Chapter Text
Rosalie wakes up, haunted by what she saw. The candles gleam in her dorm room, a mix of orange and yellow. All the girls in the dorm are fast asleep, snores light as the curtains blocking the moonlight flutter from the wind.
She wants to burn herself, to light the whole room on fire until the only thing she can see is the blinding light. Maybe her eyes won't be able to see anymore; maybe her dreams will stop pounding her head, marking dark circles under her dark eyes; maybe then she’ll never always feel pain — because in those certain visions of the past, she’s always a ghost, unable to move but feeling the pain of the people around her.
Rosalie stays in her bed, sitting up. She remembers her mother’s voice in her head: Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
She does so. Air fills her lungs, before leaving it. Nothing changes. Rosalie still wants everything to burn.
In fact, she’s tried all she could to make the visions leave her head. She’s pulled all-nighters, studying or writing in her rotting brown journal, only for the visions to plague her thoughts, rather than her sleep. She’s annoyed Sirius Black to make herself feel better, but it’s only a temporary fix; the visions still return.
It is something she keeps to herself. After all, the world only knows Seers of the future. But Rosalie Edson is a Seer of the past, a Seer of blinding visions and withering hope as a war wages on.
She sees the past in pictures. History is inked into her beige skin, tattooed across her mind until all she can think about is the past. Rosalie feels every knife, every stone, every word hurled at her face, a third party viewer in the visions that unfold beyond her eyes. She is merely the viewer of a play she cannot touch, an audience no one can see.
(Now, her vision journal sits at her desk, withering from the constant use. Rosalie has written every single detail of her visions there. It’s a painful cycle, even though Rosalie relies on them for important information at times.)
They’re a routine, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. She feels the twist of a knife, every emotion, every cracked twig, every stabbed back. She feels and hears and sees and touches and does it all. Today, it is a memory of a young boy being tortured by Voldemort, screaming for help — for anyone — as metaphorical knives draw blood, twisting into his flesh, a stolen, silver watch with bronze roman numerals crushed in his palm.
Lifting her comforter, goosebumps travel up her long legs as Rosalie stands up, gently heading towards her desk. Her muggle pen slowly scratches against the thin paper of the journal as she scribbles down everything she remembers, before tiptoeing out of the door.
Downstairs, the Common Room’s hearth burns. A few sixth and seventh years are studying, wrapping blankets over their bodies, eyes screwed in concentration as parchment lies on the floor. Amongst them are Drake Wilkins and Acacia Abbott, Rosalie’s two best friends. Sprawled on the yellow, comfortable carpet in between the fire and sofa, the sixth years argue as they dip their quills into wet ink, scribbling words on crumpling parchment.
“Hello, guys,” Rosalie says, sitting down on the carpet next to them. Her panging head is drowned out by the arguing in front of her.
Drake waves shortly, his Slytherin tie tight on his collared shirt. Despite belonging to the House of Snakes, Drake is considered an “Honorary Hufflepuff”, and one of the only people outside of Hufflepuff that are allowed in the Common Room, no matter how much Acacia protested when he was first let in by Rosalie.
Rosalie even had a little ceremony with the House Elves, including a flower crown, a badger stuffed toy, and a plate of food that Acacia grudgingly made. Drake looked incredibly miffed, calling the ceremony idiotic, but Rosalie knew that he loved it.
“Hey, Ros,” Acacia says, looking up from her parchment. Her eye bags look atrocious, like a ghost — or maybe Peeves the Poltergeist — sucked all the life out of her. “Breath mint?”
“Uh — sure?” Rosalie says, all though her tone is more questioning, and amused at Acacia’s random nicknames, ranging from “Ro” to “misspelt Rosalind”. Acacia takes a somehow fresh mint out of her pocket and hands it to her. “Thanks, Ace.”
Acacia nods, furrowing her eyebrows and biting her before she looks at her parchment, which is practically blank. Drake is staring at her, probably trying to find something to insult. Or maybe , Rosalie thinks, trying not to giggle, he’s —
“If you need a snack, Ali,” Acacia says, “I have some crackers from the House Elves. I plucked them this evening from the Kitchens after our first back-to-school lesson.”
“The elves aren’t your students, you know,” Drake drones, giving Acacia a sardonic smile when she glares at him. “Just saying.”
“How are the lessons going, anyway?” Rosalie asks, popping in her breath mint. “They’re learning to write sentences now, right?”
Rather than hassle the House Elves in leaving, something which Rosalie already attempted, the girls decided last year to teach them about their own autonomy and freedom. Making their own choice to leave the enslavement and discover new things in the world should seem easy, but the House Elves were tied to it from the beginning. When it’s all they know, how can they leave?
Acacia nods proudly, her whole face lighting up. Drake gives her a bored glance before going back to his essay.
“They’re reading, too,” Acacia says brightly, seemingly forgetting about her essay. “Milly had the most progress — I’m even letting her borrow my sister’s old books.”
“That’s great!” Rosalie says, smiling. “I’ll make sure to drop by; I purchased some gifts and things for them as well.”
“Thanks, Rosie,” Acacia says, before her eyes settle on her quill. “Shoot, the essay. If only I had my damn pen … then I could write faster because my quill always makes the parchment break and holding it is so inconvenient and —”
“She’s been like this all day,” Drake drawls, picking up one parchment.
Acacia shoots him a glare for interrupting her. Rosalie knows that it’s more than just banter between them, but it’s not hate. Just mutual “dislike”, considering they spend most of their days together: with Rosalie and in the Slug Club that Rosalie isn't in because she has no connections, being a Muggle-born. Drake acts like he dislikes even Rosalie’s company, but he never leaves.
But still. Acacia and Drake’s arguments can get annoying. Not more annoying than Sirius, though.
