The library was unusually crowded—most likely because everyone was determined to make a good impression at the start of the year, though it was certain that in a few days, the endless rows of old books and parchments would be deserted once again.
Rose was hard at work on an assignment due to old Slughorn for her Potions class the next day, when her concentration was broken by an unwanted intrusion. "I didn't know you were so studious. But then again, pretty girls don't need to study."
She didn't look up. Not immediately. Instead, she finished the sentence she was writing, deliberately slow, before raising her eyes with a grace that could slice, her lips curving into a mocking smile. "Rosier," she said like one might say rotting velvet. "How thrillingly predictable. Is this your latest strategy? Lurk near academic girls in the hopes of absorbing intelligence by osmosis?" He grinned, unapologetic. "You wound me, Shafiq. I came for the atmosphere. The scent of ink. The thrill of being surrounded by people smarter than me." "You could've achieved the same effect by staring in a mirror and reciting the alphabet."
Evan, visibly stung, snatched the parchment from her hands."Golpalott's Third Law. You always did prefer toxins to tonics." Exasperated by Rosier's childish behavior, Rose rose to her feet and faced the seventh-year Slytherin. "And you always preferred distractions to discipline. What a pair we make." Evan stood a head taller than her, and judging by the satisfied smirk on his face, he had achieved what he wanted: captivate all of Shafiq's attention.
Evan tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "I missed this."
"You followed me here," she stated, voice low.
"Guilty."
"You're not even pretending to have a reason?"
He stepped closer. "I have one."
"Let me guess," she said silkily, "you felt the need to prove you could breathe the same air as the rest of us without combusting."
"No. I just wanted to remind you of something."
She tilted her chin. "Which is?"
"That you've been watching me all week," he said, too quietly.
Rose's entire body seemed to react to Evan's magnetic presence. Denying that she felt an overwhelming attraction to this absurdly handsome and ridiculously seductive boy—a boy whose features seemed sculpted by the gods themselves—would have been an outright lie. But Rose knew better. A union with Evan Rosier, if it ever lasted, would cost her dearly—her freedom, at the very least.
Wrinkling her delicate nose, Rose let out a soft, muffled laugh. "I don't watch," she said. "I study. And what I see, Rosier, is a boy who mistakes proximity for possession." "And yet you never walk away." A pause. Then: "Maybe I enjoy reminding you of your limits." He smiled slowly. "Maybe you just want someone who doesn't fall at your feet." "Then I should look in the mirror," she replied, reclaiming her parchment and her dignity in a single movement. "Now run along before someone mistakes you for literate." Evan took a step back, his smirk blooming slow and predatory. "Not yet," he said. Then, as he turned, his voice dipped—quieter, but sharp enough to slice through silk. "Careful, Shafiq. You're running out of time to choose who owns your leash. And some of us bite harder than others." He didn't wait for a response. Just vanished between the shelves, all arrogance and shadow. Rose remained motionless, the heat of his gaze lingering like a hex. Around her, whispers stirred—curious, amused, envious. She sat. She dipped her quill. She wrote. Because performance was second nature. But her pulse betrayed her.
Rose remained still for a few seconds, Rosier's last remark echoing like a curse.e. She had known this adolescent Adonis since childhood, and although he had always possessed a dangerous aura, he had clearly crossed a new threshold over the summer.
Around her, some students whispered, and aware that her little conversation with Evan Rosier would likely be the talk of the school by tomorrow, Rose resumed writing her assignment, ignoring the amused and curious stares. After all, Rose knew it was the price to pay for being Slytherin's princess but she wouldn't trade her position for anything in the world.
In truth, the Rosiers, like most of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight," believed marriage an institution far too important and decisive to be left in the hands of hormone-fueled teenagers. In other words, the practice of arranging marriages over a glass of firewhiskey was commonplace, and Evan Rosier seemed to have no objections to it. What set these families apart, beyond their pure bloodlines, was their nobility. They represented the true aristocracy of the wizarding world. Of course, some families, like the Weasleys or the Abbotts, had seen their fortunes and prestige greatly diminished. Naturally, there were other ancient and pure families, such as the Dumbledores or the McGonagalls, but they were not of noble lineage. At the top of the pyramid stood one family—the Blacks. To put it in Muggle terms, Rose would be a duchess, and Regulus, the crown prince.
The library emptied slowly, but Rose lingered. She always did, when too many words had been left unspoken. It was already late when Rose left the library, and the school corridors were nearly empty. Lost in her thought, the young woman moved swiftly through Hogwarts' maze of passageways. It wasn't the absurdly long assignment for old Slughorn that had kept her up all night, especially since being a Shafiq practically guaranteed an Outstanding grade. In reality, the statuesque Slytherin had lingered in the library—a place she usually disliked—on purpose. Since the beginning of the school year, the girl who fancied herself quasi-royalty among her housemates had found it increasingly difficult to spend time with her fellow Slytherins.
