Rosalie's visions don't stop. From the moment she's home, a barrage of the past hits her (a scene with stupid Evan Rosier and his less-jerk of a brother, Elijah), and then she's swaying and crying and throwing up in the bathroom, with no one to hold her hair back, or hold her.

But she can survive this. Rosalie Edson is a survivor. At least, that is what she tells herself, because if she doesn't, she'll crack. And with history flowing in her veins, she can't lose herself to this cruel world, not with all the bets against her. Not with Sirius hellbent on avoiding her, not with her family poised to leave her the moment she says something — because she's a freak.

Rosalie is a freak of nature.

She doesn't know how her visions of history began, but they did. It was a few dreams in the middle of the night, dark and dreary. Her parents comforted Rosalie, who back then, was a regular daughter. A human girl, a humane girl, a girl of kindness and words and tears that poured from her dark eyes.

Then came the realisation. When Rosalie figured out her visions were of the past, she used the journal Hana gave her to write every single sordid detail of her visions down until her hands ached and she fell asleep on her comfortable bed.

And on some days, Acacia was — and is — by her side. Her best friend never says anything. She didn't speak when Rosalie dyed her hair blonde after the winter of losing her biological father, even if there was nothing to lose. When Rosalie cried in the bathroom, vomiting her lunch, Acacia held her hair in silence.

For weeks, Rosalie dressed in loose shirts to hide her stomach pudge from the world, and Acacia simply looked her in the eye, touched her cheek, and told her that it was okay. And that is that, because the two girls will be intertwined forever.

Except with their secrets. Rosalie knows that Acacia has a bottle of them, hidden from the world, and so does Rosalie. She's aware that perhaps their secrets will be their downfall, but she doesn't need to know everything about someone to love them.

With a few cleaning spells thanks to her being of age, Rosalie stumbles into the shower, lets the water run through her coarse, dark hair, and then slumps into bed. Her sheets smell of home, and the world turns to darkness as another vision ravages her until she is nothing but stone.

Rosalie needs a distraction, and Sirius is the number one distraction. From the moment her dreams were discovered to be visions, she let herself get lost in an immature hating game. Rosalie wandered through insults and banter just for it to be thrown in her face when she took a step forward. Sirius is made from more than just insults, Rosalie knows, but perhaps he failed to realise that he's just not a shell to verbally spar with.

She heads to her desk, where an open window sits. An owl is perched at the windowsill, an envelope tied to its leg.

Rosalie beckons the owl inside, untying the letters, reading the contents (where James is begging for advice on how to write to Lily), and feeds the owl a few treats she keeps inside her desk. She's used to Acacia or Drake's owls barging in and eating all the food she's stored, and that's how her owl snack drawer was formed.

Wiping off sweat from her brow, she quickly writes a letter to James, her hands shaking with anticipation. Not only does she write back with advice, she arranges a day at James's house, just to confront her monkey-not friend for avoiding her like a loser with

Rosalie vows to figure out the baboon's serious issues with her.

Sirius issues. Hah.

Lord, she needs help.

The owl flies back and forth the next day, chirping with letters the two have been exchanging, the topics ranging from Lily to the next school year to James's latest pranking methods on his family.

Rosalie runs a hand through her hair. Her head throbs, and she's shoved into another vision. Tears soak her shirt as she relives a vision she's already seen — a young boy having stolen from Voldemort, a silver watch, and then torture.

She sees his dark skin, his shaking disposition, and his wide eyes. Each scream is a sword into her heart, thrusting and ripping through her skin until she's sobbing on the floor, hands covering her tear-soaked eyes.

"I can do this, I can do this, I can do this," she murmurs to herself, like a prayer. And it keeps her going, because she's better than these forced confrontations.

She is better.

And that's how another day passes, with visions littered as the sun dips into the sky. Rosalie chugs bottles of water, indulges in dessert, locks herself up in her room just to write long letters to her friends.

