Chapter Text
She Apparated into London like someone arriving for a duel she hadn’t trained for.
Fog curled around her boots as she landed just outside the Ministry’s visitor entrance, the late evening chill sneaking down her collar. Across the street, the red-brick buildings gleamed with the sort of smugness only London architecture could pull off, like they knew she’d rather be anywhere else.
Rose Weasley exhaled through her nose.
Of course they’d summon her now. Just when her assignment up north had finally started behaving. After months of piecing together cursed livestock, hexed wells, and a suspiciously friendly librarian, she’d finally gotten the locals to stop calling her “the red-haired outsider” like it was an actual insult.
And then? One crisp Ministry memo with her name stamped on top like a warning sign: "Return Immediately. Urgent reassignment."
They gave no specific details. No prior notice. Just now.
Her boots clicked on the pavement as she walked toward the familiar glass doors, the sound echoing louder than her irritation. She’d been pulled from cases before, but this felt different. Urgent. And not in the “oops, someone reversed a Time-Turner again” way.
Still, she’d made peace with unpredictability. Sort of.
There had been rumours, of course. Something brewing closer to London. Something dark. But the Ministry always had whispers like that, and half the time they turned out to be some idiot teen with a cursed heirloom they'd found in their great-aunt’s attic.
But they’d called her back. Not the over-eager juniors. Not the Aurors who liked doing wand tricks at brunch. Her.
That alone told her something was off.
She shoved her hands into her coat pockets as the glass shimmered and parted for her. The welcome rune flared golden.
“Welcome back, Auror Weasley.”
She rolled her eyes. “You say that like it’s good news.”
The elevator to Level Two was just as she remembered - claustrophobic, tinny music that vaguely resembled the Hogwarts anthem being played underwater, and that constant magical buzz in the air like a bee was trapped in the walls.
Rose leaned back, arms crossed, eyes half-shut. Back to the Ministry. Back to the circus.
The lift dinged.
The Auror Office was a barely-contained storm with papers zooming overhead, enchanted quills arguing with each other mid-sentence, and someone dramatically yelling about “improper hippogriff transport licenses.”
At the center of it all stood Wilfred Talos - the Temporary Auror Head - a tall and grizzled man in his late fifties but still looking like he could stop a duel with one glare. His robes were a no-nonsense navy, his expression a permanent grimace, and the edge of his sleeve was charred like he’d fought his coffee that morning and lost.
“Weasley,” he said without looking up from the file in his hand.
“Talos,” she replied, stepping into his office. “Tell me this is either catastrophic or classified. I accept no other explanations.”
He finally looked up. “It’s both. Sit.”
She did, tugging off her gloves and dropping them onto the desk like weapons. “And here I thought I was finally allowed to be left alone up north. People were starting to like me.”
“Impossible.”
She snorted.
He slid the file toward her. Thick parchment. Security runes flaring faintly at the edges. The top corner stamped in red: High Threat.
Rose sat straighter.
“So not paperwork, then,” she said, flipping open the cover.
Talos shook his head. “This one’s quiet. Off-the-record. Bigger than anything we’ve let leak to the Prophet.”
Now that was interesting.
“There’s a cluster of disappearances,” Talos continued. “A handful of untraceable magical artefacts. Ritual patterns we haven’t seen since… well. Since before your time. And all of it points to a single, highly isolated location. It's a town no one’s looked at in over a decade.”
He paused.
“Ebonreach.”
Rose raised an eyebrow. “That sounds made up.”
“It’s very real,” he said, “and very cursed.”
A grin tugged at her lips before she could help it. Finally - something with teeth. The work up north had been good. Solid. A little chilly. But lately, it had started to feel too monotonous. It had sweat and effort, but no real movement. This sounded like forward motion.
“Alright,” she said. “What’s the job?”
“Undercover assignment. We need eyes inside. You’ll be going deep with new names, new lives. No dramatic heroics unless absolutely necessary.”
She nodded. “Low profile. Got it.”
“But - ”
There it was. “I’m not going alone.”
Talos gave her a look that said don’t even bother arguing.
