A/N: Hey all!
I ALSO just want to clarify that this story is intended for audiences aged 18 and up!
On top of the topics that cover abuse, substance use, violence (to self and others), and potentially triggering depictions of mental health issues mentioned in the last author's note I left, there will ALSO be eventual (explicit) smut as the plot progresses.
Please note that all characters engaging in any descriptively explicit sexual acts within this story are depicted as aged 18 years or older. I will NEVER write an explicit sex scene in which the characters are underage.
I know that everybody has their own triggers, so I will ALWAYS put a warning at the beginning of any chapter that contains such content.
P.S. I do NOT own Harry Potter
P.P.S. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! I REALLY APPRECIATE REVIEWS!
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"Comb your hair, carrot top! You look like a poodle."
Rose's fingers twitch towards her wand as her mahogany body-length mirror makes a fourth less-than-polite comment regarding her appearance.
I'll make you look like a poodle with all of its fucking bones smashed in, thinks Rose vehemently before remembering that she had cast an anti-shattering spell on it three years ago after one too many fits of early morning rage against said mirror.
Her fingers halt in their pursuit of her wand at this grudging realization, and she settles for glaring at her reflection instead.
Unlike her younger, lithe cousin Lily and her ever graceful girlfriend Evangeline, Rose wouldn't consider herself conventionally beautiful. Girls like Lily and Evangeline have a certain softness to them— a certain feminine charm that makes the poor chaps (and in their case, the poor lasses) grovel shamelessly at their feet. A certain something that Rose blatantly lacks.
Under an unruly mop of shoulder-length, red curls that could hardly be controlled even with the strongest of Sleekeazy's solutions is a sharp pale face with thick brown freckles covering just about every single centimeter of exposed skin. Rose's unconventionally feral appearance is further accentuated by her characteristic, piercing blue glare that possesses the power to both simultaneously burn and freeze the shit out of anything that breathes, along with a permanent sneer superglued to her plump (and also freckled) lips.
This isn't to say that Rose would necessarily consider herself conventionally "unattractive" either. Years of flying on a broomstick and strenuously slamming her beater's bat against hyperactive bludgers both at school and for a living definitely toned out and accentuated her naturally voluptuous 5'5'' frame. While general society may deem the petite, angel-faced Lily Luna Potter or the part-Veela goddess Dominique Weasley to be the faces of conventional beauty within her family, nobody could deny the size and shape of Rose Weasley's arse.
Speaking of her arse…
Rose turns around and then cranes her neck to look back over her shoulder. She tilts her hips ever so slightly and smirks at her reflection as she studies her bare, freckled backside with a sense of pride.
"What is this, a nudist convention? Put on some damn clothes, carrot top!"
Her mirror's incessant back-talk snaps her out of her brief moment of self-love.
For a split second, her brain immediately goes over all of the possible ways she may be able to bypass her own anti-shattering spell and destroy the bloody fuck out of her less-than-supportive mirror, but the fiery second passes as soon as it comes.
Breathe, Rose.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in.
You are starting a new job in less than two hours. You cannot lose your shit right now. Think about mum.
She exhales slowly, her breath coming out in a steady hiss.
After one more glowering look at her reflection, Rose turns her back on the mirror and makes her way to the wardrobe located at the other end of her room.
Unlike the rest of their plant and herb infested flat, Rose's room portrays a strong semblance of organized normalcy. Apart from her neatly made twin-sized bed, rocking chair, and two towering bookcases filled with books (lined in alphabetical order of course), there really isn't much to look at besides her collection of intentionally placed Quidditch posters.
Her sanctuary just screams OCD, and she damn well knows it.
Rose sifts through the clothes in her wardrobe; all neatly organized by item type and color. She wonders what the hell an administrative assistant wears to work on a daily basis— a blouse? A skirt? A jumper? Formal robes? Bloody knickers?!
Fuck. Rose feels a mixture of frustration and panic creep up the back of her throat as her eyes shift aimlessly over the contents of her wardrobe. After wearing nothing but three sets of identical color-coded Quidditch robes for the entirety of her career, the prospect of actually being responsible for her own choice in professional clothing terrifies the living shit out of Rose.
Picking out the appropriate outfit for the appropriate occasion is Lily's thing, or Victoire's thing… but definitely not Rose's. At Hogwarts, the required day-to-day uniform made her life easy, as did flying professionally for a Quidditch team with a strict dress code. On off-days, Rose almost always goes for a blouse and a jumper, or a knitted sweater with a pair of jeans. Any special occasion that requires her to play dress-up requires the enlisted assistance of her more fashionable friends and/or family.