The day to James's house arrives quickly. Heading through her fireplace after using her limited amount of Floo powder, Rosalie emerges in James's large house: coughing and soot-covered.

It's beautiful. Walls are decorated with fancy, moving portraits of James's family. Statues and marbles and pretty lanterns are strung around, and Rosalie has never wanted to relax and sink into the comfort of a home than she does now.

"Rosalie, my favourite Cupid!" James calls, eyeing the struggling brunette. "Are you alright?"

"'M fine," Rosalie says in between coughs. "I usually don't travel using the Floo. I have one bottle of Floo powder from Hogsmeade, and that's it."

"Why didn't you apparate?" James asks, lifting her up. He pulls out his wand. "Here, I'll clean your clothes!"

"Thanks," Rosalie tells him, dusting off her new, cleaned shirt. "I didn't want to scare my parents, or the neighbours, since Apparition sounds like a gunshot."

Also, she's too tired and vision-ridden to apparate, but she doesn't mention that. James would probably send her home in an instant.

James winces. "That is a problem."

"Yes," Rosalie agrees, patting him. "Thanks again."

"No need." James smirks. "I know I'm the best."

"I take it back."

James gasps. "How rude! I thought you were on my side —"

"Your ego needs a little popping, I'm afraid," Rosalie counters.

"James, would you get Sirius?" his mother calls from the kitchen before James can respond. "It's going to be lunch time soon!"

Rosalie frowns. Ever since James warned her that Sirius would be here with him, she pieced everything together. Months ago, everyone knew that Sirius ran away from home. Regulus had said that James was his replacement brother, but it didn't feel real until now.

To a Seer of the past, reality is just another world. There's the past, where Rosalie lives. And there's the present, where she's supposed to be.

"Sirius!" James screams. "Lunch!"

"Give me five minutes!" Sirius shouts back, sounding irritated.

"Sirius!" James's mum calls.

"Coming, Effie!"

James scowls. "Oh, so when it's my mum you listen —"

He continues to grumble incoherently as Sirius makes his way down the stairs. Rosalie shifts, but smiles when James squeezes her shoulder.

"Does he know I'm supposed to be here today?" Rosalie asks softly.

James shakes his head.

She silently groans. Wonderful.

Sirius's eyes glide across the room, and he freezes when he spots her. Rosalie shifts, self-conscious, especially when he turns to head back up the stairs.

"Kidding, love," Sirius says, turning back. Rosalie gapes at his jovial attitude. "Lovely to see you, Rosalie. Shall we?"

"What?" is all she can ask, because after months of him avoiding her, he's acting normal, now? Well, it's a forced normal, but a normal nevertheless.

"Isn't it time for lunch?" he asks, as if she's the abnormal one.

"Right." Rosalie fidgets with her skirt. "Lunch. I'm — I'm going to the dining room."

Her mind is screaming at her to shut up as she turns away from Sirius's face, heading to the table and seating herself. James leaves a seat in the middle of her and him, leaving Sirius next to Rosalie. James's parents sit in front of him, and Rosalie jumps to help serve the food, to which James's mother tells her to "sit back down" in a stern voice.

"So," James's father begins once the food is piled onto everyone's plates, "how is your summer so far — Rozanna, was it?"

"Rosalie, sir." Swallowing her pasta, Rosalie clears her throat, trying not to laugh at James's horrified expression ("I told him the right name!" his eyes seem to say). "Wonderful, Mr. Potter. I've been writing a lot of letters to my friends and practising my magic."

Her actual summer was being holed up in her room whenever she had visions, then claiming it was because she felt like she needed to vomit, and then spending hours convincing her parents that she doesn't need a doctor.

"Call me Monty, Rosalie," James's father insists. "I feel old if you don't."

His statement reminds her of Fulk, the man from Slughorn's party, but she shrugs that away.

"Oh, and call me Effie," James's mother tells her.

