Chapter title taken from the HIM song.

London, England. Several years after the war.

Ugly square spectacles rested on a long, crooked nose while his grayed eyes pierced into her soul. He sniffed, one hand shoving the cracked bifocal into its rightful crease, the other hand critiquing the resume in question.

"Now tell me, Ms. Morana," his wistful voice barely audible over the creak of his chair. "What do you believe makes you qualified for this position? It has been a few years since your last relevant post."

The corners of Rosalind's mouth formed a tight smile as she cleared her throat. "I am passionate about serving justice. During my time in Central America I witnessed things beyond my imagination and was constantly in a critical position. It was a high-stress situation that challenged my ethics and skills but ultimately made me a better witch. I am adept at jinxes and hexes, and have seen my fair share of Dark Magic. I am confident I will be a great addition to the Ministry, if hired."

The decrepit man paused, peering deeper into her eyes. Thin fingers traced his toothbrush mustache as he glanced over her resume once more. "Very well. We will inform you by owl post within the next two days if we believe you are qualified. You may leave." He motioned to the door, screeching open on command.

"Thank you sir, for taking the time to interview me-"

The gust from the slamming door swept the baby hairs from her face as she swallowed her words. Rosalind sighed in defeat, her heart still palpitating from nervousness. Years of applying at the Ministry and she rarely received a response. The Ministry of Magic had few career openings.

She dropped her arms to her side, catching her fall from the ridiculous stilettos suffocating her toes before making her way to the lift. Purple airplanes glided through iron gates, heading to their marked destinations. Rosalind quickened her pace, her black pencil skirt shortening her stride. A platinum haired young man walked in, lazily sticking his arm out to keep the gate from closing, making no effort to hide the eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Rosalind smiled politely to the man, thanking him as she eyed the odd golden yellow ropes dangling from the ceiling. Before she could finish her sentence, she was thrust backwards into the man who kept the gate open for her.

"Bloody hell!" he cried annoyed. "Haven't you ever been on a goddamn lift before?"

Rosalind turned around, face flushed, apologizing profusely. "I am so sorry-I didn't realize that's what the ropes were for-I didn't mean to-" She looked upwards to the platinum haired man with pale grey eyes, for a moment connecting with her own.

"You lost or something? You don't sound like you're around here," he said, noticing her American accent.

"I-uhh sorta-I just had a job interview and I've never been here before so I'm just trying to find the way out."

He eyed her oddly. "Are you a Yank?"

"Yes, born and raised there. My family is Salvadorian."

"They're what?"

"Salvadorian," she replied matter-of-factly. "Super small country? Had one of the worst magical civil wars in recent history?"

"Oh. Right." He continued to eye her, having no clue what she was talking about. "The exit is on level one. Follow the hall until the end and step into the phone booth. It'll take you back up to London."

She smiled, acknowledging her gratitude. "Thank you."

She followed his directions, taking the phone booth to uproot her back into Muggle London. After a brief episode of walking the wrong direction, she made her way to The Leaky Cauldron.

"Morning, Rosalind," the old barman greeted her. "How'd yer interview go?"

"No idea honestly," she said with a sigh, sitting at her usual stool. "I mean I know I could do the job, the question is if they'll give me a chance."

"They'd be nutters to not consider you," he said between cleaning glassware, handing her a frothing butterbeer. "You're a smart lass."

"Thanks, Tom." She downed her butterbeer in seconds, wiping the droplets from her chin. "I'll see you for the nightshift." She flicked a Sickle at the old man, who threw it back at her.

"Keep it. I'll take it out of your wages."

Rosalind smiled and rolled her eyes, heading to Diagon Alley. It is a crisp autumn day, the last hints of summer fading into fall. The cobbled street was a ghost town now that Hogwarts was in session again. Rosalind inhaled the elements, taking in the relatively quiet surroundings, eventually finding her way in front of an obnoxiously decorated building, standing at such an acute angle it looked as if it would fall over.

The warm, comforting scent of eucalyptus flooded her nose, rushing memories of her parent's house. She excitedly looked for the cause of the smell, her face falling as she realized the love potions. It had been years since she had had that comforting at home feeling-something she would never feel again.

"Yearning to try a Thunder Cracker?" a facetious voice asked her. "They're all the rage right now, but I'd suggest a Rocket Box for a first timer such as yourself."

Rosalind jumped at the close proximity of the voice. "Oh I'm just looking," she answered in surprise. "I don't have any occasion to be celebrating with fireworks at the moment."

The young man raised his brow. "Nonsense, there is always time for celebration and mischief in life."

"My whole life is an insane joke so you may be right," she laughed dryly, taking a look at the one-eared man in front of her.

"Don't be so hard on yourself mate, cheer up," he said genuinely. "Nothing a Pepper-Up Potion can't cure."

Rosalind eyed him suspiciously. "You are quite the salesman. I'm sure that charm has gotten you a fair share of things."

He smiled broadly. "Why thank you madam, I happen to own this quaint shop. Started it with my twin brother some years ago."

"Oh," she cried, recognizing the flaming red hair from the Daily Prophet . "You're George Weasley? Infamous Hogwarts dropout?"

George Weasley laughed, slightly abashed. "That I am miss, at your service." He stood straight, fixing his maroon robe. "Although I like to refer to myself as a young entrepreneur."

"Right, sorry. That was pretty rude of me," she laughed. "I can't believe I've never been in your shop before, this is quite impressive magic.

George gave her a short bow. "Thank you. It takes a great witch or wizard to recognize excellence. Can I interest you in a Headless Hat? What about a pygmy puff?"

Rosalind shook her head. "Sorry it's not in my budget right now. Maybe next time when I have a bigger paycheck."

"Well don't take too long to return, I might forget about you," George joked.

"You're right, I am pretty unforgettable," she quipped as she made her way to the exit.

The salesman blurted a blistering laugh. "Ah, a woman with jokes. All the reason for you to come back."

"We shall see," she responded with a smile, finishing the short walk to her flat.

The tiny flat looked as bleak as ever; the same dull flooring, the dull grey furniture, the dying plants, and the dusty floors. It was not much but it was all she could afford. London was not cheap. She traced her fingers over the frame of a photograph displaying a young, frizzy-haired Rosalind, her toddler sister, and their middle-aged parents. Their beaming smiles clenched her heart.

As if on command, a large tawny owl screeched at the window. Rosalind untied the envelope with her scarred hands, petting the bird before its departure. Inside was thick parchment, and a brief note in thin, elegant writing:

Dear Ms. Morana,

After careful consideration we have agreed upon offering you a post with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry of Magic. Should you accept this offer, respond via owl post promptly. You will begin Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.

King regards,

Faris Gambol

Ministry of Magic Research and Hiring Committee

Thank you so much for reading! This is still a bit of an introduction before the action kicks up.

Next chapter: The Dark Side of the Moon.