Rose read the letter once.
Then twice.
Then a third time, slower than before, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less absurd if she stared long enough.
They did not.
The parchment trembled slightly in her hands.
Underage use of magic… Patronus Charm… in the presence of a Muggle… wand to be confiscated… expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…
Her breath grew shallow.
"I didn't even cast it," she whispered to the empty living room.
The Dursleys were upstairs. Aunt Petunia's footsteps paced sharply across the ceiling. Uncle Vernon's muttering could already be heard through the thin floorboards. Dudley had locked himself in his room at the first mention of "Ministry of Magic."
Rose read the line about confiscating her wand again.
"They're coming to take it," she murmured, gripping the polished wood tighter.
Her wand.
The one thing that made her feel like she belonged somewhere. The one thing that tied her to her parent's world.
"They can't," she whispered.
Her mind raced.
Should she hide it? Pretend it was lost? Would that make things worse?
She paced the room.
"This is ridiculous. I didn't cast the Patronus. Helios did." She paused. "And thank Merlin he stopped me…"
If she had cast it, the Ministry would at least be technically correct. But she hadn't.
So why accuse her?
Her jaw tightened.
"Because they want me discredited," she said aloud, the realization settling like cold stone in her stomach. "All summer they've been calling me unstable. Attention-seeking. Now they get proof — whether it's true or not."
They had been waiting.
Waiting for a mistake.
And now they thought they had one.
Her gaze shifted to the window.
Were Aurors standing at the edge of Privet Drive, invisible under Disillusionment Charms?
Her pulse quickened.
"They've been observing me all summer," she muttered. "And none of them thought to talk to me?"
A sudden thud against the lamppost outside snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts.
Rose hurried to the window.
An elderly, exhausted owl had collided rather gracelessly with the metal pole. For a terrifying second she thought it might fall straight to the pavement — but it wobbled midair, flapped twice with surprising determination, and redirected itself toward her.
"Errol," she breathed.
The Weasley family owl crash-landed on the windowsill with a disgruntled hoot, nearly toppling sideways before righting himself.
Rose opened the window quickly.
"You're going to give yourself a heart attack one day," she muttered gently as she untied the letter.
Errol blinked tiredly but proudly.
She recognized the handwriting instantly.
Arthur Weasley.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the parchment.
She read it carefully.
The tone was hurried but firm.
Rose, do not give your wand to any Auror who arrives. Do not surrender it under any circumstance. Remain indoors. Further instructions will follow from Professor Dumbledore. You are not to leave the premises. Stay safe.
Her breath steadied slightly.
So it wasn't just her imagination.
They knew.
They expected the Ministry to move.
She sank into the armchair slowly, clutching both letters.
"They've been watching me," she whispered. "All of them."
The Order of the Phoenix. Hidden protectors. Silent observers.
She thought back to the park.
How often had she felt eyes on her without seeing anyone?
How often had she dismissed it as paranoia?
"They knew about the Dementors," she said softly. "They must have."
And yet not one of them had approached her to explain anything.
Her throat tightened.
"They're treating me like a liability," she murmured.
The anger simmered beneath the surface now.
She rose and began pacing again.
"Fine," she muttered. "If they want to play games, I can play games."
She tucked her wand safely into the inner lining of her jeans — a place difficult to access quickly but nearly impossible to spot without physical search.
Then she folded both letters and slipped them into her pocket.
She glanced toward the staircase.
Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps were descending now.
"Girl!" he barked. "What's that racket with all those owls coming?"
Rose closed her eyes briefly.
She turned toward the hallway just as he entered the living room, red-faced and sweating.
"Nothing that concerns you," she said calmly.
"Nothing that concerns—" he sputtered. "You bring trouble to this house again and I swear—"
"You won't swear anything," she interrupted, her voice level.
The authority in her tone startled even her.
Uncle Vernon faltered.
Dudley peeked down from the staircase, wide-eyed.
"Are those… wizard letters again?" Dudley asked cautiously.
"Yes," Rose replied.
He swallowed.
"Are they going to explode?"
"Not today."
That seemed to satisfy him.
Uncle Vernon pointed a shaking finger at her. "If any freaks in robes show up at my door—"
"They'll be very polite," Rose said. "Unless you give them a reason not to be."
He blustered, but ultimately retreated upstairs, muttering darkly.
The house had barely settled back into silence when another tapping came at the window.
Rose looked up sharply.
"Again?" she murmured.
