On paper, Rose Shafiq's life could inspire envy in most girls her age—and for good reason. She seemingly had it all: pureblood lineage from a family older than legend, beauty sharp as a blade, a sense of spectacle rivaling any stage witch, and popularity that clung to her like a tailored cloak. She wasn't brilliant in the way Ravenclaws admired—but she had charm, wit, and the terrifying instinct of knowing exactly when to strike a line, deliver a look, or hold a silence. A flawless existence, wouldn't you say? But only on paper.
Like any sixteen-year-old girl, the sixth-year Slytherin contended with heartbreaks and romantic disappointments. But Rose bore more than that. She carried the weight of inheritance, of silence, of expectation. The wizarding world was teetering on the edge of war, and her family—the illustrious Shafiqs—hovered like vultures in couture robes, waiting for the most advantageous moment to choose a side. Voldemort's name wasn't spoken at dinner, but it lingered in every look, every raised glass, every clipped conversation.
Her father, Aurelius Shafiq, hadn't yet pledged his loyalty. He was too careful, too strategic. To him, his daughter was little more than prized cattle, valuable solely for the alliances she could secure and the doors her beauty could open. Her looks were just another asset in his meticulously calculated portfolio, her charm a currency he traded without hesitation. He would always choose his Gringotts vault over any ideology, and power over loyalty. A political predator in silk, he had spent the summer far from his daughter—negotiating alliances, expanding influence, meeting behind doors carved with sigils and sealed with blood oaths.
Rose understood what was expected. Her body to forge alliances. Her silence to maintain control. Her charm to seduce where politics could not. She hated it. But hate meant nothing.
At sixteen, girls ought to dream of love and freedom. Rose dreamt of escape—or at least the illusion of control. She wasn't naive. Her disdain for Muggles and Mudbloods had been bred into her like a blood curse, a reflex rather than a belief. But there was a difference between disdain and slaughter. That line, she walked daily.
She stretched beneath silk sheets, golden limbs catching the first sliver of morning light. Her dormitory smelled faintly of lavender and ice. The first few weeks back at Hogwarts were always the most grating. The rituals of the elite, the sneering expectations, the performance of aristocracy. And then, of course, Narcissa Black.
The girl with the face of a statue and the heart of a guillotine.
"For heaven's sake, Cissy, stop yelling," Rose sighed, her voice still husky with sleep.
The beautiful blonde turned, blue eyes glinting. "I had forgotten how unpleasant you are in the morning, Shafiq. Evidently, summer did nothing for your trollish disposition."
Rose offered a smile, slow and poisonous. "Nor did it for your wit, darling. But we can't all be miracles."
Their exchanges were never simple insults. They were performances. Slytherin's two reigning queens, dueling in silk and venom.
She rose, letting the cold stone floor kiss her bare feet, and drifted to the shared bathroom. Black marble and green-veined stone reflected her silhouette like a temple to vanity. She shed her nightdress and stepped beneath the enchanted water, the steam curling like a lover around her body.
Her reflection, later, was cruel in its precision: dark hair cascading like ink, eyes like shattered jade, mouth curved in perpetual amusement. Her skin, gold-toned and flawless, glowed even under dungeon lighting. She looked unbothered. Untouchable. But behind the symmetry and silk was a girl already calculating how many pieces of herself she could sacrifice before breaking.
She looked perfect.
And she was terrified.
Not of the dress. Not of the ring she refused to wear.
But of what came next.
The war. The choosing.
The inevitability of being asked not who she loved, but who she would serve.
There were names already whispered.
Barty Crouch Jr., the son of her father's childhood friend — brilliant, unstable, dangerously ambitious. His father had shared classes with hers. There would be legacy in that match. Order, even.
Regulus Black, an elegant, lethal, a master of the grand theatre the Blacks directed. To marry a Black was to become a script in an empire of illusion. Not a lover. A line in someone else's prophecy.
And then there was Rosier.
Evan Rosier.
He was not a name. He was a pull. A blade. A fire lit in the dark corners of her restraint.
He terrified her.
And that, above all, excited her.
Because Rose had always been dancing on the edge.
And Evan didn't ask for a dance.
He waited to see if she'd jump.
She dressed with care: her uniform hemmed to flatter her figure, a pair of thigh-high serpent-embossed boots, a cloak trimmed in silver thread. Her only jewelry: her chevalière and the Shafiq family brooch, a coiling emerald asp.
The castle corridors were still chilled with dawn, the stone slick with condensation and silence. Rose walked alone, her heels striking the floor like a metronome—calculated, deliberate. She moved like someone who knew she would be watched, and ensured she was worth watching.
As she stepped through the arched entrance of the Great Hall, the shift in energy was immediate. Heads turned, conversations dipped, and spoons hung in midair. Rose Shafiq didn't enter a room. She claimed it. Because that's what they expected of her. Always.
The Ravenclaws watched with analytic detachment—one seventh-year muttered, "She walks like she owns the place." Another corrected, "For all we know maybe her father bought it. He did acquire another Quidditch team over the summer."
The Gryffindors were louder in their disdain.
"Shafiq and her little monarchy," scoffed Fabian Prewett.
"All frosting, no cake," said Marlene McKinnon.
"She is a walking Gringott's vault with cheekbones," James Potter added.
But Sirius Black didn't laugh. He just watched—silent, still—the way only someone who already knew the ending would. He remembered the girl who stole gillyflower liqueur at Black weddings, who danced barefoot until dawn. She was performing now. But he saw the cracks.