“I work better alone,” Rose said, carefully casual. Not defensive, just… factual. She liked people. Just not all over her case files. Too many partners treated her like she was the sidekick in their personal save-the-world fantasy. She didn’t hate teamwork, she just hated inefficient teamwork.
Still. She was trying. She’d even started drinking tea with that grumpy healer in Loch Leven. Progress.
“Not this time,” Talos said. “The nature of the mission requires… a certain dynamic. You’ll be posing as a couple. Recently engaged. Moving into the town under Ministry-assigned identities.”
She stared at him. “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘engaged’?”
“Cassia Eldryn,” he said, ignoring her tone. “And your fiancé, Thorne Vale.”
“I’m not married. Or engaged. Or deranged.”
“Noted.”
Rose blinked. “Do I get hazard pay for emotional damage?”
“You’ll be moved into a small property on the edge of town,” Talos went on smoothly. “There’s a story in place. The locals will expect you. The rest is up to you.”
Her brain stuttered.
First, they pulled her from Scotland just when things were starting to click. Now she was supposed to bake pies and pretend to be in love while rooting out cults in cursed villages?
“And who,” she asked, fingers drumming slowly against the desk, “is playing the part of Mr. Vale?”
Talos didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced at the clock. “Should be here any second.”
Oh no.
“Tell me it’s not - ” she started, but the door behind her clicked open before she could finish.
She didn’t even have to turn around. The air had shifted, charged with a smugness she could feel in her molars.
Of course it was him.
Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, striding into the room like the Ministry was his personal catwalk. His robes were immaculate, his hair a windswept halo of expensive arrogance, and his smirk -
Merlin, the smirk.
That perfectly calibrated blend of charm and menace that made people want to hex him and kiss him in the same breath. Not her, obviously. She was immune. Completely.
Rose blinked once. “Absolutely not,” she said flatly.
“Nice to see you too, Weasley.” Scorpius offered her a smile so falsely sweet it could’ve rotted teeth. “Didn’t miss me?”
“You?” she scoffed. “I was hoping you’d been permanently reassigned. Preferably somewhere cold, remote, and penguin-infested.”
“Alas.” He sighed. “Apparently my charm was too much for the penguins. Tragic, really.”
“Children,” Talos said, in a voice that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably unconscious.
“I’m twenty,” Rose muttered. “And far too emotionally evolved for this circus.”
Engaged. To him. The same boy who once hexed her boots to squeak “Weasley is watching you” during silent study. The same boy who smirked when McGonagall gave her detention for hexing him in return.
Scorpius turned to Talos. “So. When do we start playing house?”
Rose made a strangled noise. “Playing - ? No. No. I object. Loudly and vehemently.”
“Noted,” Talos said, completely unbothered. It was the exact tone one might use when noting a sandwich preference.
“You cannot be serious,” she hissed. “This? This is who you’re partnering me with?”
The logistics alone made her want to scream. A shared flat meant shared air - and Scorpius Malfoy breathed like he owned oxygen. He’d leave his socks on the floor. He’d take up all the hot water. He’d flash those smug grey eyes at her like they were a private joke she wasn’t in on -
“Oh, come now,” Scorpius said. “I’m charming, devastatingly attractive, and Ministry-trained. What’s not to love?”
“Your personality,” she snapped. “Your face. Your… entire existence, really.”
He grinned. “I feel so loved. This’ll be fun.”
He was going to enjoy this. Every second. Every fake smile. Every excruciating moment of pretending to be the happy, doting fiancée of Scorpius Malfoy.
She already felt like hexing the furniture.
Talos raised both hands before she could give in to the urge. “Enough. The decision’s made. You’re both competent. You’ve trained together. You’ve worked well when you’re not trying to outwit each other.”
“That’s the problem,” Rose muttered.
“It’s a dangerous assignment,” he said. “You’ll need someone you trust.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t trust him. This was supposed to be a solo mission. Something serious. Something I could actually focus on.”
“It is serious,” Talos said. “That’s why we’re pairing the best.”