So what the fucking fuck does a bloody administrative assistant wear?
Rose shakes her head in an attempt to clear her befuddled brain. You're overthinking this, Rose. It shouldn't be this difficult. What do people who work at the ministry wear? What does mum wear?
After almost fifteen agonizing minutes in which Rose takes out various articles of clothing only to change her mind at the last second and put them back in their respective places, she settles on a sleek, but modest black skirt that falls just above the knees, a white button-up blouse with a collar, a pair of black stockings she hadn't worn in over four years, and a pair of simple off-gray robes that could hopefully pass as "professional."
Once she has each chosen article of clothing laid out neatly on her bed, Rose goes back to her back-talking mirror and starts working on her uncontrollably tangled mess of curls— a trait she has her dear mummy to thank for.
After many detangling charms and some of sleakeazy's strongest, Rose manages to tame the jungle atop her head and gather it into a singular French braid, a few stubbornly loose curls framing her freckled cheeks.
"Good job, carrot top! You deserve a medal. Now put some damn clothes on for Merlin's sake!"
Rose lets out a growl under her breath.
None of the other mirrors she's come across over the years have ever been this rude to her. Then again, Lily did once mention that a mirror is only as kind as its owner…
With a derisive snort, Rose turns her back to her mirror once again and makes her way to her carefully laid out "professional" outfit.
A sudden feeling of apprehension washes over her as she looks down at the articles of clothing.
Bloody administrative assistant.
This is what her life has come to.
Just a week ago, she was soaring through the skies donned in her Holyhead Harpy robes, getting paid to slam bludgers with all that pent-up rage festering inside of her. She was free, untethered, alive.
And now she's been reduced to this. A soul sucking ministry job that would require her to do double the work for half the pay.
A job that would require her to pick out her own bloody outfit everyday.
And it's all her own fault.
Rose squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to take another deep breath.
You reap what you sow, she thinks bitterly, fighting the urge to slam her fist through the wall.
Now fucking deal with it.
—-
"Level seven, Department of Magical Games And Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office."
Rose's mouth feels like parchment as she steps off the lift. A number of preoccupied witches and wizards step off behind her in a flurry and walk hurriedly to their destinations, their eyes never once sparing her a pitying look.
She beholds her new place of employment— the first thing Rose notices is how loud it is in here. On top of frazzled looking witches and wizards running back in forth with piles of paperwork, or screaming and flailing their fists at each other from their desks, there are also a number of what looks like haphazard, ill-behaving Cleansweep Sevens zooming through the air, emitting high pitched whistling noises. Underneath this initial chaos is a large, atrium-like room filled to the brim with cubicles and a colorful display of tacky Quidditch posters.
Frankly, it's a stark contrast to the orderly, utilitarian offices that Rose expected, and she isn't sure if it's a good thing or not.
The frowning Weasley starts to fiddle with a loose thread hanging from the left sleeve of her robes. She blinks a few times, an awkward heat forming against the back of her neck.
Rose feels blatantly out of place— like a sore thumb in an environment that does little to acknowledge her existence or the fact that she needs some bloody assistance.
"Rose Weasley?"
A chirpy, but firm voice interrupts Rose's inner tirade. She jumps slightly and turns around to face a tall, good-looking witch in her early to mid thirties wearing a set of sleek emerald green robes.
"That would be me," Rose croaks in response. Her eyes graze over the witch, taking in her short black bob, symmetrical bangs, doll-like face, and long, shapely legs. She suddenly feels both extremely intimidated and unattractive.
The witch's sharp green eyes narrow slightly as they glide over Rose's whole body before meeting her cold blue gaze. She then speaks again, her voice crisp and a little too formal. "My name is Olivia Orford. I am one of the head supervisors of the British and Irish Quidditch League division, as well as the recruiting supervisor for the whole department."
Rose raises an eyebrow. This is a head supervisor for the Quidditch Division? There is absolutely nothing about Olivia Orford—not a single strand of her disgustingly beautiful hair— that resonates with "Quidditch."
Nevertheless, the curly-haired Weasley keeps her lips pressed together as she reaches out and shakes Olivia Orford's hand.
"I'll be in charge of your training for the first two weeks," Olivia continues in that excruciatingly formal voice as she quickly retracts her hand from Rose's grasp. "After that, you will only answer to the Head of the Department, and him alone. Come with me."
