From the very next morning, Helios began coming to Private drive regularly.
Rose started expecting it without even realizing. There was a certain rhythm to his visits now — the soft knock, the quiet way he entered, always carrying a book tucked under his arm, sometimes two or three. Thick leather-bound volumes, Ministry law codices, Wizengamot precedents, and obscure wizarding customs that Rose had never even heard mentioned at Hogwarts.
It was strange seeing someone her own age carrying law books instead of school texts.
And even stranger watching him speak like someone who had lived through multiple trials himself.
Helios dropped a stack of books on the table.
"We're not dealing with a simple disciplinary hearing," he said without preamble. "Forget that idea completely."
Rose looked up from her tea.
"You really think it'll be that serious?"
"I don't think," he corrected calmly. "I know."
He opened one of the books, flipping through marked pages.
"The Ministry isn't trying to correct you. They're trying to discredit you. Publicly. Permanently."
The words made her stomach tighten.
"So… what does that mean exactly?"
"It means," he said, meeting her eyes steadily, "this will be a full Wizengamot trial. Entire council present. Reporters. Observers. Possibly political allies planted in the audience."
Rose swallowed.
"That sounds… terrifying."
"It should be," Helios replied bluntly. "Because they'll use every loophole available to make you look unstable. Reckless. Attention-seeking."
He tapped the book lightly.
"And once public opinion turns against you, they don't even need a conviction. Reputation damage alone will do their job."
Rose stared at him.
"How do you know all this?"
A brief pause.
"I am smart," he said smug.
She didn't push.
Instead, she asked the question weighing on her mind.
"So what do I do?"
Helios leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
"You fight."
She frowned.
"That sounds obvious."
"No," he said quietly. "I mean you fight intelligently. Strategically. Emotionally controlled. Politically aware."
He gestured toward her.
"And you use everything available. Including your fame."
Rose immediately grimaced.
"I hate that fame."
"I know," he said gently. "But whether you like it or not, it exists. And if you don't use it, someone else will use it against you."
She looked uncertain.
"I still don't see how."
Helios tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Do you remember the Quidditch World Cup last year?"
"Of course. What about it?"
"How did Arthur Weasley — a mid-level Ministry employee — secure top-tier seats? Ministry box access isn't exactly cheap."
Rose opened her mouth… then closed it.
Memories resurfaced.
Draco Malfoy's mocking tone. His comment about the Weasleys selling their house to afford those seats. The odd tension around the subject.
Slow realization dawned.
"…He mentioned I was staying with them."
Helios gave a small nod.
"The Minister wanted the Girl Who Lived visible. Symbolic presence. Good publicity. So the entire Weasley family benefited."
Rose leaned back slowly.
"I never even thought about that."
"Most people don't," Helios said. "Influence operates quietly."
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Then he spoke again, voice firmer.
"The best defense, Rose, is controlled offense."
She blinked.
"You're telling me to attack the Ministry?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
Her eyes widened.
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is," he admitted. "But letting them frame the narrative is more dangerous."
He leaned forward slightly.
"They're calling you unstable. Attention-seeking. Reckless. So you demonstrate composure and make them look petty by comparison."
Rose's brow furrowed.
"How?"
"You question their priorities. Their competence. Their inconsistency. Calmly. Respectfully. But firmly."
He paused, then added:
"You don't shout. You don't cry. You don't plead. You speak like someone who knows she's right."
The idea both frightened and empowered her.
"And what if they twist my words?"
"They will," he said simply. "Which is why preparation matters."
He slid another book toward her.
"Case histories. Previous underage magic trials. Political outcomes. Patterns."
Rose looked at the thick volume skeptically.
"You expect me to read all this?"
"No," he said with a small smile. "I already did. I'll summarize."
That earned a reluctant laugh from her.
"You're ridiculously thorough, you know that?"
"Occupational habit."
"Occupation? You're fifteen."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he continued calmly:
"Remember one thing above all else: you did not cast the Patronus. That's your anchor. Never let anyone shake your confidence with that."
Rose nodded slowly.
"That part I'm certain about."
"Good. Confidence reads as credibility in court."
He hesitated briefly before adding:
"And don't let them emotionally provoke you. That's their favorite tactic."
She studied him carefully.
"You sound like you've been through something like this before."
Helios held her gaze for a long moment.
"…Something like that."