Of course. If she was the best, then he had to be too. That was how it had always been. From Hogwarts duels to Auror exams to who could solve a case faster. The Ministry never said it out loud, but she knew: they were two sides of the same cursed coin.
She looked at the file on the table. Then at Talos. Then at Malfoy, who was currently leaning against the edge of the desk like he thought this was a casual brunch and not a psychological ambush.
“You’re telling me,” she said, slowly, “that I have to move in with him, pretend to be in love with him, share a house, a bed - ”
“There’s a couch,” Talos added unhelpfully.
“ - and do all that while investigating a potentially murderous cult in a cursed town?”
“Essentially,” Talos said.
Scorpius gave her a lazy wink. “So… when do I get to see the ring?”
Talos exhaled through his nose and gestured to the file. “This isn’t a joke, both of you. Not some cushy field op you can do with your wand half-holstered. This is a volatile infiltration which requires deep cover.”
Rose folded her arms, skeptical. “And the engagement nonsense?”
“Ebonreach is remote and tight-knit,” Talos said, eyes serious now. “The locals are suspicious of outsiders. The Veiled have been operating there under the guise of a restoration society - gathering cursed artefacts, holding secret rites. And recently, people have started disappearing.”
Scorpius straightened slightly, the smirk fading just a touch.
“Locals trust couples,” Talos continued. “Families. No single witch or wizard has lasted more than a week without being pushed out or… going missing.”
“So you’re sending in a fake couple.” Rose said.
Talos gave a dry nod. “A pair of newly-engaged Magical Texts Archivists. You’ll be working at the local library. Perfect cover. Long hours, private access, all eyes on you - and you’ll need to be convincing. The kind of convincing that survives daily scrutiny.”
“I still don’t understand why us, ” Rose muttered.
“Because the two of you are good,” Talos said simply. “You’re fast. Smart. Fluent in the field and fluent in each other’s strengths. And you’ve worked together more times than either of you would admit.”
“We argue.”
“You speak, ” Talos corrected. “There’s a difference. You don’t tiptoe around each other. You get things done. And frankly, you both know how to lie convincingly.”
Scorpius gave her a meaningful look. “He means you’re an excellent actress, darling.”
“Say ‘darling’ again and I’ll hex you into a wall.”
Talos forged on. “The mission might take a month. Or more. But if done right, it will mean serious promotions. The artefacts we believe the Veiled are guarding are ancient. Possibly predating Hogwarts. If recovered, this could be the biggest breakthrough in the last fifty years of magical archaeology. You’d be leading it.”
That caught Rose’s attention. Her fingers twitched against her arms. She glanced at the folder again. At the faded photograph of the town. Her jaw clenched.
He knew her too well.
“You really want me to do this,” she said flatly.
“I need someone who won’t run when things get hard,” Talos said. “Someone who’ll do what’s needed. Even if it’s inconvenient. Even if it means spending months with him. ”
Scorpius looked delighted. “So this is happening? Should I start planning the wedding?”
Rose threw him a look that could curdle milk.
But she didn’t say no. Rose stared at the dossier like it might bite her. A whole bloody mission. With him.
But it also meant cursed artefacts. Cult infiltration. Leading a high-stakes mission that could catapult her career in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
And the Ministry had already decided. Hell, the town was already expecting them.
She sighed, long and sharp. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll do it. But if he starts leaving hair in the sink, I’m requesting a reassignment.”
Scorpius put a hand to his heart. “I promise nothing.”
Talos didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like a man suppressing deep satisfaction. From under a stack of parchments, he pulled out a thick sheaf and slid it across the table to them.
“Sign here,” he said. “Both of you. Standard secrecy contract, plus the cover identity paperwork.”
Rose leaned over and scanned the heading:
MINISTRY OF MAGIC - FIELD ASSIGNMENT CONTRACT: LEVEL 5 SECURITY CLEARANCE
She didn’t need to read the fine print. She’d seen it before. This was serious.
She signed.
So did Scorpius, his strokes maddeningly lazy and stylized, like he was autographing a fan’s robe.