Olivia motions for her to follow with a small jerk of her head, and she turns her back to Rose, briskly walking through the cacophony of cubicles.
Rose wrinkles her nose as she follows after Olivia, inwardly cursing at how bloody fast she's walking.
Why does she have a feeling that this Olivia Orford girl alreadydislikes her?
And why does Rose immediately return the sentiment?
"As you probably already know, the Department of Magical Games and Sports is separated into three divisions. We are currently walking through the headquarters of the Quidditch division. Please excuse the hullabaloo; we are in the early stages of planning next summer's Quidditch World Cup," Olivia prattles off, not once looking back at Rose, who is struggling to keep up with the taller, leggier witch.
Olivia continues, her voice sharp and almost accusatory: "You are the administrative and personal assistant to the Head of the Department, himself. Therefore, your workload will encompass entry-level materials from all three divisions, plus scheduling, errands, and other duties as assigned to ensure that the Head of the Department's workday runs smoothly."
"So I am essentially a glorified errand girl, correct?" Rose deadpans with as much bitterness as possible.
She almost regrets it. Almost.
Olivia turns her head to shoot Rose an icy glare, though she never once breaks her brisk pace. "Working directly under the head of the department is an extremely vital job that I personally believe is far too important for a washed out, ex-Harpies beater with anger issues, but nevertheless, here we are. You should be grateful for this opportunity."
Aha. There it is.
Rose feels a violent rush of heat surge through her whole body. She clenches her fists and glares at the back of Olivia's head, inwardly cursing every single sway of the other girl's perfectly stupid bob.
Fuck you, you doxy-dung encrusted CUNT!
Just as Rose feels her fingers twitch towards her wand, Olivia stops abruptly in front of a pair of large wooden doors, causing the younger, irate Weasley to stumble over her own feet.
Olivia turns to look at Rose, her face a stone cold statue of iciness and forced formality. "Because your position requires you to work closely and intimately with the Head of the Department, you will receive your own office space close to the Head's office, which is also through these doors. The password is Magpies this week. Passwords change every Monday morning and it is your responsibility to keep up with the changes. Any questions?"
Rose smirks darkly and petulantly crosses her arms, deciding not to even bother the dumb bitch with a response. If she can't smash the stupid bint's face in or verbally insult her to hell and back, the next best thing she can do is make it absolutely clear that she absolutely abhors Olivia Orford.
Olivia's eyes narrow at Rose's silent, but obvious disrespect. However, instead of addressing the matter, she tears her gaze away from the grudging Weasley, and taps both doors with her wand, uttering the password in a small voice ("Magpies").
Both doors swing open with a loud, resounding creak. Rose follows Olivia inside, briefly taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere.
The doors slam shut behind them, blocking out the chaotic cacophony of the Quidditch division. Rose beholds a long stone corridor in front of her, not unlike many of the twisting halls back at Hogwarts. The walls are lined with old fashioned, lit torches, the flames casting a warm glow across the otherwise dark space. Below each torch is an unmarked mahogany door.
The air in here is calm and silent—- similar to that of a library. A complete contrast to what Rose had initially walked into.
"In here, we have other various administrative offices, as well as the entrances to the Gobstones Club Headquarters and the Ludicrous Patents offices. The two divisions like to switch doors at least three times a day, so don't expect to remember which door is which," Olivia chirps in that same, infuriatingly formal tone. Her voice bounces against the stone walls sharply, creating an irritating echo that makes Rose's eye twitch.
"So you're telling me it's impossible to get around here without getting lost. Or getting ran over by a rabid Cleansweep Seven. How splendid," grumbles the irate Weasley condescendingly before shooting another glare at the older witch she had suddenly developed an intense disliking for. "Would you be so kind as to show me my office, now, Olivia? Or do you just enjoy listening to yourself talk?"
Rose almost regrets it. Almost.
Olivia's eyes flash dangerously and she looks like she's about to scream, but then her lips tilt upwards into a dangerous smile. "Careful Weasley," she almost hisses. "DiMaggio may have been a pushover, but our new Head is not. He will not tolerate any ill or aggressive behavior in the workplace."
"I'm trembling," Rose deadpans, her voice dripping with flat sarcasm.
"Speaking of our dear Head," Olivia cuts in, ignoring Rose's antagonistic quip. "He has asked me to bring you over to his office so that you two can get acquainted. He also wants to go over the terms and conditions of your employment with you before you start desk training. Come."