"She's always been theatrical," James said again.
"You think that's all she is?" Sirius replied, voice low.
James blinked. "Isn't she?"
Sirius didn't answer.
Years ago, when their parents forced them into ballroom lessons—the kind of tradition only old bloodlines still enforced—it was Sirius who'd been paired with her. They'd hated it. Laughed through it. Stepped on each other's shoes and danced anyway. She'd learned to waltz by counting his heartbeat.
Daisy Parkinson was already seated at the Slytherin table, posture immaculate, lips glossed, legs crossed like a curse. Her beauty was softer than Rose's—round cheeks, auburn hair pinned back in velvet, a mouth too generous to be cruel. But Daisy was no fool. She had grown up with Rose, and loved her with the loyal wariness of someone who'd seen her at her worst—and best.
She looked up, eyes flicking briefly to Narcissa with mild disdain before settling back on Rose, her smile edged with sardonic amusement. She patted the bench beside her, a silent summons, not a suggestion.
Rose sat, unhurried. Regal. Her gaze drifted slowly across the Great Hall. She paused at the Gryffindor table—long enough to see James's sneer falter, Marlene's smirk waver, and Sirius's grey eyes fix on her like an old ache.
"Careful," Daisy murmured. "You'll set something on fire."
Daisy poured pumpkin juice into her goblet, her every movement elegant but calculated. She didn't bother offering Rose any—Rose never drank it. She watched her instead, the way one watches a fuse about to spark.
"I had the misfortune of spending part of the summer with Blondie," Daisy murmured, her voice low enough to blend with the clinking of cutlery and murmurs of enchanted owls above. "My brother was thick as thieves with Rabastan. The Lestranges hosted, naturally."
Rose didn't answer, but she heard it—the chill creeping up her spine.
"Bellatrix practiced hexes on gnomes. Andromeda kept vanishing. Smart girl." Daisy's voice was sharper now, almost reverent. "You know what that means."
Death Eaters in training.
Rose swallowed the metallic taste rising in her throat. "I'm not my grandfather," she whispered.
Daisy glanced sideways. "No one said you were."
"He followed Grindelwald straight into Azkaban. Ended his days drooling in a padded cell while the family clawed its way back to something resembling respectability. I'm not throwing myself into the fire for another madman with delusions of godhood."
Daisy raised a brow. "This one wins, though. The last one was chaos. This one—he's order. He's legacy."
"You sound like you want in."
A slow, dreamy smile. "Maybe I do."
A silence stretched between them—taut as a drawn bow.
Then Daisy leaned in, her voice dripping silk. "Guess who kept asking about you—subtly, but still?"
Rose didn't blink. "Rosier."
"No."
She turned to look at Daisy properly. "Don't play games."
Daisy grinned, wicked and delighted. "Regulus."
That gave her pause.
It made no sense. Regulus barely spoke to her. Barely spoke to anyone, unless it served a purpose. She'd always assumed he looked down on her—for the spectacle, for the way her father paraded her like a trophy in the Prophet. The Blacks didn't like glitter. They ruled behind closed doors, with knives in their sleeves.
And there he was. The silent prince.
Regulus Black, seated with sovereign stillness, eyes glacial and locked on her. He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He wasn't looking at her like a boy looks at a girl. He was studying her like a strategist studies the board.
Then he turned, already murmuring something to Mulciber as if she'd never existed.
"Pathetic," Rose murmured, watching Charlotte Nott lean toward him with a rehearsed laugh. "She'd sell her wand for a glance."
"Wouldn't we all," Daisy replied softly.
Rose looked away.
Evan Rosier didn't enter the Hall. He arrived.
Tousled blond hair, shirt unbuttoned just enough, a smile steeped in sin. He moved like a blade through silk—arrogant, luminous, lethal. The room stilled. Even the professors watched him pass.
He slid in beside her without a word. No invitation. Too close. His knee pressed against hers. His scent—sandalwood and storm—wrapped around her throat.
"Shafiq," he drawled.
"Rosier," she answered, all ice.
"You've been quiet this year. Should I be worried?"
"That depends. Have you done anything worth worrying about?"
"Oh, darling. I always do."
He brushed the inside of her wrist with one finger.
"Touch me again without permission," she murmured, "and I'll hex off something vital."
"I don't care about anything."
"Then I'll improvise."
He laughed—low, magnetic. A sound that slithered along her skin.
"You're more dangerous than I remember."
She hated him.
But they were carved from the same poison.
He stood, cast a glance that grazed her collarbone, and left.
At the far end of the table, Regulus Black was watching.
Always.
That evening, the Slytherin common room pulsed with its usual menace—green firelight, velvet shadows, chandeliers like serpent skeletons.
Rose sat curled in an armchair by the hearth, an open book on her lap. She wasn't reading.
Regulus was across the room, speaking in hushed tones with Mulciber. Charlotte hovered like a moth too close to the flame.
He didn't look up.
But his presence filled the air like electricity before a storm.
Daisy dropped beside her with two steaming teacups in hand.
"You know he's watching you, right?" she said, offering the fuller cup.
"He watches everyone."
"No, darling," Daisy murmured with a grin. "He's studying you. Like he's figuring out how to dismantle you."
Rose smirked. "Let him try."
She took a sip. The heat was a poor match for the frost curling down her spine.
Behind her, the fire cracked.
And in the mirror above the mantel, two grey eyes met her reflection—
—then looked away.