The rumors refused to die.
Days had passed since the confrontation with Rosier, and still, the halls of Hogwarts whispered Rose Shafiq's name like a prayer or a poison. Her photograph lingered like a hex — folded in satchels, slipped into sleeves, conjured over candlelight. It showed her sunlit, statuesque, laughing in profile, the scandalous silhouette of her swimsuit a deliberate affront to modesty.
But it wasn't the photograph that haunted them.
It was the glove.
She wore it every day now — dragonhide, impossibly thin, obsidian black. It clung to her left hand like a secret too dangerous to bare. The Gryffindors scoffed. The Ravenclaws speculated. The Hufflepuffs whispered. And the Slytherins watched — like sharks circling something wounded, or crowned.
She walked through the castle as if she owned it, and perhaps she did. Her uniform — within regulation, of course — had been tailored to devastating effect: a crisp white blouse, always immaculate, a forest-green tie worn loose but perfect. Her pleated skirt fell to mid-thigh — modest enough, technically — but paired with her over-the-knee boots of polished Hungarian leather and the sharp flare of her robe, it weaponized elegance. Her cape — a deep black, lined in silver silk — was worn draped over one shoulder like a duelist's cloak. In her hair: a diamond pin shaped like a crescent blade. On her left hand, above the glove: a chevalière bearing the Shafiq crest, unhidden and unashamed.
Daisy had once said that Rose didn't dress. She armed herself.
It was a Wednesday, and frost veiled the greenhouses like lace on a coffin. Rose stood at the top of the gravel path, staring down at the icy stones with visible disdain.
"Is there a reason we're endangering our lives for plants?" she asked.
Beside her, Daisy Parkinson pulled her hood tighter. "You've been paired with Scamander."
Rose blinked. "The one who cried over a puffapod?"
"He also bakes. Lavender éclairs."
"He should be tried at the Wizengamot."
They walked in silence. Then Daisy said, "My mother wrote again."
Rose sighed. "Do I sparkle in the gossip columns, or merely glisten?"
"She says the Blacks are circling. If Orion hasn't chosen a bride for Regulus, it's because he's watching. Waiting to see who eclipses the rest."
Rose gave her a withering look. "And what does she suggest I do? Host a debutante duel in the dungeons?"
"No," Daisy said innocently. "Just keep bleeding elegantly."
The name Parkinson had become a byword for idle nobility. Among their circle, "Daisy Parkinson said" meant a storm of whispered scandals and matchmaking ambitions.
The greenhouse loomed ahead. Scamander waved enthusiastically, a puffapod clinging to his shoulder like a floral parasite.
"Good morning, Rose!"
She gave him a look normally reserved for unwanted marriage proposals and unchilled champagne.
He offered gloves. She declined.
Their assignment: repot a puffapod showing signs of emotional volatility. Rose looked at the plant as one might regard a ticking bomb. Scamander, meanwhile, was cooing to it like a lullaby.
"Did you know they respond to mood?" he said. "One once bloomed into flame after a Ravenclaw breakup."
"I hope it does," Rose murmured. "I'd enjoy the dramatics."
The puffapod pulsed ominously.
They worked in mismatched tandem — Scamander humming, Rose wielding her wand with surgical grace. At one point, her gloved hand trembled. Scamander pretended not to notice, but gently steadied the pot without a word.
"I like working with you," he said, as petals opened in a silver shimmer.
"You're the only one," she replied, not unkindly.
By the end of the lesson, the puffapod had unfurled into a bloom so radiant that even Rose paused. For a moment, she just looked.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Scamander blinked. "You're welcome."
She left without a backward glance.
The Great Hall at lunch was a theatre of glances.
Rose moved through it like smoke and silk. Her entrance drew heads — not for noise, but because she never stumbled. She sat beside Daisy with the elegance of a guillotine falling.
Not far from her, three shadows reigned.
Regulus Black. Evan Rosier. Rabastan Lestrange.
The heirs of ambition, lounging like coiled vipers at the far end of the table, books open but untouched, their conversation low, deliberate, dangerous. Rosier's smile was too sharp. Rabastan's eyes were too amused. Regulus, as always, unreadable — a blade half-drawn.
They weren't speaking loudly, but they didn't need to. Their presence was architectural. Calculated. Lethal. The kind of boys who had been raised not to survive the world — but to rule it.
And in that moment, Rose didn't just feel observed. She felt weighed.
Then came the owl.
White. Silent. It dropped a letter beside her plate and vanished like a ghost.
Rose reached for it, but her left hand faltered. Her fingers, bound in the dragonhide glove, trembled faintly — she couldn't quite detach the ribbon.
Narcissa appeared beside her as if she had been conjured from mist and bone china.
"Allow me," she said, already reaching.