Talos rolled the parchment up, sealed it with a flick of his wand, and nodded. “You’ll receive your new identities, enchantments, and background dossiers in two days. Training on false memory details begins Monday. You leave for Ebonreach by the end of the week.”
Scorpius stood and stretched like he’d just agreed to a beach holiday. “Do we get to pick our honeymoon destination or is that pre-assigned too?”
Rose ignored him, already halfway out the door. “If you snore, I will smother you with a pillow.”
Talos, as always, looked utterly unbothered. “Dismissed. Both of you. And - try to at least pretend you like each other. You’re engaged now.”
Scorpius gave Rose a mock-gentlemanly bow. “After you, fiancée.”
She walked past him without a glance, but her voice floated back, “If you call me that again, I’m testing curses that haven’t been approved by Magical ethics.”
Scorpius grinned.
Talos just shook his head and muttered, “Merlin help Ebonreach.”
They exited Talos’ office with matching scowls and dramatically opposite body language - Rose stiff with irritation, Scorpius lounging like he’d just enjoyed a five-star meal.
“I cannot believe this,” Rose muttered as they turned down the corridor. “An undercover mission. With you.”
Scorpius gave a cheerful hum. “I think we’ll thrive. Domestic bliss, just you and me. Maybe I’ll learn to cook.”
“I will hex you if you burn so much as a teabag.”
He winked. “Already in character, Cassia.”
“Don’t call me that yet. Actually - don’t call me anything at all.”
“Not even darling?”
She stopped walking just to glare at him. “I will end you.”
“I’ll be sure to sleep with one eye open in our lovely, shared cottage,” he said, breezing past her toward the exit, “but really, Weasley, if you’re going to kill me, do wait until after we’ve solved the case. I’d hate to die before the fake wedding photos.”
She groaned like it physically pained her. “I hate that I’m going to see your stupid face every day.”
“Just my face? I’m flattered you’ve noticed.”
“Leave, Malfoy.”
“Miss you already.”
He vanished with a pop of Apparition.
Engaged to Scorpius Malfoy - for Merlin knows how long. The words pounded in Rose’s head like a migraine. She needed a moment to breathe, a distraction from the Ministry’s insanity, the smirking blond men, and the farce of wedding plans. Without thinking, her feet carried her forward.
Alice.
She hadn’t seen her in a few weeks - which, by Alice’s standards, was practically a betrayal. Rose hesitated briefly. Hadn’t she wanted peace? And Alice was… anything but peaceful. Yet she was familiar, grounding, loud in all the right ways. And maybe, Rose didn’t want silence - not after that circus.
Decision made, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.
The door hadn’t even finished creaking open before Rose was nearly flattened by a flying blur of limbs and wild hair.
“ROSE MINERVA WEASLEY,” Alice shrieked, tackling her into the doorway like a Crup on caffeine. “You absolute menace. Do you know how close I was to sending a Howler? I thought you’d died!”
Rose wheezed. “Hi, Alice.”
“Don’t ‘Hi, Alice’ me,” Alice huffed, grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her into the flat. “You vanish for four whole weeks, don’t respond to my owl, and then show up at my door like we’re not in a code red emotional emergency at all times?”
“I was working - ”
“Boo,” Alice said dramatically, flopping onto the couch like she’d just suffered mortal betrayal. “Work is boring. Everyone’s always working. I’m working! Do you see me ignoring friendship responsibilities and emotional gossip time? No, because I have priorities.”
Rose blinked. “You literally vanished for two days on a classified mission and sent me an owl that just said ‘brb, seducing a Romanian warlock.’”
“I was, and it worked, thank you very much,” Alice said with a smug grin. “He cried at the end. Gave up a whole smuggling ring. I only threatened to set one thing on fire, and I didn’t even need to wear heels this time.”
Rose stared. “You scare me.”
“Aw, thanks,” Alice said brightly.
The flat looked the same as ever - cluttered and somehow still smelling like ginger biscuits and danger. A scarf was tangled around the chandelier, a pot of glitter was overturned on the coffee table (because of course it was), and Alice’s owl, Squishie, was perched on the windowsill like it, too, had accepted defeat.
