The frigid autumn wind clawed viciously at Rose Shafiq's skin as she stood alone in the shadowy quiet of the Hogwarts Owlery. Her eyes, luminous yet weary, traced the dark silhouette of her owl disappearing into the starless night, carrying a letter she wished she never had to write—a plea to a father whose concern for power had eclipsed even his daughter.
Her trembling hand curled tightly, fingernails cutting painfully into her palm as despair surged through her chest. Each week brought fresh news of violence, each day tightened the noose around the necks of pure-blood aristocracy. But her father had fled, abandoning his throne, and worse, leaving her image plastered across every page of the Daily Prophet like some glittering jewel up for auction. The scandalous photographs weren't simply gossip—they were a message to the world: my daughter is for sale. Rose was no fool. She knew what awaited her if her father decided to sell her hand to the highest bidder. The thought sickened her.
She inhaled sharply, trying to calm the whirlwind in her heart, but the oppressive weight of loneliness pressed harder. Sirius's face, the stubborn set of his jaw, the rebellious spark in his eyes haunted her thoughts. Regulus's steely grace and chilling composure offered only cold comfort. Even now, they danced around her memory, shadows of affection tangled with danger.
Rose tightened her cloak around herself, steeling her resolve as she descended toward the dungeons. Tonight, she would face the serpent pit alone.
The Slytherin common room was a canvas of sinister green light and hissing whispers. Flames flickered malevolently in the fireplace, casting harsh shadows over aristocratic faces turned toward her with predatory anticipation. Evan Rosier lounged near the fire, flanked by Rabastan Lestrange, Theodore Nott, Mulciber, and Narcissa Black, whose cool, calculating gaze held secrets Rose could only guess at.
"Well, if it isn't the Prophet's favorite scandal," Evan drawled lazily, his voice dripping venom. "How thoughtful of your father, Rose—advertising your availability to every noble house from here to America. Tell me, is he desperate, or simply bored of his responsibilities?"
Laughter rippled darkly among the gathered pure-bloods. Rose straightened, eyes flashing dangerously. "Careful, Rosier. Jealousy makes you predictable."
Evan rose slowly, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Jealousy? Hardly. Anticipation, rather." He stepped closer, voice dropping dangerously. "You see, once you bear my name, I'll make certain you pay for every word, every look, every ounce of defiance. In my bed, you'll learn exactly how little your precious name and your father's gold mean to me."
Bile rose in her throat at his words, her heart pounding furiously with revulsion. Yet Rose refused to flinch, raising her chin defiantly. "Touch me, Evan, and you'll burn before you ever break me."
He smirked darkly, wand flashing out in a heartbeat. "I accept your challenge."
He hurled a dark curse, its crimson glow vicious in the dim light. Rose responded on instinct, her wand slashing silently through the air:
Protego Diabolica.
Black flames burst forth, hungrily devouring Evan's curse with stunning ease. But the magic was ancient and volatile—pain exploded in Rose's palm, searing through her skin, blood trickling darkly onto the stone floor.
Silence blanketed the room as shock and awe mingled on every face. Narcissa stepped forward, voice sharp and commanding, severing the tension instantly.
"Enough. Evan, your lack of decorum is an embarrassment to our house." Her voice held authority but not contempt, careful not to humiliate him outright. Narcissa knew better than to make enemies carelessly.
Evan's fury simmered dangerously, his jaw clenching tightly. With a final glare at Rose, he spun away, leaving the room seething.
Narcissa approached calmly, swiftly conjuring bandages to stop Rose's bleeding. Her voice lowered to a whisper laced with genuine concern. "You impressed everyone tonight, Rose, but you also made a dangerous enemy."
"I can handle Evan," Rose murmured bitterly, though pain clouded her voice.
Narcissa leaned in slightly, voice soft yet edged with steel. "Be careful. Your father may believe he can escape this war by hiding overseas, but your photos were a clear message: you are his payment, his sacrifice to keep his fortune safe. Our kind sees more than scandal—we see the truth. You're unprotected now, a jewel displayed openly for the highest bidder."
Rose's throat tightened painfully, fear welling in her chest as Narcissa's words settled deep within her. She nodded stiffly, grateful yet wary. Narcissa's concern was strategic, not purely compassionate—Rose understood this well.
In the dim quiet of the sixth-year dormitory, Regulus Black entered, eyes stormy with irritation, his clothing still faintly carrying Claire Travers's perfume—a careless indulgence. He stopped abruptly, sensing the charged atmosphere instantly.
"Where's Evan?" His voice was cold, commanding.
Rabastan lounged on his bed, smirking in dark amusement. "Your lovely Shafiq nearly reduced him to ashes tonight. She used Protego Diabolica. Silent, flawless, ancient magic. Clearly, her Veela blood makes her dangerously talented."
A flare of anger tightened Regulus's chest. "Is she hurt?"
"Bleeding and shaken, but alive," Rabastan answered, watching Regulus closely. "I intervened before Evan finished what he started."
Theodore Nott spoke quietly from the shadows. "Rosier openly claimed her, Regulus. He promised to break her once she's in his bed."
Regulus's jaw hardened dangerously. "If Evan touches her, I'll rip that Dark Mark from his skin."
Rabastan laughed softly, eyes glittering. "Careful, cousin. She might be precious, but our cause matters more than any woman. If Evan decides to torment her, what difference does it make? She's a trophy, not a soldier."
Regulus turned, his voice deadly calm. "Rose is royalty. Her father's cowardice doesn't erase that. She is not to be broken for amusement."
Mulciber leaned forward thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aurelius Shafiq employed someone to instruct her. That curse is rare, powerful."
Rabastan's smile widened admiringly. "Veela blood always enhances ancient magic. She's more than beautiful—she's formidable. Think of the asset she could be."
Regulus's thoughts darkened. He feared Rabastan might relay this to his brother Rodolphus, potentially forcing Rose into the Death Eaters' grasp. Such a fate terrified him far more than losing political favor.
"Evan went too far tonight," Nott muttered carefully. "There's talk he cursed a third-year afterward."
Rabastan chuckled darkly. "Augustus Rosier might seize this as an advantage. Aurelius practically invited bids on her. Evan's claim is bold, but effective."
Regulus finally spoke, eyes blazing coldly. "Then it's time to make my move first."
Alone in the flickering candlelight of the Slytherin girls' bathroom, Rose finally allowed herself to break. Tears slipped silently down her pale cheeks as she studied her reflection—broken, vulnerable, scared. Her hand trembled, the wound refusing to close, pale skin marked forever by dark magic.
She collapsed onto the cold tile, shivering violently, despair washing over her. The disgusting thought of Evan Rosier's hands upon her filled her with revulsion, panic tightening around her heart like a vice. Her father had abandoned her to this cruel fate, and she was dangerously exposed.
In the darkness, Rose Shafiq—once proud, strong, untouchable—finally understood the bitter truth: she was alone in a world that saw her as nothing more than a beautiful prize, ready to be claimed, possessed, and broken. And for the first time in her life, she truly feared the future she could no longer control.