"Rosalie Edson is with Sirius Black," the new DADA professor, Cassius White, drawls. He's only been teaching for a week, and all he does is rant about how werewolves suck and bore the entire class to death. "Your topic of research will be Seers. Write using 5 feet of parchment on the symptoms and qualifications of them. You may leave class to work on it."

Rosalie groans inaudibly, cursing the miserable universe that birthed her into this world. Acacia pats Rosalie on the shoulder sympathetically. The professor is evil, and so is the world. Combined, they are a force against Rosalie, a winning force. A terrible force.

What the actual hell? How can Professor White be so? So —

Rosalie's luck is shitty, to put it simply. Whenever she was younger, she'd faceplant on the carpet of her friends' homes, making a horrible first impression on their parents. She'd walk into bushes, bruise her knees, consistently fail to get a six in Trouble, and conveniently get the hardest questions to answer in class.

Whenever a teacher says, "Class, we have a project," or some crap like that, Rosalie wishes to be removed from existence. Chucked out of the astronomy tower, if you will. Especially now, because she's in the same class as Sirius Black — and the slim chance of having to work with him in a stupid project has her, well, annoyed. And scared. And annoyed.

Well, the chance isn't so slim anymore.

At least Rosalie is researching Seers. She'll get an O and make her mother proud! All she'll have to do is report her own symptoms and turn in the project! Yay!

Not.

Rosalie is doomed. Doomed! Sirius will find out about her visions and snitch and she'll be sent to Wizarding Jail, or worse, be used like in those movies where the main character is used like a weapon.

Does Rosalie look like a weapon?

Once they're out of the classroom, Sirius snickers at Rosalie, nudging her with his elbow. She still can't get over the fact that they're partnered. For a project. Together. And Sirius is only one of the factors that makes her miserable. The other is the fact that she's researching people like her.

It's like telling a werewolf to write an essay about, well, werewolves. How shitty is that?

The last time Rosalie and Sirius were partnered, way back in their second year, Rosalie failed. Thankfully, this project is only for two weeks, until September 25th, which means they should probably get it done before. But still.

Sirius. Is. Her. Partner.

She is doomed.

"You don't look happy at all, Edson," he notes gleefully, wincing when she sharply elbows him back. "In fact, you look very, how should I say it, Siri —"

"You'd better not finish that sentence," Rosalie threatens, removing her wand from her boot, just in case she needs to hex him. Even the sight of his face makes her angry. "Or I swear to God that I'll be singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in a chipmunk voice for the next week. You know I'll ruin the song."

"Yeah, love, no thanks," Sirius says, waving her off, having experienced her annoying muggle lyrics many times in the past. If there's one thing that Rosalie Edson can't do, it's sing. He doesn't want that annoying girl butchering his beloved song. "Where should we work, anyway?"

"Not like you're going to work, anyway," Rosalie grumbles. "I'd suggest the library, but aren't you banned from there?"

"Nah, Pince loves me," he says, smirking.

Rosalie scoffs. "That's hard to believe. No one likes you. Especially me."

"That's incredibly rude, love," he says drily, his voice lacking emotion. "I can't believe such a chipmunk-faced girl such as yourself doesn't like me. It wounds my heart — right here —"

"Oh, screw you," Rosalie snaps, clutching her wand as her frustration soars. She's so done with him. "If anyone's face looks like an animal, it's yours."

"You're right. I think I look like a d —"

"Dick?" Rosalie supplies.

"No, a dog!"

"I think dick is better. Suits you more, you know. And I like cats better."

That's actually a lie. Rosalie likes them both equally, but he'll never know that.

Sirius gasps dramatically. "How dare you. Dogs are superior and cute, just like me —"

"Hmm, I disagree," Rosalie says blandly. "You're not cute and your hair is stupid."

He gapes at her, as if she just tried to stab him. "My hair is gorgeous, actually —"

"Your hair is like the slime prank you pulled on me. Absolutely atrocious."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "You're so uptight, love. It was just a prank, for Merlin's sake. If you think that's atrocious, then why do you constantly pester me?"

"It's different when I do it, Black." Rosalie nods wisely, shoving away her urge to scream. "It's because you deserve it and I don't. Simple logic."