This time the owl was younger — sleek grey feathers, bright intelligent eyes, far steadier than poor old Errol. It perched neatly on the windowsill as if it had delivered official correspondence its entire life.
Rose opened the window cautiously.
The owl extended its leg with quiet dignity.
"Well, you're certainly more professional than Errol," she said softly as she untied the parchment.
The note inside was short. Very short.
Only a few lines.
Just precise handwriting she didn't recognize but assumed it's from Dumbledore from the initials at the bottom.
I am going to the Ministry to sort things out. Remain at Privet Drive and do not leave. — A.P.W.B.D.
Rose stared at the signature for a long moment.
"That's it?" she whispered.
No explanation.
No acknowledgment that she'd been under surveillance all summer without being informed.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Still… relief seeped slowly into her chest.
If Dumbledore himself was intervening, the Ministry might hesitate.
"Maybe they'll back down," she murmured, though she wasn't entirely convinced.
She folded the letter carefully and placed it beside Arthur's on the coffee table.
Fatigue suddenly hit her like a wave.
The emotional whiplash of the past hour — accusation, fear, anger, cautious hope — had drained her.
"I just need sleep," she said aloud.
She climbed the stairs quietly, ignoring the suspicious glances from Aunt Petunia peeking through her bedroom door, and collapsed onto her bed fully clothed.
Sleep claimed her almost instantly.
She woke to frantic hooting.
Sunlight poured through the curtains — much brighter than before.
Another owl.
"This is becoming ridiculous," Rose groaned, rubbing her eyes.
The bird waiting on the windowsill wore a Ministry band on its leg.
Her stomach tightened immediately.
"Already?"
She untied the letter with slightly shaking fingers.
Official.
And — mercifully — the tone inside had changed.
Miss Rose Potter,
Your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the confiscation of your wand have been suspended pending formal disciplinary hearing. You are required to attend a Ministry hearing on the matter at a later date, details to follow.
Rose exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"They're not taking my wand," she whispered.
Relief flooded her chest so strongly she had to sit down.
Even after surviving Voldemort twice…
Even after facing Dementors…
The idea of losing her wand had frightened her in a deeply personal way.
It wasn't just magic.
It was identity.
Belonging.
She rested her forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window.
"Okay," she murmured. "Trial instead of expulsion. I can handle that."
Or at least she hoped she could.
Her mind immediately shifted toward the next problem.
A trial meant questions.
Politics.
Manipulation.
Public scrutiny.
And the Ministry had already made it clear they wanted to discredit her.
"They'll try to make me look unstable," she muttered.
Which meant she needed preparation.
And there was only one person she trusted to help with that right now.
Helios.
Harry.
Whatever name he preferred.
He understood the Ministry.
Understood public perception.
Understood being accused of things he didn't do.
And most importantly — he didn't treat her like fragile glass or a political symbol.
He treated her like a person.
Her lips curved faintly.
"I need to talk to him," she said decisively.
In person.
She paced the room slowly, planning.
The Order would be watching.
They always were.
But they'd already assumed Helios was just a normal Muggle friend. That misjudgment might work in their favor.
Still, she couldn't just rush out immediately.
Arthur had advised staying indoors.
Dumbledore had explicitly said not to leave Privet Drive.
And despite her frustrations with them… she wasn't reckless enough to ignore those warnings entirely.
"Soon," she whispered.
She picked up her wand again, turning it slowly between her fingers.
"I'm keeping you," she said softly. "No matter what they try."
Outside, the summer day continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
But Rose knew better.
A Ministry trial. A returned Dark Lord.
And a mysterious friend who seemed to know far more than he should.
Her life had never been simple.
But now it was becoming complicated in entirely new ways.
For a few minutes she lay staring at the ceiling, replaying the Ministry letters, Arthur's warning, Dumbledore's brief reassurance, and the looming trial that now hung over her like a storm cloud. But rest refused to come. Her mind was too alert, too tense.
And besides… mornings at Privet Drive followed an old rhythm.
A rhythm she had lived with since childhood.
Breakfast didn't cook itself.
With a small sigh, she pushed herself out of bed.
"Well… duty calls," she muttered.
Cooking had never bothered her. It had simply become normal — eggs, toast, tea, sometimes bacon if Uncle Vernon wanted it. Aunt Petunia usually slept in whenever Rose was home; somehow the responsibility always slid back to her.
Today was no different.
She tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and began moving through the kitchen automatically. Crack eggs. Butter the pan. Set water to boil.
The familiar routine soothed her nerves more than she expected.