Rosalie smiles. "Of course, Monty and Effie."

A few minutes of silence are spent as Rosalie eats the delicious food Effie cooked, murmuring out a "thank you". Then, a "no, thank you, dear" from Effie makes Rosalie flush.

"So, James," Effie starts, "how is Lily?"

A smile makes its way to Rosalie's lips. She finds herself glancing at Sirius, who smirks in return. Then her stomach churns, and she finds herself staring into her lap.

James smirks. "I've been writing her letters."

"Has she been answering?" Rosalie asks drily, deciding to look up and stop being a coward.

James scoffs as his parents laugh. "Yes."

Sirius coughs. "I bet she just wrote 'Go away, toerag!'"

"We're both talking about books, actually." James crosses his arms as Rosalie, Monty, and Effie fail to contain their laughter. "And it's wonderful."

"No poems?" Rosalie asks.

"None."

She brightens. "Alright, then! Nice one."

"So, you're helping him?" Monty asks Rosalie, swirling his pasta with his fork. "You've done a good job, it seems. Better than Sirius."

"Hey!" the said boy complains.

"I am," Rosalie says proudly. "And Lily became my friend in the process, too."

"That's brilliant," Effie says, grinning. "You've made a good friend, James."

Rosalie flushes. "It's really nothing."

"It's not nothing," Sirius says, voice uncharacteristically, well, serious. "You've made James and Lily friends in the span of a few months. He couldn't do that in five years."

"Rude," James mutters, but Rosalie sees a semblance of a smile on his face.

She finds herself smiling, too, and to shove that happiness at being complemented deep into a pit, she stuffs herself with more food.

Monty eyes them. "Rosalie, do you play Quidditch?"

"She commentates," James answers for Rosalie, who's chewing her food.

"Yes, I commentate," Rosalie confirms, after swallowing her chicken. "I'm terrible at actual Quidditch, and all I do is talk. So it's perfect."

James laughs. "Your commentating is just rambling."

"Not true!" Rosalie says, pointing her fork at him. "It has plenty of insults, too. There's this one kid in school, named Evan Rosier, and he's the absolute worst —"

Effie sighs, glancing at her husband. "Oh no."

"You said Evan Rosier?" The glint in Monty's eye looks almost evil. "I used to go to school with your classmate's uncle. And he was —"

"Terrible, idiotic, and the prefect instead of you," James mutters. "We've heard it all."

Monty scowls at him.

"Runs in the family, I suppose." Rosalie giggles. "They're all terrible."

James's father nods. "You understand."

"I'm sorry about my husband, Rosalie," Effie murmurs.

Rosalie fails to hide her laughter as Monty narrows his eyes at his wife. "It's all good. Evan Rosier is terrible, after all."

"Guess what his uncle is named," Monty says drily, serving himself some dessert.

Rosalie gapes. "No way. There are two jerks named Evan Rosier?"

Monty nods gravely. "It's a travesty, really, that the two were allowed to be bo —"

"Monty!" Effie scolds as the three teens snicker.

"Your dad is amazing," Rosalie mutters to James, biting into her Pumpkin Pasty. Reaching down to smooth her dress, her hand knocks into another. Sirius's. Shit. "Sorry."

"No problem, love," he says smoothly.

Rosalie finds herself clearing her throat. "I should put my plate in the sink. I'm finished."

"No need," Effie starts, but Rosalie shakes her head.

"I'll do it." She stands up, clutching her blue plate, decorated with white roses at the rim. "It's alright."

"I'm finished as well," Sirius says suddenly, but for some reason, he sounds perfectly natural. "I can give Rosalie the house tour, too."

What.

James nods. "Don't be gone too long."

"We won't," Rosalie assures, voice quiet.

She heads to the kitchen, Sirius following her. The two rinse their plates, slow and awkward, the water drowning out her thoughts.

Sirius's sorrowful gaze meets Rosalie's.

