Monday 14th November 2022
Rose was occupying her unofficial official spot in the library, hunched over a spread of books, parchment and half-chewed quills.
The spot itself was perfect—nestled comfortably between two bookshelves, in the Muggle Studies section of the library, meaning it was ill-used and scarcely visited by chatty students bent on disrupting Rose's peace.
But the best part of the table was the generous window it was positioned by, giving Rose a gracious view of the Hogwarts grounds. In spring, when her exams loomed, the view was lush and green, warmed lazily by the rare Scottish sun, littered with younger students playing and sunbathing. In the dead of winter, it was stark and unending white, divided only by the tracks that students brave enough to face the chill.
Now, however, the last month of Autumn hung over the castle, so Rose watched as the harsh wind threw around the last of the orange leaves, tugging and pulling at them with a thousand invisible hands. Sometimes, when Rose lay still enough in her bed—in one of the highest dormitories of the Gryffindor tower—she swore she could feel the whole room shaking and shuddering, giving in a little to the winds whipping around it. Her friends assured her that the castle had been standing for a thousand years, and would stand for a thousand more, but Rose would bite her nails and think how it must be due for collapse.
Rose tried not to let her anxiety get the better of her, but sometimes the thoughts all coalesced together, forming a swarm, that stung and bit and insisted on being heard. Rose was certain each one was filled with venom, as sweat would break out on her upper lip, and her heart would pound furiously—not allowing her to do anything else until the thoughts were forced to calm, fought back into the tiny corner of her brain they usually occupied.
Study helped. Rose threw herself in schoolwork, putting her mind into practical problems with solutions that could be reached with formulae and processes. People praised Rose on her studiousness—her marks reflected her work—but only her friends knew that study was a form of distraction for her, a side effect as opposed to an intention.
Quidditch also helped. The adrenalin reduced everything else to a lull, as Rose's thoughts were simplified to 'Quaffle to hoop' and nothing else mattered when she was in the air. Her rigorous practice had earned her a place as front Chaser on the Gryffindor team—and she held the current record for most goals scored in a solitary game in the last fifty years of Hogwarts history. Her father had bought her the latest Firebolt for that feat.
It had been worse when she was a child, but now she had coping mechanisms, and a supportive group of friends and family, so her thoughts usually stayed at a normal jogging pace.
Rose currently felt utterly at peace—her eyes lifting to follow the leaves out the window whenever she finished a paragraph in her Transfiguration essay and was thinking on what to write next.
At least, until, she felt a sharp tug on her curly hair—her neck snapping back, to find herself meeting the cruel gaze of an upside-down Scorpius Malfoy.
She'd barely hissed a 'let go, prat' when his grip relinquished, leaving her to sit up, rubbing her aching neck and turning to glare at her harasser.
"I hope for all our sakes that a hairbrush is at the top of your Christmas wishlist, Roza," he smirked, as he unravelled a single strand of chestnut hair that had caught in his fingers, handling it with the same distaste as one might a dead spider.
She retorted with a string of offensive words. But to her frustration, he sniggered,
"Thanks for the suggestion, but I don't think that's anatomically possible."
Rose could feel the anger beginning to brew, prickling at the back of her neck where it still ached a little. Scorpius Malfoy knew how to push her buttons better than anyone else at the school, probably because of the six years he'd spent honing the skill. He always managed to tap into the wildly impulsive, violent side of Rose which she'd spent the previous six years trying to tame.
Count to ten, Rose.
"I don't know why Albus is friends with you." She snapped, standing to pack her things. If either one stayed, it would end nastily. They were extremely volatile in one another's presence, and always had been, since practically their first meeting.
"Trying to make up for the lack of intelligent conversation he gets from you."
Walk away. You're a prefect, be mature. Her voice of reason sounded strangely like her mother.
"Just piss off, Malfoy."
She'd nearly finished packing now—angry that she'd been forced to evacuate, but eager to leave before the situation escalated. She knew Malfoy was just trying to wind her up—it was a favourite past time of his—but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Rose reached for the last slip of parchment—her Transfiguration essay—but he'd seen her attention turn to it, and snatched it from the table before she could get it in her grasp.