Rose dropped her bag and flopped beside her. Internally, though, she was still processing Alice’s job. Technically, the Ministry called her an “intel extraction specialist.” But Rose had been in the field. She knew what that meant. Alice’s methods were… creative. Dubiously legal and emotionally scarring - but extremely effective. And involved more glitter, giggling, and seduction than should be ethically allowed during an interrogation.
Rose didn’t know whether to file a report or hand her a bloody award.
It didn’t help that Albus hated Alice’s job. Mostly because she ignored all protocols, wore outfits that gave the ministry officials heart attacks, and had once gotten a confession by singing karaoke and fake-proposing to a goblin arms dealer.
The worst part?
Alice was actually good at it.
“You need help,” Rose muttered, grabbing a cushion to scream into.
“I need tea,” Alice replied sweetly. “And for you to tell me if you’ve got any dirt on your cousin, because I’m feeling nosy and underpaid.”
She’d missed this. It hit her then, as Alice shoved her onto the couch and started bustling toward the kitchen, talking a mile a minute - something about cursed salt shakers and the goblin in her neighbour’s wall.
She hadn’t realised how lonely she’d been up north. The silence, the grey, the endless professional smiles. Sure, she was good at being alone. But this? This warmth, this ridiculous dramatics, the sheer loudness of it all -
“So,” Alice said, plopping down beside her a moment later and handing her a mug, “spill. Is it a boy? Did you kill someone? Both? Please say both.”
Rose snorted into her tea. “Neither. Though the temptation for murder was strong.”
“Ooh, scandalous. I knew it. Who’s the victim?”
Rose gave her a look. “Scorpius Malfoy.”
Alice choked. “I knew it was a boy! Wait - wait - Malfoy? Scorpius Malfoy?! As in your sworn enemy slash unspoken academic rival slash the one you accused of sabotaging your cauldron in sixth year - that Scorpius Malfoy?”
“The very same,” Rose muttered.
Alice’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Tell me everything.”
Rose took a long sip of tea, steeled herself, and said, “Okay. You’re not allowed to interrupt until I finish.”
Alice, already perched cross-legged on the couch with her chin in her hands, blinked innocently. “Me? Interrupt? Never.”
“Lies,” Rose muttered, but forged ahead anyway. “I got reassigned. Talos pulled me off my Scotland post. Said it was urgent. Disappearances, cursed artefacts, ritualistic signs - it’s all a classic dark magic nightmare.”
Alice gasped. “We love a little high-stakes horror.”
“That’s not even the bad part.”
“There’s more?”
Rose pressed her mug to her forehead. “He’s sending me undercover. Long-term with a new identity, fake life, moving into some creepy forgotten town called Ebonreach, and - wait for it - I’m supposed to be engaged.”
Alice’s eyes went wide. “Oh my Merlin, that’s so romantic - ”
“Fake engaged, ” Rose snapped. “To Scorpius Malfoy.”
There was a beat of stunned silence before Alice let out the loudest, most dramatic gasp Rose had ever heard in her life. “You are kidding. ”
“I wish.”
Alice flung herself back dramatically against the cushions. “Oh, this is everything. Enemies-to-lovers! Forced proximity! Fake dating with lingering tension and emotional growth! Do you know how romantic this is?!”
Rose groaned. “It’s work. It’s not a romance trope, it’s a mission. ”
“You’re moving in with the bloke who drives you insane and pretending to be madly in love,” Alice said gleefully. “I give it three days before one of you catches feelings. Four, tops, before someone kisses someone during a fake argument in public.”
“Stop,” Rose said firmly. “You’re delusional.”
Alice waved her off. “Did he smirk?”
“Of course he smirked.”
“And did you want to hex him or kiss him?”
Rose gave her a horrified look. “Hex, obviously!”
Alice smirked. “That’s just pre-kiss rage. Classic denial.”
“Do you want me to die?” Rose asked. “Because this mission is already a mess. We share a house. A backstory. A bed, potentially. I’m one snarky comment away from setting him on fire.”