"We should talk," Sirius says, breaking the silence.

Rosalie's first thought isn't nice. After all, he's been a jerk for months.

"Alright," is what she says, despite the fact that the baboon wants to speak to her now. How the tables have turned. Or, as Acacia says, "how the turns have tabled".

"We can go to the backyard," Sirius suggests, and then without Rosalie's assent, he takes her arm and guides her outside.

The yard is even more beautiful than the interior of the house. The grass looks just as green as James described it in their letters, colourful flowers bloom in pots near the teenagers, and a path to a garden looks much more interesting than having another vulnerable chat with the guy who proceeded to not speak to her after said chat.

Sirius gestures for Rosalie to sit on a stair, and so she does, her movements hesitant and almost clunky.

"Why did you avoid me, you git?" Rosalie wants to ask, but she doesn't.

Sirius continues to stay silent, as if breathing the fresh air will somehow make his next words better. Rosalie sighs.

"You're wasting my time —" she begins hastily.

He cuts her off. "I know you have visions."

Rosalie freezes. "What?"

"You have visions," Sirius repeats, "and that's how you knew about the emotions in our project, and why you keep fainting, and —"

"No, I —" Rosalie stands up, panicking. He could use it against her, do something — "You were right to avoid me. I don't —"

Sirius grasps her arm, pulling her back down. "I'm not going to shove you away anymore, Edson, nor am I going to tell anyone. I was just processing, and it was for this and the fact that I was —"

"Vulnerable," Rosalie finishes, relaxing. But not completely. The git doesn't deserve her trust, not yet. "And so was I."

"I didn't know how to deal with it," Sirius admits, "that you know more about me than most people do. My friends think that's the reason I'm avoiding you, not that you can see the future."

Rosalie's shoulders sag. "Black, I can't see the future."

He glances at her. "You're lying."

"I swear I'm not."

Rosalie can divert him. She can lie by omission now, redirect him, do anything to make sure that he doesn't send her in the front lines. And she wants to. Rosalie desperately desires to hide herself away, clam herself up.

Maybe she's more similar to Sirius than she thinks.

And that thought alone, that one thought, spirals into more. Sirius can't do anything. He spent months processing and didn't say a word. He won't tell anyone, if he discovered it this early and said nothing — even if he is sort of wrong.

Sirius isn't her first choice for spilling anything. She has friends and family who love her, but perhaps, perhaps she wants him to know. A small part of Rosalie longs for his hand to stay on her arm, his grip tight but not hurtful.

Don't let go, Rosalie wants to say. Please hold on. I want someone to hold on.

"For years, I've been hiding it," she starts slowly, her fingers drumming on the wood of the stairs. Sirius's feather-light grip on Rosalie's arm eggs her on. "For years, I've had nightmares about someone finding out and making a weapon out of me. My father — my biological one — found out about my magic and said that he could make me into his little weapon. 'Oh, the things you could do,' he said."

Sirius doesn't say anything. He doesn't let an insult slide off his lips to make her leave, or doesn't ask her to continue. The only thing that eggs her on is the breeze tickling her neck, telling her this is real.

If she wants someone to hold on, there needs to be a reason.

She isn't sure why she said that. Rosalie hasn't told anyone about her visions, and Sirius is the only one who figured it out — but she can avoid it, especially since he avoided her. He could use her, make a weapon out of her, tell anyone.

And yet, she continues.

"I promised myself that day that I wouldn't tell anyone anything," Rosalie reveals softly, eyes surprisingly dry. "Imagine what worse people than my father could do. Thankfully, he's dead now, but it still scares me."

"If you don't see the future," he asks, "what do you see?"

Rosalie gulps. Her stomach clenches, and her entire world feels like it's falling, ripping, changing. A large part of her wants to sew her mouth shut with red strings. It reminds her of the strings her father ripped into her, used to control her arms and mouth and —

She can't let fear control her anymore.