He skimmed it—face falling into a sneer—which Rose knew she shouldn't take to heart,
"Did you pay someone from the head injury ward at St Mungo's to write this for you?"
"Just thought I'd take a leaf out of your book." She replied without thinking.
"Cute."
Rose went to snatch it back, but he dodged, plunging a hand into his robe pocket, producing his wand. She went for him again, but he held the essay out of her grip—curse the bastard for being so tall—pressing his wand to paper. It went up in a puff of smoke.
There were spells she could do to recover the essay; all was not lost. But all she could see was red, and the taste of metal in her mouth was overwhelming. At this point—if they'd been here—her best friend Tessie would be dragging her away, or Albus would be throwing up a shield charm. But it was only she, Malfoy, and her balled up fists.
Oh, the amount of times she'd come home from playing covered in bruises, cuts and scrapes, standing up for the underdogs at the neighbourhood playground, scrapping with bullies twice her size. Rose's temper was lethal, and irrepressible. It made her a brilliant chaser—action before thought—but not so good for her detention count.
She drew her fist back, and sent it flying into Malfoy's smug face. Unfortunately, Madame Pince chose that moment to find the source of the commotion, and got a brilliant and unimpeded view of the punch. Thus, she earnt herself a two month ban from the library.
Tuesday 15th November
"I feel like the pictures are watching me."
"They probably are."
Albus groaned, adjusting in his seat, tugging at the silver and green tie around his neck to loosen it. The shuffling of his chair echoed in the empty classroom they occupied, ringing off bare walls and making Rose cringe.
"Imagine how warm the library would be right now. All safe, under Madam Pince's loving gaze—"
Rose lifted her head from her textbook in irritation, "First of all, Madam Pince's gazes are far from loving, unless you're talking about the way she looks at the books. Second, it wasn't my fault I got banned from the library."
Albus raised one eyebrow, shooting Rose a look she wished she knew how to do, "You're saying you didn't sock Scorpius?"
Rose's cheeks heated, anticipating a telling-off, "Well, I only socked him because he incinerated my essay." She replied defensively, resting her quill back in the ink pot to avoid Albus' eyes. Any minute now he'd cross his arms, and she'd really be in for it.
"If you two would just try and get along—"
"When hell freezes over, I'm sure—"
"Rose." Albus crossed his arms.
Rose sighed.
"You know I don't like it when you use your parent tone on me."
But Albus was in rant mode now, which only ever seemed to be directed at Rose.
"He's a great bloke, my best friend—excluding you, of course." He added quickly, to Rose's glower, "So it makes sense that if the two of you tried, you must be able to tolerate each other to some degree."
Rose scoffed, ignoring the way her breath fogged a little. God this classroom was cold,
"No offence Al, but you're a terrible judge of character."
"No, I'm not." Her cousin protested quickly.
"Remember when your brought home that terrible stray of unidentifiable breed, that bit everyone and was absolutely evil?"
"He was sweet!"
"He was venomous!"
Al sniffed in offense, "Nothing wrong with being a little harder to love." he muttered.
Rose could tell her cousin was getting a little misty-eyed—like he always did when animal welfare was discussed—so she desperately tried to redirect the conversation,
"All I'm saying is that we've had this conversation time and time again, and it is entirely pointless. I detest Scorpius, and my impression is that the feeling is mutual."
Albus had a look a resignation on his face, leaning back in his chair, "Just try to tone it down a little. Maybe stop hitting him? I'm sick of healing his bruises."
Rose couldn't help it, she felt a flare of amusement—picturing Scorpius with a blackeye courtesy of her. She tried to suppress lest it turn into another argument. But Al caught the upward quirk at the corner of her mouth, and he rolled his eyes.
Rose tried to lighten her tone, softening it into an almost-plead, paired with a grin that Albus always gave into, "Did I get him good? At least tell me that."
Albus allowed a small smile himself, "Your Dad should've never have taught you to punch." He muttered.
Rose laughed, and even Albus chuckled, and Rose knew they were fine. Both parties turned back to their excessive homework, the topic of Scorpius exhausted—for now.
