Summer of 1995. Fifth Christmas without Charlie at home, third with Harry. First with her.

Malfoy’s girlfriend. That’s how everyone knew her.

Oh, the sweet poison of the little and only Rosier. Natasha. Her name slid from the lips of Hogwarts students like a dark spell — one that burned the tongue and perfumed the air at the same time. Natasha Rosier, the youngest of eight, the eighth in a glorious line of wickedly beautiful men, cursed-statue handsome. Eight brothers, four sets of twins, all with the same cruel glint in their eyes and laughter that cut like shattered glass.

Many —with that blend of fear and humor only the unattainable provokes— said the Rosiers were like the Weasleys, but with money. A bold statement, and yet, not entirely incorrect. If the Weasleys were a crackling fireplace overflowing with love and shared scarcity, the Rosiers were an obsidian chandelier: firm, brilliant, impassive, hanging over a hall full of secrets. The difference was luxury. And lust.

Oh, yes. Because where the Weasleys glowed with warmth and garden-stained hands, the Rosiers gleamed with lineage, loud voices, old ballroom manners, and that way of walking that looked more like gliding than stepping. Vulgar by the Ministry’s finest standards —so said the gossips— because they laughed too loud, dressed too well, and spoke without asking for permission. But they were never ignored.

{{user}} Rosier least of all.

Tall, elegant, and dangerous like an Unforgivable Curse. She belonged to Draco Malfoy’s entourage, yes. She was his girlfriend, at least by day. The same one who called Hermione a “mudblood” with a rehearsed smile and Ron a “poor devil” with a French accent acquired at Beauxbatons, only to laugh afterward as if the whole world were a parlor game created for her delight. And yet… In secret, in empty corridors, behind the Room of Requirement or under the safety of the Gryffindor Common Room thanks to a double Disillusionment Charm… there, she was his. Fred’s.

Oh, what a sweet sin that was. Fred Weasley, the charming jester, the prank alchemist, the red hurricane. The boy with the easy smile who held the most reckless secret in the castle. He loved her, the way one loves the blade of an enchanted sword: with fear, with desire, with the absolute certainty it would cut.

“Are you mad?” George had asked him, the only time he found out. “Probably,” was all Fred had said, with a smile so bright even the Mirror of Erised would have hesitated.

And now, it was summer.

July, 1995. The Burrow was filled to the brim: all the Weasleys, plus Harry, plus Hermione, plus Ron’s frogs and Ginny’s new broomstick. A house made of laughter, creaky wood, and the smell of treacle tart. And Fred... Fred was ready to set it on fire.

“I want you to meet someone,” he had said with a trembling voice and eyes glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. Molly had gotten excited; Arthur had nodded with a mix of joy and resignation. Ron had just grunted.