A corridor steeped in silence. Old stone, older secrets. Her footsteps, hushed and even — until the air shifted.
"Well, well," came the voice — low, drawling, unmistakable. "If it isn't the Death Eater's duchess."
She stopped.
Not abruptly — no, she was too trained for that. Just a fractional delay in her stride, as though interrupted by a thought rather than a threat. She turned, slowly, as if rehearsed.
Sirius Black leaned against a column like a portrait half-finished. Hair tousled, sleeves rolled, wand twirling idly between fingers too elegant for indifference. One boot scuffed the stone.
"Black," she said, her voice smooth but colder than intended. The name dropped like a pin in a ballroom.
He studied her. Not lasciviously — not quite. But the way a man looks at a mirror that reflects something he regrets. His mouth was set, his jaw sharp with something that might have been guilt, once. Or fury.
"Out late, Shafiq? Or are you hoping to stumble into Gryffindor Tower and claim it by seduction?"
She tilted her head, letting the glint of torchlight catch her cheekbone. "You give my navigation skills too much credit."
"Not your skills I question."
"Clearly," she murmured. "You've never known when to stop looking."
A flicker. Nothing more. But it passed through his gaze like static through silk.
He pushed off the wall with languid precision. Walked toward her — not fast, not slow. Predatory, but bored with the hunt.
"Rosier?"
She blinked. Once.
"Is that a question or a confession?"
"Rumour says he's marked. Same whisper says he's yours."
"Rumour says a great many things," she said, voice as light as gossamer, "including that you once loved me."
He didn't smile.
"You were easier to talk to before you became property."
There it was. The slash beneath the silk.
Rose didn't flinch. She smiled. It was small. Devastating.
"Did it ever occur to you," she said, "that if you hadn't torched your family tree, I'd already be wearing your name instead of dodging his?"
That made him blink.
"My father had a plan. Your mother had a dowry. There was even a headline waiting. But then you burned the future for principle, and I became available."
She stepped forward now, and the torchlight caught the gleam of her brooch — the Shafiq asp, coiled like patience.
"You got your freedom," she whispered, "and I got the auction."
He looked away — for once. For long enough.
And then he asked, almost softly:
"Why don't you leave, then?"
She stared at him.
Not because it was cruel — but because it wasn't.
Because it was the one question she asked herself in mirrors, in locked rooms, in dreams she never admitted.
He thought it was simple.
As if escape were a matter of motion, not inheritance.
She stared at him. And for the briefest second, her mask flickered.
Because sometimes she walked toward Gryffindor Tower just to tempt the devil.
Because provocation was her instinct. Seduction, her shield.
Because Daisy Parkinson believed boys came to her by luck, when in truth, they came because she summoned them — with a glance, a silence, a tilt of the chin. She had winked at Mulciber to wound Regulus. Had let Rosier think she was watching. Had smiled at the Prophet just enough to ignite scandal.
It was not charm. It was choreography.
She had seduction in her blood. Not as a gift. As a function.
What none of them saw — not Narcissa, not the Prophet, not even Sirius Black — was the curse beneath the crown.
She had been crafted like a weapon before she'd drawn breath. A name honed to open doors, a face designed to close them.
They called her a queen. A temptress. A prize.
But no one asked what it cost to be all three.
Rose lifted her chin, and the moment passed.
"Because I wasn't born with the luxury of choosing fire over legacy," she said, voice low. "I wear my name. I don't get to burn it and call it liberation."
Sirius's lips parted — perhaps to argue, perhaps to wound. But she was already walking.
He stepped into her path. Not close. Not threatening. Just... there.
"You don't have to be like them," he said.
She smiled — slow, dangerous. "No. I just have to look like I am."
He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric at her wrist. Paused.
"No Mark?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said.
"But you might."
She didn't answer.
"Do you want me to stop you?"
Still, she said nothing.
"Do you want me to care?" he asked.
Her voice was silk drawn over a blade. "You already did. Once."
She turned.
And he let her go.
Her steps echoed sharp and sovereign down the corridor.
She didn't look back.
But something in her spine coiled tighter.
And somewhere behind her, Sirius Black watched the girl he'd once married in secret at twelve, and realised — too late — that the war wasn't the only thing he had lost.
That night, the young woman couldn't stop replaying Sirius's behavior in her mind, and each time, it made her want to cry.
The fact of Evan Rosier becoming a Death Eater surprised no one. But that Sirius thought she could have embraced Voldemort's cause—that hurt her deeply. She had spent the summer far from England, visiting relatives in France and deliberately distancing herself from anything related to the Dark Lord. She rarely saw her father and, as a result, had no idea where he stood on the matter. If she was being completely honest, she couldn't understand why wealthy, well-born people would want to bow to a nobody, no matter how skilled a wizard he was.