Rose rolls her eyes, but grudgingly follows Olivia down the corridor, the heavy silence between them broken only by the echoing taps of their footsteps against the cold stone floor.
Despite her stubborn haughtiness, Rose cannot help but wonder what kind of person the new Head of the Department would be.
Hopefully not a total arse.
Rose does not appreciate the idea of getting paid to be some glorified arsehole's little bitch.
Olivia finally stops in front of one of the mahogany doors on the left side of the hallway— the only door with an engraved golden snitch on the handle. Rose watches with mild interest as Olivia hastily straightens her robes and runs a hand through her short black bob almost self-consciously, a subtle blush coating her porcelain cheeks.
Rose can only assume that the new Head of the Department must be easy on the eyes.
Olivia clears her throat, and then raps on the door three times with her knuckles. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Malfoy, but I have brought your new administrative assistant to you as requested."
Rose feels her stomach fall down to her crotch.
Wait… did she just say…
Please tell me I misheard her.
After a short moment of tense silence, the wooden door swings open to reveal a rather spacious office decorated pristinely and precisely with a mixture of what looked like an assortment of framed Puddlemere United posters, Quidditch medals, and Slytherin paraphernalia.
But it isn't the tidy and symmetrical office decor that catches Rose's attention.
No. It's the man sitting behind the desk that becomes the newfound victim of Rose's infamous death glare.
It's him.
Rose stares at the man unashamedly, channeling every single ounce of pure unadulterated hatred that she can in his direction.
She can't help but drink in his obnoxiously handsome appearance: his lightly tousled white-blonde hair, his sharp, aristocratic cheekbones, his pale brooding face, his holier-than-thou, domineering posture…
Rose hates it. She fucking hates him.
She has always hated him.
The man in question seems to be preoccupied by two piles of paperwork in front of him. His quill scribbles away furiously by itself, making quick notes on each of the documents in one pile as his eyes trace over the contents of each document in the other pile with steely concentration.
"Thank you, Olivia. I will take it from here," Scorpius Malfoy responds languidly, not bothering to look up from his bloody paperwork.
Rose wants to kick something. Or scream. Or run in the other direction.
Or bludgeon someone over the head with a beater's bat.
This cannot be happening to me.
Rose looks at Olivia with an incredulous expression on her face, before looking back at Malfoy, who still hasn't even bothered to look up from his sodding paperwork.
She can't help herself. She has to say something. "You can't be serious."
Olivia looks scandalized at Rose's blatant lack of manners, but the red-faced Weasley hardly gives a damn.
Malfoy finally looks up from the pile of paperwork on his desk to address his new, seemingly irate administrative assistant.
Rose feels her stomach lurch when his stormy grey eyes meet her ocean blue ones. A flash of familiarity passes across Malfoy's face before his lips tilt up into a cold, knowing smirk.
And suddenly, Rose's mouth has the same consistency as dried out parchment.
Fuck.
"Weasley," he drawls out her last name with cold amusement. "Long time, no see."
Rose grits her teeth and glares at him wordlessly in response. She knows that if she dares open her mouth right now, she would start spewing out some very unkind, non-ministry approved hexes in order to ruin Scorpius Malfoy's stupidly gorgeous face, and her behavior would be reported back to the Minister of Magic (her dear mother) AND the Daily Prophet.
She can already see the headlines.
"I beg your pardon, but you two are…already acquainted?" Olivia chimes in with raised eyebrows, sensing the obvious tension between the two.
Ah. Haha. HAHAHA. "Acquainted." Funny.
Scorpius Malfoy had been the bane of Rose's existence ever since she stepped foot on the goddamn Hogwarts Express during her first year. The disgustingly conceited, holier-than-thou, pure-blooded tosser was like a fucking virus designed to make Rose's school-life a living hell.
Whenever Rose thought she had received top marks on an exam or on an important school project, Malfoy always ended up scoring higher than her. When she believed that she made history as the youngest student to be enlisted on a Hogwarts Quidditch team since her Uncle Harry back in 1991, her sense of achievement was severely dampened by the fact that Scorpius Malfoy also made the Quidditch team in his first year on the same bloody day… and he was a few months younger than her.
When Rose had been made captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team during her sixth year, Scorpius Malfoy had also been made captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. Whenever Rose wanted to hang out with her cousin and best friend Albus Potter (who had unfortunately been sorted into Slytherin), Saint Scorpius fucking Malfoy was always there to steal all of his attention and ruin her precious time.