Thursday 17th November
Rose wasn't looking forward to heading back up Hogwarts' endless staircases—her thighs were still burning from yesterday's Quidditch practice—but this week her patrol route included a thorough check of the dungeons. Usually the job was assigned to a Slytherin or Hufflepuff prefect—saving the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws from a monumental walk—but Rose was sure the Head Boy, Ewan Diggory, was bitter over the fact Gryffindor had completely thrashed Hufflepuff in last weekend's Quidditch match. Or maybe because Magda—one of Rose's dormmates—kept rejecting his multitude of advances.
"Prat." She muttered, rolling her shoulders. Each clicked loudly, a discouraging sound, as though protesting.
Just one more corridor, she promised her tired muscles, then bed time.
She rounded a stone-walled corridor, groaning as she spotted movement up ahead. She really really just wanted to sleep, but if she let the curfew-breakers go, it would just give Ewan a reason to scold her in the next meeting.
"Stop!" she called, hurrying her pace to catch up with the two figures frozen guiltily up the hall, brightening the light of her lumos to identify them.
But she didn't particularly need to, not when she caught the hiss of,
"Fucking seriously?"
The lofty vowels could only belong to one person, so Rose was unsurprised when she caught up with a head of perfectly straight honey-blonde hair, held back neatly in its infamous black headband.
"Avery." Rose sighed at the pure-blood girl, "Why are you out after curfew?"
The Slytherin girl's lips puckered further as she scowled at Rose. She might've been pretty if she didn't constantly look as though she'd been sucking lemons—with big brown eyes, a swanlike neck, and a nose that was enviably straight. Rose's own nose had been broken twice—once by a stray bludger, once by the distance between a tree branch and the ground—and the sprinkling of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose didn't so much hide as highlight the kink.
"Why is it any of your business?" Avery snapped, tugging at her magically ironed blouse. Paired with her longer-than-standard skirt, and her polished loafers, her whole look was almost virginal, and would've been convincing if Rose hadn't heard the rumours.
"Unfortunately, Lauren's rule-breaking is my fault, Roza."
The words 'fucking seriously?' rose in Rose's brain, but she prided herself on having more decorum than Lauren Avery, so didn't say them out loud.
Scorpius' smirk sat in its usual place, as he gave Rose an up and down that made her feel immediately unclean.
"Well," she forced herself to recover, the words catching a little, "can you perhaps give me a reasonable explanation as to why you two are prowling the corridors a full hour after curfew?"
Avery cut in, a smirk almost identical Scorpius lit her face. Merlin, did they have classes for smirking in Slytherin? She'd have to ask Albus.
"Nothing that a prude like you would understand." Lauren insinuated smugly.
That was when Rose spotted the fresh hickey on Lauren's neck, and the unusually mussed quality of Malfoy's collar length hair—and wished she hadn't.
"Oh ew." Rose protested, her not-so-straight nose scrunching, and Scorpius laughed bitterly,
"Jealous?" he crooned, running a hand lazily through his white-blonde hair. What an arrogant prat, Rose thought, as her eyes tracked the movement.
"She's getting none from what I've heard." Lauren spat.
That was where Rose decided to draw her line. She wouldn't have her sex life critiqued by two people who'd probably just spent the last hour in a broom closet, for God's sake.
"Twenty-five points from Slytherin." Rose paused, "Each."
"What?!" That had wiped the smirk from Avery's face—sending it back to its trademark lemon-sucking scowl.
"Whatever," Scorpius huffed, though his face had tightened infinitesimally, "she's just trying to make up for the fact that we'll be beating Gryffindor in Quidditch this weekend.
Rose snorted, "Yeah, right. I think you must be oxygen deprived from all that sucking face."
Scorpius went to respond again—with some witty quip no doubt—but Rose held up a hand to silence him.
"Get back to your common room, before I deduct another ten points each."
Avery looked like she wanted to argue, but Scorpius had intertwined their hands, tugging her for the Slytherin common room. Rose watched them go.
"Bitch!" Avery called bitterly, just before the pair rounded a corner.
"Goodnight to you as well, Avery!"
