me the mad man," Scorpius intoned, and the death chill in his words made Rose's hair stand on end, "when you're the one trespassing on school grounds assaulting students?"

"Assaulting?" The man-creature looked completely befuddled for a moment. "Ah. Did I hurt you, Weasley? I should have let you know I was coming, but I was on a last-minute mission in Poland—"

Poland. Rose felt a jolt of recognition. She recalled the mention of Poland recently, in a letter—"Fabian?"

Beside her, Scorpius had visibly stiffened. But the man-creature—Fabian Fawley—lit up like a Christmas tree.

"The one and only," he cried. "It's indeed me! Thank Circe, Weasley, you're alright! I thought something terrible happened. You didn't reply my letter, and Headmistress McGonagall let me know you were in the Hospital Wing. I honestly thought you'd died chasing that bloody Jarvey you keep harping about—"

Rose gaped at him, utterly mystified that Fabian Fawley was standing right before her resembling more a hungry Sasquatch than the acclaimed academic she was acquainted with. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"To put things to rights, of course," Fawley said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. He closed in and held out a hand to Rose, his expression edged with impatience. "No time to lose. We must go at once!"

"Go where?" Scorpius said sharply, stepping between them.

Fawley's alert expression shifted away from Rose, as though he'd just noticed Scorpius for the first time. "So he is the reason why you haven't been replying my letters, Weasley?"

Rose opened her mouth to reply, but Scorpius' grip on her wrist had tightened considerably. She glanced up at him, nonplussed. "Scorpius, I need to go with Fabian—"

There was a distant look in Scorpius' darkened eyes. "No."

"I have to discuss a few things—"

His voice was strangely cool. "I said no."

Rose faltered, suddenly too aware of the feral animosity of Scorpius' biting stare as he regarded Fawley… the hell of his temper completely frozen over into something far more deadly.

She had never seen him look like this.

You've clearly never seen him in one of his episodes...

His relentless hold over her wrist was beginning to ache.

"Fabian," she said slowly, never taking her eyes off of Scorpius, "could you give us a minute, please?"

"A crisis of massive proportions is about to befall us," Fawley said earnestly, completely unaware of Rose's trepidation. "But go on and take your time."

And he tottered over to the other side of the hallway.

With some semblance of privacy, Rose turned back to Scorpius, giving her wrist an experimental tug. Scorpius held fast, unmoving even as his bedeviled gaze became fixed on her.

"Scorpius," Rose said carefully. "Let go of me."

But Scorpius said nothing; only stared back at her with a terrible, faraway look in his eyes. There was something thunderous about his silence that made her heart sink. This erratic behavior reminded Rose of that tender moment they shared months ago, right at this very spot. The panic of his fervent embrace, his nose buried in her hair as Georgia approached from a distance…

He was unreachable for quite a bit, you know.

And yet this, whatever it was, was hurting her. Her wrists were going sore from his insistent grip. Rose tried again. "Scorpius, you're holding me too tight."

"You're not going with him." He sounded detached from the words, as though it was someone else saying them. Rose blinked up at him, her confusion growing.

"I'm not going with him. I just need to talk to him."

"What about?" Scorpius' grey stare bored into hers, the complete lack of affection in his expression catching her off-guard.

"You said you'd let me figure it out," Rose said, keeping her voice even. "I need you to trust me."

"And I suppose that means letting you have secrets with other men."

Rose's cheeks heated up at the mirthless curl in Scorpius' mouth. "You're not being fair. You're acting like I did something to break your trust—"

"I've heard that one before, Rose," he returned coldly. "Try again."

His callous response stung her. Rose's mind blanked; she suddenly felt overwhelmed. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep and her growing anxiety over Poppy—but she found herself wishing away from Scorpius. How odd, she thought, her eyes prickling. That only a few days ago she thought she might have understood, at least a little bit—

What it meant to be in love.

Rose's eyes returned to her wrists, his fingers still clasped firmly around them.

"You're hurting me," she said softly, trying to swallow her disappointment. "Please let me go."

Unexpectedly, Scorpius released her. Rose stepped back, rubbing her wrists as she tried to make sense of what was happening between them. She was realising, for the first time, that the heated intensity that coloured Scorpius' affections could also lend itself to spite.

She'd almost forgotten, too—

How unkind he could be.

God, she didn't want to fight.

Not with Scorpius.

Not with someone she liked so much.

As their gazes locked, it occurred to her that he resembled, once more, the handsome stranger she first kissed at Hogsmeade. Despite his unearthly beauty, there had been a frightening undercurrent to him even then, something that verged between sorrow and cruelty—

She hadn't known that Scorpius at all.

And here he was, in the flesh.

"I'm not going to argue about this, Scorpius," Rose said at last, her voice quiet. "I need Fabian's help. And I'll explain myself when the time comes."

For the briefest of moments, she thought he would surely lose his temper. But a switch seemed to flip inside of him… and Scorpius appeared to retreat into himself, merely looking away as he retrieved his broomstick.

"Do whatever you want, Rose," he said, and the icy indifference in his voice was like a knife twisting into her heart. "Who am I to stop you?"

And he turned on his heel and left.