"Your logic is flawed." Sirius barks out a laugh. "It's very Siriusly flawed —"

Rosalie loudly clears her throat, starting to sing unashamedly: "Is this the real life? Is this just fant —"

Sirius raises his hands up in mock surrender. "Please stop. My poor ears want to live, Edson. You sound like a castrated chicken."

Rosalie gasps, offended. "You can take your rude as hell comments and shove it up your stupid arse, please and thank you. I can sing very well, in fact —"

Sirius gives her a flat stare. "I think Queen would cry if they heard your voice."

Rosalie huffs, smacking on the shoulder. "Oh, shut up, Black. I doubt you can sing much better. In fact, I doubt you can sing at all."

Sirius shoves her back. "At least I can play Quidditch. Remember our first year? That broom smacked you in the face."

"Remember the time you tried impressing Mary Macdonald?" Rosalie laughs at the memory. "Even your brother did better, scoring a date with her —"

Sirius scowls, and Rosalie stops talking. She hates him, but she's not cruel. Everyone knows that family is a rough topic for Sirius. There are rumours swirling that he even ran away from home last Christmas, and the taunts for the Death Eater wannabe group in Slytherin only confirm it. Talking about Regulus Black, one of those Slytherins, is the last thing anyone near him wants to do.

Rosalie coughs awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Sirius is trembling with anger, his grey eyes narrowed. His fists are clenched, and Rosalie almost backs away. She's seen that anger everywhere — in the man who didn't raise her, but calls himself her father (Joon Kim, the bastard) — and it haunts her.

"We'll meet in the library," Sirius says, voice clipped. "Six in the evening, starting from September 16th, once every week."

"You can't just decide that!" Rosalie exclaims, trying to make herself breathe slower. Or just breathe in general. "Black — where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Away," he says flatly, "from you."

"You imbecile!" Rosalie snaps exasperatedly, clenching her fists tightly when Sirius ignores her. "We have a project to work on —"

"Cry about it."

Rosalie lets out a scream, almost punching the stupid wall as Sirius leaves. She hates him. She loathes and despises and absolutely hates him.

And now she has to go to bloody Transfigurations.

Transfigurations always makes Rosalie's foul mood worse — and today isn't an exception. Between that class and Defence, Rosalie quickly changes her pad, sprinting as she barely arrives on time. Her hair sticks to her sweaty face as she takes the last available seat next to some rando, hoping that they don't think she's rude.

She blows out a breath.

A pop quiz makes Rosalie's life worse, especially when she can't remember shit. The only thing she can recall is stupid Sirius's shitty attitude as Acacia gives her a concerned look, two rows away.

She can't be arsed anymore, dear God. And it's only the first day back in classes! Rosalie doesn't know how she's going to survive another year here. Maybe it's just her hormones talking, but Rosalie is just so done.

As Minerva collects their quizzes, glancing disapprovingly at Rosalie's practically blank page, Rosalie sets her down on the cool desk, hoping to absorb all of the coolness. It's so hot. And annoying. And goddamned hot.

She can hear James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus in the back, snickering about something. Why do they have to be such disturbances? She wants to fling something at them, preferably Black. Maybe a nice, hard pillow. A cold pillow.

Now, Rosalie wants a cold pillow. She just wants to sleep and cry while watching television with Delilah. They used to watch the most outlandish programs before Delilah left for college. Delilah's back home now, but Rosalie doesn't even have time with her, or any of her family members.

Stupid fate. Rosalie wants to throw something at it. She's just in a throwing mood. If she had any talent with throwing, she would make a damn good Chaser. She would dominate the Quidditch pitch. She would be better than stupid, daft Black. Even her commentary is going to be better than Black's whole existence.

Except she has nothing planned out. Because Rosalie hates herself. Her stupid body hates her.

When Minerva dismisses them all from class, after giving the overwhelmed students a lecture about N.E.W.T. classes, or something, Rosalie is prepared to leave and never come back. Her free period is saving her (while her actual period is damning her), and she will use it to get a much needed nap.

Ugh. Why is she so goddamn tired?