Friday 18th November
She and Tessie sat on Rose's bed the night after, chocolate, and biscuits spread on the cover around them. Tessie was helping Rose put argan oil through her hair—a fortnightly ritual—keeping it from knotting and clumping. She'd inherited a shade of red a hint darker than her father's, but the texture was completely her mother's. The curls were a little softer, the volume a little calmer, but it was still a thick mess that needed constant attention. Tessie was plaiting it into tight French braids to keep it orderly, and the topic of conversation had inevitably drifted to Scorpius Malfoy.
Georgette McLaggen sat on her bed opposite, which one could almost mistake for a Quidditch shrine. Posters of Quidditch teams were so crammed together it formed a wallpaper, the players floating on broomsticks, their faces stoic. Georgette's bedspread changed as Quaffles and Bludgers flew about on it, their sharp lines crinkled by the unmade state of the bed.
And then, above her headboard, was Georgette's prized possession: a case displaying each and every Snitch she'd ever caught in a game. Sixteen in total, all ordered chronologically. It had once been the source of the biggest fight the dorm had seen yet, after Georgette had found a finger smudge left on the glass. She hadn't talked to any of the girls until the culprit had stepped forward.
"You guys just need a good, hate-fucking. Get it out of your systems." The girl in question suggested, playing with a half-broken Snitch that was trying feebly to fly from her.
Rose felt herself recoil, and Tessie snorted.
"Not everything is solved with sex, Georgette." Tessie pointed out testily, tugging a little roughly on Rose's hair.
"I'm yet to find something that isn't."
"Pregnancy?" Rose joked, and Georgette smirked at that.
"Funny, Rose." She allowed, snatching the Snitch just before it flew out of range. Under a dark fringe her eyes were lined heavily with black kohl—the only make up the girl wore, and never during a game.
"And anyway," Georgette continued, a shit-stirring look on her face, "you're one to talk, Tessie. I've seen the letters you're writing to that German boy. 'Oh, Elgar. If you were here, I'd lick you all over like an ice lolly. My affections for you—'"
"Have you been reading my letters?!" Tessie screeched, tugging hard enough on Rose's hair for it to hurt, "I told you not to go through my things, Georgette!"
"You shouldn't leave your sordid messages around for people to find." Georgette bit back, "And you need to slow down on the romance novels—sex isn't all rose petals, fireworks and cheesy similes for orgasms."
Tessie snorted again, and Rose marvelled at how clear the girl's sinuses must be, "Right, you'd know all about that."
"I would, actually," Georgette replied heatedly, "seeing as I'm the only one in this dorm room that isn't a virgin."
"Yeah, the whole school knows that." Tessie muttered, and Rose cut in quickly—sensing an argument brewing. It was common enough living with Georgette and Tessie; the two couldn't go a day without bickering.
"You think Magda's a virgin? She's got lots of male friends." Rose speculated, more for distraction than out of any kind of curiosity, "And they think she's the bees' knees."
Georgette shrugged, closer with Magda Urquart than the rest of them, "But she doesn't think that much of them. She's another one looking for the rose petals and candles experience."
Rose recognized another dig at Tessie, and she didn't want her hair pulled again, "You don't think someone should have their first time with someone they love?"
Georgette snorted, "Sure, if you're into it. But it's just rubbish. You tie all this lovey nonsense to it, and then get all depressed when the 'guy you love' turns out to be another moron. Nothing wrong with 'love', but sex and love ought to be separate, in my experience. In fact, the best emotion to tie to sex is hate. Rough, nasty, angry. And I bet Scorpius—"
"Please stop," groaned Rose.
"Rose has 'issues' with Scorpius." Tessie explained, "Even if you have to admit, he is cute—"
"Stop!"
"He's so tall…I bet other parts of him—" Georgette continued, and Rose was ready to bolt from the room.
"But he only seems to date pureblood girls." Tessie pointed out, "I mean, have you ever seen him with a half-blood? Or a Muggle-born girl? He's just been all about Parkinson, Macmillan…"
"He dated that Nott girl too," Georgette chimed in, "and Alexandra Flint."
"What else would you expect from a pureblood snob?" Rose spat, "His family has generations of inbreeding to maintain."