Again, the vague answer.
Helios wasn't just helping her academically.
He was protecting her emotionally.
Just like he had at the graveyard.
Just like he had during the Dementor attack.
Just like he had been doing all summer.
Rose set her teacup down slowly.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Helios shrugged lightly.
Vernon Dursley prided himself on being a practical man.
He believed in routine, respectability, order. He believed in normal dinners at normal hours and normal children doing normal things. He believed in lawns trimmed evenly and neighbours minding their own business.
He did not believe in wizard boys showing up at his front door every morning.
And yet… he tolerated it.
That alone should have disturbed him more than it did.
Helios Black arrived almost daily now. Sometimes early. Sometimes mid-morning. Always composed. Always carrying one of those thick, unsettling books filled with wizard nonsense.
Vernon did not like him.
He told himself that frequently.
But he tolerated it because of two things.
The first was culinary.
The boy could cook.
Vernon had dined in expensive restaurants during client meetings — steak houses with white tablecloths, private clubs with five-course meals, hotel buffets with international spreads. He considered himself something of an authority on good food.
And yet.
Nothing — nothing — compared to what that dark-haired boy could do with a simple frying pan and a handful of ingredients from his refrigerator.
Eggs perfectly seasoned.
Bacon crisp without being burnt.
Sausages juicy.
Even the tea tasted better when the boy prepared it.
The first time it happened, Vernon had been suspicious.
The third time, he had been impressed.
By the fifth morning, he was waiting downstairs at precisely the hour the boy usually arrived.
He would never admit it aloud.
But the breakfasts had become the best part of his day.
The second reason was far less pleasant.
Helios Black unsettled him.
It wasn't just the family name.
Sirius Black was a convicted criminal. A fugitive. A name splashed across newspapers for years. The kind of man Vernon could point to as proof of the dangers of "that abnormal lot."
And here stood his son.
Not particularly tall.
Certainly not built like Dudley.
And yet…
Dangerous.
Vernon couldn't explain it in words he would willingly use. But whenever the boy looked at him — truly looked at him — there was something there. Something cold. Measured.
Predatory.
As if he were being evaluated.
As if one wrong move might trigger something irreversible.
The first morning Vernon had barked at Rose for dropping a plate too loudly, he had felt it. That weight. That gaze.
He turned and found Helios watching him across the kitchen.
The boy said nothing.
Did nothing.
But Vernon felt it in his bones.
He swallowed his irritation and lowered his voice.
He told himself it was coincidence.
That he was imagining it.
But every time Helios' eyes lingered on him a second too long, Vernon felt like prey being measured by a predator.
It made him deeply uncomfortable.
Which was why he chose caution.
He had dealt with difficult business clients before. Aggressive negotiators. Unstable competitors. The strategy was the same.
Smile.
Tolerate.
Avoid escalation.
So Vernon tolerated the wizard boy's presence.
He told Petunia as much one evening.
"As long as he stays out of my way and keeps cooking like that, I don't care how much freak studying they do upstairs."
Petunia had pursed her lips but said nothing.
Upstairs.
That was where most of it happened.
Rose's bedroom door remained closed for hours at a time. Low murmurs filtered down occasionally. The rustle of pages. Calm, controlled conversation.
Vernon imagined they were plotting something absurd.
Or perhaps performing strange rituals.
He didn't know.
And, for once, he did not want to know.
Because every time he passed the staircase and heard Helios' voice drifting down — steady, composed, analytical — it carried none of the hysterical nonsense he expected from "their kind."
That disturbed him almost as much as the boy's gaze.
One afternoon, as Vernon poured himself a second cup of tea, he found Helios alone in the kitchen for a moment.
The boy was washing a pan, movements precise.
Vernon cleared his throat.
"You planning to keep coming here every day?" he asked gruffly.
Helios dried his hands calmly before turning.
"For now."
"For now?" Vernon repeated.
"Yes."
Vernon shifted slightly under that steady gaze.
"You're not causing trouble in my house," he said firmly.
Helios tilted his head faintly.
"That depends."
"Depends on what?" Vernon snapped.
"On whether your house causes trouble for Rose."
The words were spoken mildly.
And yet Vernon felt his pulse spike.
He wanted to shout.
Yet he simply nodded once and left the kitchen.
Later that evening, when Petunia asked why he hadn't complained about the boy again, Vernon muttered something about "temporary arrangements."