“Oh, honey,” Alice said sweetly. “You’re already halfway in love.”
Rose made a strangled sound. “That is not how this works.”
But Alice was already skipping toward the pantry, humming what sounded suspiciously like a wedding march. Rose stretched out on the couch, absentmindedly scanning the cluttered coffee table. A few snack wrappers, two half-finished crossword scrolls, a magazine with a dragon on the cover wearing sunglasses, and -
Her brows furrowed.
A thick hardcover sat near the edge, gleaming in its pompous seriousness:
The Structural Integrity of Ancient Warding Systems: A Re-evaluation.
By Albus S. Potter.
Rose blinked.
What in the freshly brewed hell?
Why did Alice have Albus’ book?
They were mortal enemies. The kind who booed each other across the Great Hall and once got into a full-on shouting match during a Ministry-led workshop over whether blue flame wards were overrated or not. (They were both asked to leave. Rose had to apologize on behalf of both.)
Rose, watching the whole thing from the corner, could only blink. She’d spent most of her Hogwarts years trying to figure them out - and failing.
Albus used to act like Alice had stolen Rose from him - like some chaos demon who corrupted his quiet, rule-following best friend. Which, to be fair, Alice kind of did. And Alice thought Albus was a broody killjoy who needed to be knocked down a peg or two. She used to call him “Mr. Honourable” with the fakest smile possible and made it her life’s mission to mess with him.
He was polite to literally everyone. Professors. Shopkeepers. Peeves, even. But not Alice. Never Alice. With her, it was a constant war of eye rolls, sarcastic barbs, and thinly veiled murder attempts via prank hexes.
So why did she have his book?
Rose had questions. But also, she didn’t want to know the answers. She picked up the book slowly, half-expecting it to explode and flipped to the first page.
And froze.
There, scribbled in familiar loopy handwriting across the title page, in sparkly purple ink:
“Congratulations, Potter. You made magical theory boring again.”
Rose let out a startled snort.
She flipped another page. More notes danced in the margins.
“Ooh, paragraph 2, where you made 3 points and none of them were good.”
“Did you eat a thesaurus before writing this sentence? Because damn.”
“Overexplaining = not smart = annoying = Albus.”
By the time she reached chapter three, Rose had tears in her eyes from laughing.
There were cartoon sketches of tiny, furious Albus dueling a stick-figure “Ancient Rune” monster, entire passages crossed out with: “Try again, oh Wise One,” and one particularly savage annotation that just said:
“You’re not wrong here, but I’m still mad at you, so shut up.”
Rose was wheezing.
“What’s so funny?” Alice called from the kitchen, peeking out with flour on her nose.
Rose held up the book, eyes wide. “You annotated Albus’s published work?!”
Alice looked unbothered. “Oh, yeah. It was on sale at Flourish and Blotts. Like, half-off. He’s a terrible writer.”
Rose gaped at her. “This is a massive academic publication. And you’ve turned it into a stand-up comedy.”
Alice sauntered over, plopping beside her with a bowl of very burnt popcorn. “As I should. He wrote about ‘ward fluidity in fifth-century Greece’ like it was a romantic memoir. He deserved to be humbled. I used those annotations to annoy him.”
Rose blinked. “…Sorry?”
Alice shrugged. “He knows I have a copy of his book. I even mailed him a picture of my notes once. Called it ‘feedback.’ Said it was for the next edition.”
“You hate his writing,” Rose pointed out.
“Oh, deeply,” Alice grinned. “That’s why I read it. To get under his skin. You should’ve seen the letter he sent back - practically combusted with passive-aggressive footnotes.”
Rose snorted. “That’s sick. You two are sick.”
“I also mailed him a few of my Muggle romance novels,” Alice said casually, grabbing a handful of popcorn that was more charcoal than corn.
Rose blinked. “You - what?”
Alice chewed serenely. “Just a little care package. Three novels, a scented candle, and a note that said, ‘In case you ever develop emotions and want to know why you’re still single.’ ”
Rose choked. “You did not.”
“I absolutely did.” Alice beamed. “Tied it with a ribbon and everything.”