With perfect, cold efficiency, Narcissa untied the string from the owl's leg and placed the letter before Rose without ceremony.
Then, delicately, she broke the seal herself.
She read.
Then passed it over, eyes unreadable.
Aurelius Shafiq's handwriting was precise, unfeeling, divine.
Oh, why.
Because sentiment is for lesser houses. Because blood must be seen. Because pain, when public, becomes politics.
The Prophet article was effective. The photograph — unfortunate, but necessary — has cemented your visibility. The Malfoy Ball was chosen precisely for its audience. You were not the guest. You were the message.
As of now, you represent House Shafiq in the British Isles. You will receive instructions. You will act accordingly. You will consider strategic alliances.
Report weekly. No deviation will be tolerated.
Rose let the parchment fall.
"He's declared me his ambassador," she said.
"And his pawn," Daisy muttered.
"He's implying marriage."
Narcissa didn't flinch. "Standard procedure."
"He said 'strategic unions'. I assume that includes the Ministry and one of the Rosiers."
"It includes whoever wins," Narcissa said. "And that's the only metric that matters."
She sipped pumpkin juice. Then, too smoothly:
"My father says Orion Black is watching."
Rose turned sharply.
"He hasn't made a match for Regulus. He's waiting. Studying who commands the room."
"And if he chooses Claire Travers?"
"Then you've let an arriviste with new money and old perfume outshine you."
Rose's lips parted.
"You think I should pursue him?"
"No," Narcissa said. "I think you should eclipse him."
She skipped Arithmancy.
Instead, she climbed the west tower, boots silent against the cold stone. The sky was iron-grey, the kind of winter steel that made everything feel heavier. Below her, the Quidditch pitch stretched like a battlefield wrapped in frost.
Slytherin was training.
They didn't fly — they stalked the sky.
Mulciber moved like a wrecking ball, brutal and loud. Nott cut sharp corners like a scalpel, agile and cruel. But Regulus — Regulus was something else entirely.
He didn't fly.
He ruled.
His broom was an extension of his will — elegant, precise, terrifying. He didn't waste motion. He didn't show off. He just flew like he was born in the air and resented the ground for existing. The wind curled through his dark hair. His jaw was set in sharp profile, lashes heavy against cold-bitten cheeks. Every time he turned, it was deliberate. Every time he dove, it was like war.
And he saw her.
He didn't break formation. Didn't falter. But Rose knew the exact second his eyes found hers, because it was like being struck.
She didn't move.
She watched him until the sky swallowed him again.
Much later — dusk now, and shadows long — she descended the tower. The halls were quieter. Her boots clicked softly. Her mind, less so.
She turned a corner near the library — and stopped.
He was there.
Still in his Quidditch robes, chest rising from exertion, hair damp at the temples. He stood against the wall like he belonged to it.
"You left before I could show off," he said.
"I thought you didn't care about an audience."
"I don't," Regulus said, pushing off the wall, "unless it's you."
She stared at him.
He came closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to burn.
"You were watching," he said.
"You were performing."
"I was flying," he said. "And hoping you'd see me."
"You always hope I'll see you," she whispered.
He didn't deny it.
His gaze dropped to her gloved hand.
"Still hurts?"
"Like hellfire."
"May I?"
She gave the smallest nod.
He removed the glove with a slowness that wasn't careful — it was reverent.
The scar was worse now. Darker. Vined in purple-black and edged in magic that shimmered faintly under the torchlight.
"She'll never heal," he murmured.
"No."
"Where did you learn to cast like that?"
Her lips parted. "Vladimir Kolvsky."
Regulus went still.
"Your father's creature? The one who disappeared after Durmstrang fell?"
"He taught me when I was thirteen. Defense. Offense. Diplomacy laced with hexes."
"You shouldn't have needed that."
"I'm a Shafiq. I needed worse."
He looked at her then, and something cracked.
"My father wants me married," she said.
"I know."
"To someone... advantageous."
"I heard."
She held his gaze. "Do you think I'd be safer?"
He stepped closer. "No. But I think they'd hesitate. And sometimes, that's the only shield we get."
She laughed once, bitter. "A girl branded by dark magic and offered like a cursed jewel."
"You're not cursed," he said.
She arched a brow. "You're the only one who believes that."
"No," he said. "I just know the curse isn't yours. It's theirs."
She swallowed.
"And what if I said I was tired of being offered?"
"Then don't be."
"I don't get to choose."
"Neither do I."
He was so close now.
"You'd burn the board," he said, voice low, "before letting someone else move your piece."
"I would."
"And if I stood with you?"
"I'd stop pretending I'm alone."
They stared at each other.
Then, quieter: "Would you stand with me, Regulus?"
He didn't answer.
He took her hand instead — the scarred one — and pressed his lips to her wrist, just above the wound.
"I already am," he said.
And for once, she believed him.