She felt Georgette and Tessie meet eyes over her head—sharing a look—which didn't ease Rose's mood.
Their conversation was momentarily paused as Magda arrived home, flinging her bag onto the floor and kicking off her shoes—they flew half-way across the room. When Rose had met Magda, she'd been sure the girl had a little elf-ancestry. At barely five feet, her small features and huge cerulean eyes gave her a distinctly pixie look, only exaggeration by the short crop in which she cut her blonde hair. But for her petite stature, it was made up for her general loudness of character, the way her voice carried, and the large and dramatic fashion in which she undertook all things, no matter now mundane—like the simple act of removing her shoes,
"Uh-oh." Magda tutted, recognising the look on Rose's face, "Who made Rose angry?"
"We were discussing a certain blonde Slytherin." Georgette explained in a bored tone.
"That's a taboo topic in this dorm." Magda said in such a serious tone that they knew she was teasing.
"For good reason, too." Rose spoke up, embarrassed by her embarrassment, "You know he's horrid. From day dot he decided he hated me, and for—"
"No reason, yeah, yeah. We know." Georgette cut her off, waving a hand dismissively, "He's teased you, harassed you, always rivalled you in class. But you know what they say about boys pulling a girl's pigtails in the playground. It's—"
"A sexist mode of getting women to tolerate harassment from men?" Rose cut back in hotly, invitation for argument in her tone.
Eyebrows rose, and everyone avoided her gaze.
"Luckily, I suppose," Magda said lightly, "you know how to give back as much as you get. That boy has been walloped by you more in the last six years than he has in his entire, privileged life."
"And you usually kick his ass on the pitch, too." Georgette pointed out.
"Let's stop talking about the bastard." Tessie rounded up quickly, and Rose felt a rush of gratitude for the girls in the room. They would, at the end of the day, have her back. Tessie finished off the final braid, and Rose ran her fingers along the ends.
"On such topics as hair," Magda said quickly, "Your dye arrived today at breakfast, Tessie. We're just touching up the roots, yeah?"
Tessie nodded excitedly, jumping from Rose's bed and pulling a chair to the centre of the room.
"I don't understand," Georgette asked from her bed, as Magda transfigured a blanket to a towel, and set it around Tessie's shoulders, "why don't you just charm it blue? You charm it brown for your parents anyway, right?"
"It doesn't feel real if it's charmed. I prefer dyeing it." Tessie shrugged. Magda was now mixing two pastes in a plastic bowl. The smell was horribly chemical, and Rose scrambled for her wand to cast an air-freshening charm.
"That doesn't make sense." Georgette wouldn't drop it.
"It's just… a Muggle thing, I guess." Tessie blushed at the almost discussion around her status as a Muggle-born. Many purebloods—like McLaggen—thought Muggle processes were primitive and pointless.
Rose could tell Georgette and Magda didn't understand it—but Rose knew what Tessie was getting at.
Hermione Granger had always taken care to introduce Rose and Hugo to the Muggle world, which was such a huge part of her identity. And when magic was so every-day, there was a special novelty to a process without it. Rose particularly liked making cups of tea in the Muggle way, especially late at night when she couldn't sleep. She'd fill the kettle, placing it back on the element and lighting the gas with a match. She'd pick out her teabag as the kettle boiled—sometimes herbal, sometimes Earl Gray or English Breakfast—and steep the bag for a few minutes before adding a dash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar. The Weasley-Granger household was one of the only magical homes still hooked up to the Muggle electrical grid, possible through a spell of her mother's own invention.
"It's more of a 'fuck you' to the Man, anyway." Tessie tacked on, earning a scoff from Georgette.
"I'm eager to meet this 'man', you're always on about." She replied.
"It's a metaphor, genius." Tessie spat, turning to glare at her dormmate, "and if he was real, you'd have shagged him already."
"Jealous?" Georgette quipped, and Rose sighed. Another argument between Georgette and Tessie—all must be right in the world.
"Stop wriggling." Magda insisted, "or I'll get this dye all over your ears, and I won't wipe it off!"
This ended the argument fairly quickly.