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

"Are you seeing this?" Acacia frantically shoves an article in Rosalie's face as Drake rolls his eyes. No one bats an eye as he makes himself welcome at the Hufflepuff table, as usual. Rosalie bets that it's her amazing ceremony from years ago that made this happen.

"I'm looking, I'm looking," Rosalie mumbles, scanning the article as she tries to eat her dinner.

Her mac and cheese is delicious as always, but Rosalie wishes that Hogwarts could have more inclusivity in their food. Maybe she could ask the House Elves, and God, she should have after dropping by to the Kitchens yesterday and giving them their gifts.

The title of the article that Acacia handed to her is emblazoned on top of the white paper: TERRORIST HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED MURDERS ANOTHER FAMILY. A picture shows a house burning with mangled bodies as the Dark Mark towers over them.

"Oh my God," Rosalie whispers, her stomach churning.

"He's horrible," Acacia agrees, stabbing her pasta with her fork. Drake watches warily. "I've heard that he wants all muggles gone, to reorder the world, or something."

Rosalie's gut twists. God, her family.

"And he has his own army, too," Drake jumps in. His voice isn't a bored drawl anymore, sounding almost normal. "I've read about it before. They're called the Death Eaters — some are being recruited in our own school, like Evan Rosier."

Acacia's face becomes pale at the mention of her ex-boyfriend.

Rosalie shudders. "I hope we never have to face them."

"I hope he'll be gone soon," Acacia mutters. "Both him and his army."

"I'm sure someone will defeat them," Rosalie says, smiling weakly.

"Someone will," Acacia says, looking like she's trying to convince herself, more than anything. "I certainly hope so."

Rosalie takes Acacia's gently. "They will. I'm sure of it."

Drake scoffs. "Don't give her false hope —"

His words are cut off as the world spins. Rosalie grips the table, the sight of the tables and the glowing lanterns in the Great Hall being replaced by darkness. There's a forest, and running, and screaming, and a house.

The same house from the article.

It's burning, like the flames are alive, dancing in front of Rosalie's eyes. Screams echo as footsteps sound; green light flashes as the Dark Mark forms above the house and in the sky, like a warning.

The desolation slams into Rosalie like a car crash. She can't move, or breathe, only perceive, so she feels like her heart is slowly being carved out of her chest by a blinding hot flame.

She can feel every emotion, every snapped bone, every dead person.

And there's so much death.

"Those damn Muggles." Rosalie sees someone walk, as they adjust their cloak. A Death Eater. They look to the forest, then back at the burning house. "I'm glad we're getting rid of such a disease."

If Rosalie were an actual being in this vision, bile would form in her mouth, and she would vomit on the floor, grasping her robes and crying.

Instead, she just floats and watches. Twigs crack and snap as multiple Death Eaters walk out of the house, before they all apparate away, leaving Rosalie alone.

The vision whooshes her inside, where mangled dead bodies lay. Rosalie can make out horror on their burned faces as horror builds inside of her. And some of them are small, almost childlike, laying with their limbs in unnatural positions, their faces of horror.

Rosalie gasps as the world shatters, and she's back at the table, gripping the edges of it as she shakes, Acacia's hand back in her seat. Tears threaten to form in her eyes, but she pushes them away.

Breathe. Her mother's voice ripples through her brain. You can do it, sweetheart. It's just a nightmare.

Rosalie learned years later that, in fact, those sequences and flashes of people and death and lives and pasts are not dreams, but rather visions. She hasn't told a soul, not her family, not her friends, not any trusted adult.

She doesn't want to know what their reactions would be like, what they would do, who they would tell, and who would use her, destroy her, force her into more of these nightmares.

Ignoring her friends' concerned looks, Rosalie takes a deep breath, settling in her chair. She can do it. It's fine. It already happened. There's nothing she can do, anyways.

Some things, Rosalie had realised a long time ago, are just uncontrollable.

Acacia shoves some of her favourite desserts on Rosalie's plate. Drake watches his demeanour almost calculating.

"Eat up," Acacia advises kindly. "Please."

Rosalie nods, pale as she slowly gulps the dessert. Even the sweetness of it doesn't stop the feeling of death crawling its way into her heart.