For a moment, everything felt ordinary.
Then the doorbell rang.
Rose froze. Her heartbeat quickened.
"It could be the Order," she whispered.
Or worse…
The Ministry.
Without thinking, she slipped her wand into her hand, then hid it discreetly behind her back as she walked toward the front door. Every step felt deliberate, cautious.
She cracked the door open just a few inches.
And blinked.
Helios stood there.
Casual as ever, dark hair slightly tousled, hands in his pockets — but his eyes were sharp, observant. He immediately noticed the wand she was holding behind her back.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
"So," he said lightly, "you're already prepared. Good."
Relief flooded Rose so suddenly her shoulders sagged.
"Helios…"
She opened the door wide without hesitation.
"Come in."
He stepped inside quietly, glancing around with the ease of someone who already knew the place.
"How are you holding up?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she went to the table, gathered the letters she'd received — Ministry, Arthur Weasley, Dumbledore — and handed them to him.
"Read," she said simply.
Then she turned back toward the kitchen.
Breakfast still needed finishing.
Helios followed without being asked.
He scanned the letters quickly, expression unreadable, while Rose resumed cooking.
A minute later, he spoke casually.
"Need help?"
Rose glanced over her shoulder skeptically.
"Do you even know how to cook?"
Helios snorted softly.
"I know my way around a kitchen."
Before she could protest, he rolled up his sleeves and stepped beside her.
And then…
He cooked.
Precise knife work. Controlled heat adjustments. Efficient timing. Within moments he had reorganized the entire cooking process like a professional chef running a kitchen.
Rose found herself just… watching.
Mouth slightly open.
"You've done this before," she said finally.
"A few times," he replied with a faint grin.
She didn't press further, but curiosity simmered quietly.
Because nothing about Helios was ordinary.
Not his confidence.
Not his knowledge.
And definitely not the way he moved through the world like he'd already seen everything once before.
While eggs finished cooking, he tapped the stack of letters.
"You handled this well," he said.
"I didn't even cast the Patronus," Rose said, frustration creeping into her voice. "You did."
"Yes," he agreed calmly. "Which means technically the Ministry has no case. But that doesn't mean they won't try something political."
She turned fully toward him.
"You're going to help me, right?"
His answer was immediate.
"Of course."
Something warm settled in her chest at that certainty.
"I might actually need it," she admitted quietly. "Especially with the trial coming."
"You will," he said frankly. "And I should help. This started because of me."
He paused, then added:
"I promise you won't face this alone."
That simple sentence did more for her nerves than all of Dumbledore's reassurances.
Because Helios didn't speak like a distant authority.
He spoke like someone standing beside her.
Breakfast finished quickly after that.
They sat at the small kitchen table, plates between them, morning sunlight filtering through the curtains.
As they ate, Helios began explaining Ministry procedures in surprising detail.
"Disciplinary hearings aren't just about facts," he said. "They're about perception. Influence. Who's in the room. Who owes favors to whom."
Rose listened intently.
"You're saying it's political."
"Very," he replied. "But politics can be navigated if you know the rules."
He started outlining specific regulations — underage magic clauses, jurisdiction boundaries, procedural rights during hearings. Some she recognized from school. Many she didn't.
"You really know all this?" she asked.
"I've had… experience," he said carefully.
That answer raised more questions than it answered.
But she didn't push.
Because something else was settling over her mind.
Relief.
For the first time since the Dementor attack, the Ministry accusations, the silence from her friends… she didn't feel alone.
She hadn't even realized how much that mattered until now.
"You know," she said slowly, "everyone knew I was attacked."
Helios looked up.
"And yet," she continued, voice quieter, "no one came. Not in person. Letters… maybe. Messages through others. But no one actually showed up to ask how I was."
A pause.
"Except you."
He didn't respond immediately.
Just continued eating calmly.
Finally he said:
"People deal with fear differently. Some freeze. Some avoid."
"That doesn't make it hurt less," she replied.
"No," he agreed softly. "It doesn't."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then she gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.
"I don't even know what to do when Hogwarts starts again. How to act with them. Ron, Hermione… everyone."
"You don't have to decide today," Helios said gently.
"And until then?"
"Until then," he said, "you focus on yourself. Your safety. Your future. Not their expectations."
That sounded… reasonable.
Comforting, even.
Strangely mature advice for someone her own age.
And as they finished breakfast together, discussing legal strategies, small jokes slipping into the conversation, the looming trial didn't feel quite so terrifying anymore.
Author's Note:
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