Rose stared at her best friend, utterly betrayed by the calm tone in which she had just dropped the single most absurd sentence of the week - and that included Scorpius Malfoy asking about a fake engagement ring.
“I - hold on - why? ”
Alice shrugged, like this was basic Tuesday behavior. “He needed to be educated. Man thinks emotional intimacy is ‘inefficient.’ I consider it a public service.”
Rose’s brain glitched.
Why romance novels? Why a candle? What kind of candle? Did Alice have a mailing list dedicated to emotionally constipated men? In her head, Rose pictured Albus receiving a pink parcel tied with hearts, opening it with gloved suspicion, and pulling out a book titled “Velvet Temptations” while a sachet of vanilla dreams fell into his lap.
Because there, under the half-eaten biscuit packet and a highlighter uncapped and bleeding into the wood, sat her worst nightmare and best source of serotonin: Alice’s romance novels - the very ones she'd sent to Albus.
They were back. All three.
Neatly stacked. Slightly bent at the corners.
And covered - ruthlessly covered - in sharp, angular handwriting.
Rose snatched one up and flipped to a random page.
“People don’t talk like this. No one has ever said “I want to reorganize your internal organs with my love stick.” without committing a felony of tone.” - margin note, Chapter 7
She flipped again.
“Is this man having a stroke or just an overactive libido? Clarify.”
( Underlined - His member throbbed like it had its own heartbeat)
Rose wheezed. “Oh my god.”
Alice grinned. “Page 142, right? That one broke him. He added a note: ‘WHAT IS A THROBBING LOVE ROD AND WHY DOES IT HAVE VEINS.’”
Rose shrieked into the sofa. She couldn’t breathe. She was crying. Because there was more -
"He pounded into her like a caveman trying to start fire with two sticks."
"So we're using Neanderthal erotica now? Evolution has regrets."
"He smirked. 'You’re wetter than a busted pipe in monsoon season.'"
"That’s not hot. That’s plumbing trauma."
"She clenched around him like a vending machine refusing to give snacks."
"Sir. Therapy. Immediately."
“He numbered the logical fallacies!” she gasped, pointing wildly at a footnote on page 210.
“I know!” Alice said proudly. “It’s like watching someone perform literary open-heart surgery with a chainsaw.”
Rose fell over sideways, clutching the book like it was oxygen. “He must’ve been horrified.”
Alice nodded solemnly. “Said the prose was a war crime. I told him the author was writing a sequel.”
“Oh Merlin.”
Rose wiped her face, giggling uncontrollably. She had missed Alice's absolute refusal to function normally. Missed the way her flat felt like home and war zone at the same time. Missed being able to laugh until she forgot the Ministry, the mission, the fake engagement ring.
Honestly, this was better than therapy.
Rose was still wiping her tears when a sharp tap-tap-tap came from the window.
She sat up, blinking. “Already?”
Alice turned. “Expecting more annotated hate mail?”
But it wasn’t a parcel. It was Chipp, her family’s regal, drama-prone owl, glaring at her through the glass like she’d personally insulted his feathers.
“Oh no,” Rose muttered. “That’s Mum’s owl. I’m being summoned.”
Alice opened the window, and Chipp swept in like he owned the flat. He dropped the letter directly onto Rose’s lap with a haughty flutter and promptly began preening himself on the curtain rod.
Rose unfolded the parchment.
Rose,
Your father informed me you're in London. You didn’t think I wouldn’t find out? You’re leaving soon, and I expect you to come home before that happens. No excuses. Your room is clean. Your father’s pretending he doesn’t already miss you. And Hugo’s… well, he is busy painting again.
Come home. We haven’t had dinner together in too long.
Love,
Mum
Rose sighed, guilt and warmth coiling together in her chest. There was no saying no to Hermione Granger-Weasley when she pulled the you’re-my-daughter-and-I’m-soft-but-also-imperious card.
And honestly, she had missed them. Even Hugo.
“Your mum?” Alice guessed, munching popcorn.
“She knows,” Rose said. “I have to go stay with them before the mission. I’m doomed.”