The truth was simpler.
Helios Black was not a problem Vernon wanted to provoke.
Because despite the polite smiles and impeccable breakfasts…
There was something dangerous in the boy's eyes.
Something that said:
I am watching.
It was well past midnight when Rose finally looked up from the book Helios had lent her. The bedside lamp cast a warm circle of light over the heavy volume resting against her knees, its pages dense with legal jargon and annotated margins in Helios' precise handwriting. Wizengamot Procedures and Historical Precedents. It was not the sort of book any normal fifteen-year-old would willingly read at that hour.
But Helios was not a normal tutor.
He expected perfection. He expected clarity. He expected her to understand not only what the law said, but how it could be twisted.
And tomorrow, he would ask questions.
Rose rubbed her tired eyes and forced herself to continue. If she fell asleep now, he would know she had skimmed. He always knew. It was infuriating—and comforting at the same time.
She had just reached a section on emergency procedural overrides when a sound drifted up from downstairs.
A murmur.
Then another.
Soft. Hushed.
Rose's spine stiffened. The Dursleys were asleep. Vernon's snores usually shook the pipes. Petunia never whispered in the middle of the night. Dudley would never move quietly even if his life depended on it.
Her wand was in her hand before she consciously reached for it. Years of instinct took over. She moved silently toward the bedroom door, heart pounding, breath measured.
Another sound. Closer now.
A faint metallic click.
Her door handle.
It was turning.
Rose raised her wand, arm steady despite the hammering of her pulse. She positioned herself slightly to the side of the doorway—just as Helios had shown her—so she would not be directly in front of the opening.
The lock gave way. The door creaked inward.
And Rose found herself staring into the whirling magical eye of Professor Alastor Moody.
Her wand did not lower.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, voice sharp, the tip of her wand aimed directly between his eyes.
Moody's scarred face broke into a crooked smile. His magical eye spun once, assessing her stance.
"I like you, girl," he said gruffly. "Good reflexes. But we're here to rescue you."
Behind him stood several witches and wizards crowding the hallway. Among them was a young woman whose hair shifted color even as Rose watched—pink fading to turquoise, then to a muted lavender.
She stepped forward and gave a small, awkward wave.
"I am Tonks," she introduced herself quickly.
Rose's wand remained raised. "Rescue me from what?"
"The Ministry," Moody answered bluntly. "You think they sent those letters for show? We're not taking chances."
Rose hesitated, then slowly lowered her wand—but did not put it away. "You could have at least sent a letter asking whether I want to be rescued."
"Wouldn't be much of a rescue if the neighbors saw us," Tonks replied lightly.
Within minutes, the small bedroom became a flurry of quiet activity. One of the witches shrank Rose's clothes into neat stacks. Another packed books and parchment into her trunk. Moody stood by the door like a guard dog, magical eye rotating constantly.
Rose felt oddly detached, as though she were watching someone else's life being packed away. "Where are you taking me?" she asked again.
"To a safe place," Moody said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting for now."
Rose pressed her lips together but did not argue. She had learned long ago that adults rarely gave full explanations.
Still, something about this felt rushed. Unsettled.
She scribbled a brief note and left it on the kitchen table downstairs.
I'm going away for a while. Don't look for me.
She didn't add anything more. There was nothing more to say.
Back in her room, she looked at Moody. "How are we going? Portkey?"
Moody snorted. "Brooms."
Rose blinked. "Brooms? Why brooms? There are safer methods."
Tonks shifted uncomfortably. "We could have used a Portkey," she muttered. "Or Floo, if we adjusted—"
"No Floo," Moody cut in sharply. "Ministry's crawling with spies. We're not risking it."
Rose absorbed that. It made sense.
Still, the idea of flying through open sky while the Ministry hunted her was not exactly comforting.
"Besides," Tonks added with a grin, "you don't mind flying, do you?"
A faint smile tugged at Rose's lips despite herself. "No. I don't."
Moody gave a curt nod. "Good. Then grab your broom. We leave in two minutes."
Rose took one last look around the small bedroom that had never truly felt like hers. The lamp still glowed beside the half-open legal text.
She closed it carefully.
Then she stepped into the hallway, trunk in hand, heart steady.
Whatever came next—trial, Ministry, public humiliation—she would face it.
Author's Note:
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