Whenever the two got into it (and boy did they have some infamous and messy rows over the years), Malfoy always seemed to be just one step ahead of her. He always knew the counter to her curses. He always knew exactly what to say and what not to say to drive her absolutely insane. Not to mention nobody really liked Rose all that much due to her naturally volatile nature, but everybody always sided with Scorpius-fuck-me-Malfoy.
And then, to top it all off, there was that fucking victory party after the final Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin during their seventh year—
Rose squeezes her eyes shut.
A familiar, but unwelcome heat forms just below her abdomen.
She refuses to let her mind go there.
Not right now.
"We went to school together. Graduating class of 2024," Malfoy responds almost indifferently to Olivia's question, as if totally oblivious to Rose's obvious torment.
He then flashes the older witch a rather charming smile before speaking, "Thank you again for your help Olivia. I just need a quick word with our new recruit, and then I'll have you take her to her office to begin desk training. Give us five minutes?"
Olivia blushes deeply at Malfoy's award-winning grin (while Rose fights the urge to gag out loud), and responds with shining eyes, "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I will be back in five."
Rose cannot help but almost wish Olivia would stay and not leave her here alone with Scorpius Malfoy, but she does nothing as the older witch turns on her heel briskly and exits the office, the resounding click of the door shutting behind her hanging heavily in the air.
Malfoy's smile immediately drops from his face as his dark grey eyes graze over Rose in that cold, judgmental, elitist manner.
Rose immediately wants to clobber him to death. Some things just never change. Even after sixteen years.
"Have a seat, Weasley. I'll be sure to make this quick for both our sakes," he drawls in that cold, languid voice of his.
He motions to an unoccupied armchair placed in front of his desk. Rose doesn't like the idea of sitting so goddamn close to the sod, but she sucks it up and does as he says. The quicker she can get out of here and away from him, the better.
She attempts to focus her eyes on a particular pattern on the desk's wooden surface, but she can't help but sneak glances up at Malfoy, who is now flicking his wand to assemble what looks like a pile of important documents into a single manila folder.
She is close enough to him that she can smell his sharp cologne and it makes her feel slightly dizzy.
She absolutely hates it.
"Your regular office hours will be from eight AM to six PM sharp, with a two hour lunch period that you may take at your discretion. However, you will be required to work overtime and weekends during busier parts of the year, and will be expected to travel to various sites in and out of the country to assist me as needed," Malfoy says in a very professional voice. With a final swish of his wand, the manila folder he had been assembling shuts itself and then gracefully lands right in front of Rose.
"You will find all of the information you need regarding your position in that folder. Olivia will go over everything with you during your training. There are instruction manuals that outline specific processes, detailed benefit descriptions, and other various documents that will prove extremely important to you, including your time card, which is your responsibility to fill out correctly. Keep in mind that all time cards are charmed to prevent dishonesty, so don't even try to fake your hours."
His voice is exactly how she remembers it. Smooth, languid, collected, cold, judgmental, hateful. Always fucking hateful.
Rose keeps her jaw clenched, her mind reeling aggressively at a hundred miles per hour. She can't do this. She cannot have Scorpius shit-stain Malfoy as her boss. This is absolutely humiliating. Un-fucking-acceptable.
After her graduation eight years ago, Rose had successfully avoided Scorpius Malfoy at all costs, despite Albus being one of his closest mates. He became nothing more than a dark, but distant specter in the grim facets of her dreams and memories.
Up until now that is.
The universe is so fucking hilarious.
"Wouldn't dream of it, your highness," sneers Rose, spitting the word highness with as much venom as her small body can muster.
Malfoy's stormy grey eyes narrow in on her with a frigid malice that makes Rose's blood run cold. An icy smirk forms on his lips as he folds his hands in front of him and leans towards Rose, causing her to shrink back against her armchair.
"I have little patience for back-talk and bad behavior, Weasley." He spits out her last name like it's something disgusting. "I can only hope that your desire to keep a well-paying ministry job that your mummy swindled for you is stronger than your insufferable personality."
Rose sees white spots in the corners of her vision as a violent heat slams through her chest like a sledgehammer. She grips the arms of her chair furiously, her knuckles going white from lack of circulation as she leans forward to firmly meet Malfoy's icy glare.
"And I can only hope that you die a slow and painful death within the next few days so that your pasty ferret arse can be replaced by someone actually qualified to run this department."
Something dangerous and familiar flashes across Malfoy's face for a split second before he smiles coldly, and leans back, his eyes never once leaving the bull-headed Weasley's challenging glare.
Through her fury-induced daze, Rose notices that he's wearing a tie.
