Bang, bang. 

Rose frowned. She’d already knocked three times – this was not at all like Scorpius.  He’d sent her a note earlier saying he wanted to meet in the Leaky Cauldron to discuss something.  He couldn’t have forgotten. 

“Scor?  Are you there?” she called, beating her fist against the door once more.  She tried to smooth her hair, frizzy from the rain, back into a ponytail while she waited for a response.  “Right, that’s it, I’m coming in there!” she yelled, checking for Muggles in the street and then tapping her wand on the door handle.  The lock clicked open and she stepped inside Scorpius’ cottage. 

The sitting room was neat and cosy, as usual.  She couldn’t see Scorpius, so she dropped her bag on his couch and wandered further into her best friend’s home.  The kitchen, too, was empty.  He was probably still getting ready – or perhaps he’d become caught up in a good book.   

“Scor, I’m here, we were going out for a drink, remember?” she said, tapping on his closed bedroom door.  Still no response.   

Her spine started to tingle and a lumpy feeling settled in her stomach.  Her Auror instincts were suggesting something was seriously wrong. 

“You’d better be dressed,” she murmured, following her intuition and opening the bedroom door. 

The dark room was empty, at first glance.  But the hairs on the back of Rose’s neck were standing up.  Maybe she was unsettled, or maybe it was just because of the window that was wide open on the opposite side of the room, behind Scor’s desk. It was letting in a strong draught, and she gripped her wand tightly as she headed over to close it. 

But as she passed the bed, she noticed a dark shape crumpled on the floor, in the space obscured from the doorway. 

“Scorpius!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She grappled for his pale wrist. No pulse. “Come on, Scorpius, please…” She felt his chest – it was cold and hard. Rigor mortis. “No, Scor, you idiot, don’t be dead, please don’t be dead…” 

Tears slipped out of her eyes and dripped onto the corpse of her friend. In vain, she shook his body for a few moments more, then she slumped, defeated.

 It was probably only minutes, but hours seemed to pass as Rose sat unseeing in Scor’s room, dust swirling in the sunlight streaming in from the still-open window. Eventually she tried to pull herself together and plan her course of action.  

The situation: a wizard dead in his home for no apparent reason. 

The appropriate response to be performed by an Auror: report to the Department. If foul play is suspected, open a formal investigation. 

The response of Rose Weasley, recently qualified Auror: follow instincts – this was murder. Search for clues and find the killer at any cost. 

She shoved a hideous flower arrangement – didn’t Scor have better taste? – off her friend’s desk and conjured a length of parchment. Organised, logical, but brutal – that would be her approach to this most personal of investigations. She would handle this Rose Weasley-style. 

Rose found a self-inking quill and began to jot down some notes. The time of her arrival, the estimated time of death, the unusual opened window. 

Only when she looked back at the body of her friend did she notice the blood.  There were a few dark specks on the floor by his head, and she knelt beside him, gently grasping his face and turning it.  She gasped at the sight of his golden hair matted with sticky scarlet at the back of his head.  It looked like an inflicted wound to her, not a simple bump on the head – but she was no Mediwitch.  She simply returned to the desk and made a note of the injury.  Then she thought she’d better check for any more signs of blood, and sure enough, a trail of hardened droplets led to Scorpius’ bed, which was piled with robes.  Suddenly, her eye was drawn to an object on the bed, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it sooner. 

Amongst the folds of fabric was a book, its pages ageing – and spattered with blood.  And set upon the open book was a single rose, ruby red and perfect.  

It sent chills up Rose’s back. 

Was this a sign? Had this been left for her? 

Maybe Scor had been reading before she’d arrived, and maybe the rose had been his.  He’d always liked to get her roses for her birthday and other special occasions – it was a running joke, for she’d always respond with “And how am I supposed to get you a constellation, Scorpius?”. Maybe, just maybe, this was all chance. 

But the arrangement was too perfect.  Something sinister was definitely going on here.  

A sudden creak from somewhere in Scor’s house jerked Rose from her reflections. She froze, her ears straining.  There it was again, the creak of floorboards.  She was sure it wasn’t just paranoia. 

Rose grabbed her wand and performed a few silent charms.  Scor’s room and body should be safe until she got back.  Then she slid out the open window, landing on the damp soil between two rose bushes – tearing her dress in the process. 

She edged around the house, looking for the window to Scor’s sitting room, where she thought the noise had come from.  When she found it and peered inside, it appeared empty.  With a few spells, the glass melted into substance somewhere between liquid and gas, and Rose pulled herself up to the windowsill.  “Homenum revelio,” she whispered.  Nothing.  That didn’t necessarily mean there was no one in the house, she reminded herself, but she should be safe.  A fully trained Auror was a formidable opponent, even to any invisible assailant.  She climbed through the window, wincing slightly when she made a thump on the floor.  Damn her big feet. 

There was no repeat of the creaking she’d heard earlier, and after listening for a few moments, she set off around the house, moving as quietly as possible, tense and alert.  She cast charms in every room to secure the scene of the crime.  There was, she determined, very little more she could do in this house.  She needed to find a clue that would lead her to Scor’s murderer. 

Her dark hair had fallen around her face, so when she saw a swift motion out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t be sure what it was.  

She swivelled around, wand raised, only to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of a Ministry owl tapping insistently at a window.  She swiftly moved to let the owl in and take the letter, which, she could see as she approached, had her name on. Merlin.  If this was her nutty boss Thistlethorn calling her in because he’d misplaced his spectacles again, he’d have to wait.  She didn’t want the investigation held up while Thistlethorn insisted on going about things properly, calling in more Aurors. She could do this herself. 

But as soon as she touched the scroll, she felt a sharp jerk behind her navel and was disoriented by a blur of colour and sound.  The nausea that she always felt when travelling by Portkey overwhelmed her, and everything went black…