Acacia groans. “This Transfiguration essay is murdering us all.”
“Wasn’t that summer homework?” Rosalie asks.
The only reason why she did is because her mother, Hana — an Asian mum at heart — forced her to. She also forces her to do Maths and English packets every year, but that’s a different thing. Also, a part of it had to do with almost failing Transfigurations last year. Rosalie barely managed to scrape an “Exceeds Expectations” on the O.W.L.
Acacia waves Rosalie off. “That just means ‘do it the day before class’.”
Rosalie blinks, despite her procrastinator side agreeing with Acacia. “It really doesn’t.”
“Sure, Rosalie.” Drake runs his hand through his dreads. “The entirety of McGonagall’s N.E.W.T. class will become ghosts because of this essay.”
A smile threatens to form on Rosalie’s face, which glows from the fire raging next to her. “I don’t doubt it, Drake. Will you be haunting us next week?”
“Yes,” Drake says blandly. “I’m dying right now, Rosalie.”
Acacia groans, pressing her fingers to her face. “I hate to admit it, but he's right. At this rate, we’ll be dead tomorrow, Ro-Ro. Not next week. Tomorrow.”
“What should I say at your funeral?” Rosalie asks, hiding a snicker as Acacia slumps on the floor, parchment flying away.
“That I’m the greatest witch to ever exist —”
Drake rolls his dark eyes, almost sneering. “You can’t lie at funerals, Abbott —”
Acacia narrows her eyes, scoffing loudly as her head rises from the carpet. “It’s actually ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’, dunderhead. So, you can actually screw yourself —”
They continue to bicker, causing Rosalie to groan.
“Merlin, give me more strength,” Rosalie mutters.
“Shut up !”
The sixth year Hufflepuff prefect and one of the Quidditch team’s Chasers — Pippa — glares at them, mirroring Rosalie’s annoyance. Rosalie can barely make out her last name — Rollins? Ronald? Ronald sounds right — etched onto her prefect badge, but her first is conveniently blocked by her hair.
The Prefect continues. “You three are by far the most annoying people I have ever come across —”
Drake rolls his eyes. “Like one of your experiments hasn’t haunted us lately, Rosier.”
Acacia sighs. “I don’t like him, but he’s got a point, Pandora.”
Rosalie blinks. Pandora Rosier? Dear God, Rosalie is way off. She's the commentator for Quidditch this year and she doesn't even know the poor girl’s name?
Shame on Rosalie, honestly.
Pippa — ahem , Pandora glowers at them, her blonde, frizzy hair sticking out like a pufferfish. “Shut up. It’ll be detention, next time.”
Rosalie knows that Pandora will never follow up on that. Acacia is not only the Keeper of the Hufflepuff team, but also the Quidditch captain, and could easily make Pandora do five more rounds on the Quidditch Pitch out of spite.
“Alright, Pandora,” Acacia says, looking unbothered as Pandora scoffs, reluctantly turning away.
“That was fun,” Drake says drily, gathering his parchment as Rosalie snorts. “I’m finished. Both of you should sleep soon.”
Acacia sighs. “Damn it. I’ve barely started.”
“Here, use this.” Drake tosses his parchment to Acacia, giving her a cool, emotionless stare. “Give me my essay back by tomorrow, Abbott.”
Acacia stares at the essay, flabbergasted. “Uh — thanks, Wilkins.”
He shrugs, walking away.
Rosalie grins like a maniac once Drake disappears. “He just did that. So I was right. Underneath all the arguing and utter nonsense, he — ow !”
Acacia, who just chucked a breath mint at Rosalie’s face, snickers.
-
Rosalie can tell whether her dream is a nightmare or a vision. Her visions have this dull quality to it, almost like a haze, lulling her. Voices are sharp knives, cutting through the fog, piercing her skin. Her feelings, because of the knives, bleed out as the vision unfolds.
With a dream, she can’t tell where she is, what she’s doing, why she’s there. She’s constantly shoved into one scenario and then the next: from the end of the world to being kidnapped to her worst fears unearthed in front of her.
She used to not be able to tell between dreams and reality while dreaming, but now that her nights have been filled with visions, the differences are too great to not acknowledge.
“Do you feel it, in those visions of yours?” Rosalie can’t make out a face, only a mane of dark hair. “The itch, the ache, the crimson blood in your fingertips, clinging to your marred skin?”
In dreams, Rosalie feels herself. She is real, as real as one can be in their imagination. She is wandering. She can speak. She can touch.
“Who are you?” she asks.
A smile splits open the creature’s face, but Rosalie still can’t see what it looks like. Its features swim in and out of her memory.
“Death surrounds you and your dreams,” it continues, as if it didn’t hear her. “You cannot avoid it. So embrace it. Hold it tight, scarring it, causing Death to bow at your feet.”
“Death isn’t something I can make surrender,” Rosalie tries to reason, ignoring the way that the creature tilts its head, with the cracking of bones. “It’s inevitable —”
“Nothing is inevitable, Rosalie Edson.” The voice sounds so hollow, beneath her, and yet everywhere. “That’s the beauty of it. The future is fluid.”
A laugh, so chilling, bursts out of the being. Rosalie steps back, horrified. But she can’t move anymore. She’s glued to the ground, or whatever the hell the murky floor is beneath her —
“But the past? It stays the same.” The creature uses its bony hands to touch her face.
Rosalie flinches.
“It is history, in the records, in your minds. There is a reason why the past is never allowed to be unearthed. There is a reason why we never repeat it, see it again.” The creature laughs again, sounding bitter. “Until you.”
“I want to wake —”
“You are a weapon, my dear. A girl who wields the past like a blade. And that? That is a problem.”
The ground breaks under her feet. Rosalie falls, into a pit of oblivion, into the darkness, into Death, and wakes up.