What a fucking wanker!
"Just remember that I can easily find another qualified witch or wizard to fill your position. I am only taking you on as a favor to your mummy, who also happens to be the Minister of Magic," Malfoy says condescendingly, that stupid smirk returning to his face. "Don't give me a reason to disappoint the Minister, because I will fire you in a heartbeat. Do you understand me?"
This isn't going to work. This is a disaster waiting to happen.
How is Rose supposed to keep her temper in check when she has to be an assistant to this absolute shithead?
She is going to kill him.
K-I-L-L. Kill. Cold-blooded Murder.
A Weasley murdering a Malfoy…
The Prophet headlines would be bloody sensational.
Rose hates to admit it, but she also knows that Malfoy has a valid point. She is easily replaceable. She needs this job way more than the department needs her. In fact, hiring Rose after her violent encounter with Athena Nott is nothing short of a liability.
But you can't just say "no" to the Minister of Magic.
And she can't disappoint her mother any more than she already has.
"Crystal clear, captain," Rose responds with a dark smile of her own as she leans back in her armchair.
Malfoy studies her for another moment with those steely, multilayered eyes of his, and Rose can't help but feel as if he is analyzing her soul with calculating mirth.
Finally, the corner of his lip curls up into another one of his cruel, crooked smiles.
Rose hates that every single one of her hairs on her body stands on end at the sight of it.
"Good," he responds curtly, his face suddenly morphing into one of stoic professionalism. The transformation is almost scary. "Do you have any questions for me before I dismiss you?"
"What's the compensation?" Rose forces out in the most formal voice she can muster. Unfortunately, she only sounds distressed and constipated.
"The starting salary for this position will be four galleons an hour during your regular office hours," Malfoy continues in that stoically formal voice of his. He flicks his wand to summon another large stack of papers to his desk. "You will be paid double that amount for any overtime, and you will be paid a flat rate of three hundred galleons for every task that requires overnight travel."
Rose's mouth dries.
Four bloody galleons an hour.
With an average forty hour work week, she would be making one hundred and sixty galleons a week.
She was paid a weekly salary of nearly four hundred galleons while playing with the Holyhead Harpies, and that rate never changed, even during the off season.
Rose never thought that she would be in a position where she would accept an over-fifty percent pay cut to work for Scorpius fucking Malfoy.
This day just can't get any worse, and it's barely even started.
And it's also very irritating that Malfoy seems to have lost interest in her completely, his concentration now focused on his piles of paperwork once more.
Not that Rose necessarily wants his attention per se, but she just cannot stand his sneering indifference… as if he's some fucking messiah or something.
"Any other questions you have can be answered by Olivia," he says shortly, his eyes seemingly glued to the contents of the document, his fingers rifles through it. "Speaking of which— Olivia, you may enter."
As if on cue, the door to the office opens and in steps the pretty older witch, a cautionary expression on her face. Her eyes narrow slightly at the sight of Rose.
"Take Miss Weasley here to her office," Malfoy orders Olivia, still seemingly distracted by the work before him (though Rose can hear the bite in his tone when he says her last name). "Let her get acquainted with her new workspace for a few moments on her own. I want to discuss the division quarterlies with you in my office before you begin her training."
Olivia smiles coyly in Malfoy's direction. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy."
She then turns to Rose, the smile dropping from her face almost instantly. "You. Come with me," she snaps.
Rose snatches the manila folder and stands up from her seat, kicking the armchair out of her way with unnecessary aggression.
As she follows Olivia out of the office, Rose cannot help but feel the heavy, chilling impact of a pair of stormy grey eyes slicing into her back with passionate vehemence before the door shuts behind her.
Her mind is buzzing furiously— as if someone had released a swarm of bees in her brain.
She barely registers Olivia taking her to her tiny office, which happens to be no larger than a broom cupboard.
She hardly cares that her new office is barely passable as an office, and adorned with nothing but a small desk crammed in the left corner of the room, and a soot-stained fireplace in the other corner.
She barely comprehends Olivia telling her that she would be back in a few moments to begin her training, and barely acknowledges the older witch exiting her office almost a little too enthusiastically.
As soon as Olivia makes her exit, Rose points at her wand at the door and performs a quick silencing charm on it.
The bees swarming in her head are too much.
The vicious heat surging through her gut is too hot. Too poignant. Too raw.
So the bull-headed, ex-Quidditch player does what she does best. She slams her fist through the wall with all of her strength, and screams bloody murder.