Before Rose could stuff the letter away, a second owl swooped in - this one silver and sleek, with obnoxiously good posture and the air of someone who didn’t believe in things like ‘delays’ or ‘common decency.’
Rose didn’t need a return address.
She knew that bird.
Scorpius bloody Malfoy.
The owl flicked its wing dramatically, dropped the letter into her lap, and soared off like an overachiever late to win an award.
Rose unrolled the parchment cautiously.
There were only a few lines:
Hope you’ve received the good news.
Looking forward to seeing you soon.
- S.M.
She stared at it. “What. Good. News?”
Alice peeked over her shoulder. “Oh, he’s definitely doing this to mess with you.”
“He doesn’t even specify! What am I supposed to do with this? Frame it? Burn it?”
Alice grinned. “You’re going to overthink it for hours. He wins.”
Rose groaned and flopped backwards onto the sofa. “I hate him. I hate him so much.”
But a part of her brain was already cataloguing all the possibilities. And none of them were good. She shoved both letters into her bag - the warm guilt-trip from her mother and the vague, vaguely threatening scribble from Scorpius Malfoy. One felt like a knitted jumper. The other, like a ticking time bomb.
She stood, brushing popcorn off her trousers, and sighed. “I should go,” she said. “Mum’s summoned me like some ancient artifact. If I don’t show up, she’ll send Hugo riding a Thestral to drag me home.”
Alice followed her to the door, smug as ever. “Well, it was lovely watching your descent into fake-engagement madness. We must do this again.”
“Next time,” Rose grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “you can be the one pretending to be madly in love with a human migraine.”
Alice fluttered her lashes. “Oh no. I only do actual migraines. Less emotionally scarring. And if Malfoy writes another letter, please frame it. I want to hang it in my bathroom.”
Rose rolled her eyes. With one last wave, she stepped out into the corridor, taking a deep breath of cool, post-rain London air.
Then - WHUMP.
A blur of grey feathers and talons nearly decapitated her. Rose yelped, flailing, as an extremely irritable Ministry owl dropped a thick, gold-sealed envelope into her arms and took off again without so much as a courtesy hoot.
“What in Merlin’s - ?”
Her stomach sank. She didn’t even have to open it to know it would ruin her evening. It reeked of formality and doom.
She cracked the seal and read the heading.
To Auror Rose Weasley,
Oh no.
Congratulations on your selection for undercover Operation Ebonreach.
Not this again.
As part of your preparatory responsibilities, Couple Integration Training will commence tomorrow morning at 0800 sharp in the South Wing Simulation Chambers inside the Ministry’s Special Operations Training Grounds.
Rose stopped reading.
She stared at the paper for a long moment.
Then at the sky. Then back at the letter.
Couple Integration Training.
At eight a.m.
With Scorpius Malfoy.
Her eye twitched. Her soul, quietly, left her body.
This was the “good news” he’d mentioned? This? This bureaucratic horror disguised as a romantic comedy?
Integration training, she thought, stunned. What does that even mean? Will they have to practise couple arguments in front of a mirror? Learn how to fold laundry together? Pretend to cook spaghetti like some Muggle rom-com montage?
She let out a strangled sound, halfway between a groan and a defeated laugh.
“This is punishment,” Rose muttered under her breath, gripping the envelope like it might bite. Divine retribution, her mind supplied grimly. Karma in parchment form. It had to be payback - for that one time in fourth year she’d used a Confundus Charm to win at Wizard Chess, or maybe for stealing every last one of Hugo’s chocolate frogs and blaming it on a faulty enchantment. The universe, it seemed, had a long memory.
She glanced down the cobbled street ahead, then at the letter again.
Positive attitude required, it had said.
Rose Weasley was about to be the picture of positivity.
She stormed off toward the nearest Floo terminal, boots splashing through a shallow puddle, cursing softly under her breath. Behind her, the Ministry letter fluttered gently in the wind from her wake. And somewhere - probably in a very smug, very expensive flat - Scorpius Malfoy was preparing matching couple robes.
And enjoying every second.
This was going to be hell.