"The past," Rosalie forces out. "I see old memories, old history, and it rips into me."

"These past visions," he says slowly, "are they the ones causing you harm? Not your sleep?"

Rosalie sighs. "They're the reason I can't sleep."

"I'm sorry," he says after seconds of deafening silence. "You don't deserve this."

"Neither do you," she says gently, and his face hardens. They both know what she's talking about.

Sirius's hand slides down her arm, meeting her hand. "You don't have to try and help everyone, love."

"What are you doing then?" she asks gently. "What does this information help you with?"

"My nosiness," he says immediately.

She lets out a sharp laugh. "Your words, not mine."

"Very funny." He rolls his eyes. "And nice subject change. But it's not going to work."

Rosalie's stomach flips. "Fine. How did you find out?"

"The project," he admits. "I let it go, but after you kept fainting, I got suspicious. And after our conversation in the Astronomy Tower, I went to the library for the first time in months and got a book about Seers."

She smirks. "How boring was it?"

"I fell asleep twenty times, Edson," Sirius says dramatically, "and it felt like needles stabbing into my skin."

"Don't be dramatic," Rosalie says, laughing now. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"It was torture, love," he complains, running a hand through his silken hair, "but I eventually connected the dots."

"And you didn't tell anyone." She smiles tearfully. "Thank you, Black. I don't know what I'd do if everyone knew."

All traces of laughter are gone from Sirius's face. "What do you think would happen if they knew?"

Rosalie's face hardens. "I'd be in visions all day and night, strapped down. They'd use this information to find whatever they wanted. And every single year, I'd feel the emotions of thousands of different people, all connected in my head. Nonstop. Forever."

"Your father's a dick," Sirius says finally. "He can rot in his grave."

Rosalie blinks. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything, it seems."

"You're right." Tingles spread on her knuckles with the brush of Sirius's fingers on her hand. But she doesn't want to let go; he's holding on, and he's the last person she expected to do so. "And he is a dick that's rotting in his grave, so you have your wish."

"He can't hurt you anymore."

A sad smile slips onto Rosalie's face. "He doesn't need to. I have his ghost and other people do it for me."

"Well, I'm not going to hurt you," Sirius says, "not anymore."

Rosalie smiles bitterly. "You don't know that."

"At least on purpose," he amends.

"Can I trust you, then?" Rosalie jokes.

It's light outside, but she feels a blanket of stars over her body, a promise that she's going to be safe. Even if it's temporary, she'll relish it.

"Yes." She feels the warmth of Sirius's grip on her arm. "You can trust me, Rosalie."

Rosalie's stomach tumbles out of her control. "Then, can I trust you not to avoid me, you clam?"

He nods, smirking. "And you can trust that I won't give James anymore relationship advice. He made me promise."

"Thank God," Rosalie murmurs.

Sirius lets out an indignant scoff. "Rude."

"Only true," she counters, laughing at his offended expression. "Sirius, thank you for being honest with me. I've never shared this with anyone before, so you understand if I'm going to be reluctant, right?"

A teasing smile makes its way to his face. "You missed me that much?"

She scowls. "No, I missed my punching bag. And you didn't even acknowledge what I said."

"It would be hypocritical if I disagreed," he says, snickering.

"Alright." Rosalie coughs. "If you avoid me again, I'll kill you."

"So you did miss me." His smirk fades when she punches him. "Edson!"

"You would've gotten fully forgiven today," she adds diabolically, "but you did avoid me. So, now you're being punished."

His eyes widen. "What —"

"Please, Black." Rosalie flips her hair, smiling. "I'm more pettier than you think I am. Just watch. You'll wish you talked to me the day you found out."

"I already do."

Rosalie nudges him. "Good, you baboon."

"Chipmunk."

"Emotionally constipated idiot."

"What?"

She laughs, and the weight of the world is lifted off her shoulders.