Chapter 1
Rose Weasley, for one, was not a fan of parties. Don't get the wrong idea; she wasn't antisocial, per se. She just did not enjoy extravagant events with too much noise and too many people and too much dancing.
Oh, how she loathed dancing. What was the point, after all? What on earth did writhing around to generic music in a pit of sweaty strangers accomplish?
Nothing, is what.
So you can imagine her complete vexation when she was dragged to the Burrow to help prepare for Uncle Harry's birthday extravaganza. It was Harry Potter's fortieth birthday, and the night was guaranteed to have people and music and dancing.
Rose supposed the only thing she could be thankful for was the fact that she was not Harry Potter.
Except, the way that so many people were staring at her and expecting her to start doing things was making her think, yes, perhaps she was Harry Potter.
"Rosie!" her grandmother's voice pierced through Rose's thoughts.
"I am not Harry Potter," Rose muttered desperately to the empty corridor.
"Of course you're not hairy," a sleepy voice came from a redheaded woman dozing off in her portrait.
Rose gave the portrait a whithering glare. She wondered if she could find a way to steal some firewhisky from the bar.
"ROSIE!"
"Just a minute!" Rose lied.
"ROSIE, THE BLOODY SILVERWARE IS NOT GOING TO SET ITSELF!"
Rose took this as a cue to turn around, and find somewhere to hide. She had experienced Molly-Weasley-on-crack before. It would start with setting silverware. And then, she would ask, with wide brown won't-you-please-just-help-your-grandmother eyes, for her to do something really awful, like fold all the napkins into lightning bolts.
And really, Rose thought with exasperation, Molly Weasley was a witch. What did she need the help of an underage 15-year-old for?
Deciding not to stick around long enough to find out, Rose turned on heel- right into the scrutinizing gaze of Hermione Weasley.
"Mum! How perfectly dashing to see you! I was-," Rose shuffled out of the way of her mother. There was a brief, palpable moment of silence, filled by frantic scratching noises that came from the box in her mother's hands. Rose looked at it with an arched brow, but decided that she'd really be better off not knowing.
"Rose," Hermione said quietly in a voice that sounded as though death was imminent- Rose's death, to be precise. "I am going to assume that you are one your way upstairs to change, since you cannot possibly be wearing the clothes that you sleep in to Uncle Harry's fortieth birthday party." Which, of course, Rose thought was incredibly rich coming from her mother, who hadn't seen proper clothing until her fourth year in school.
"Right. Of course. I mean, of course not. I was just on my way. Upstairs. To change," she grinned reassuringly in response to her mum's dubious expression.
Rose ran up the next five flights of stairs, only stopping when she reached the window on the top floor. She brushed the dust off of the little square panel of glass and peered through it, feeling a bit nauseous from the height. Rose was immediately reassured in her decision to flee when she caught sight of the absolute pandemonium unfolding in the back yard. (Which did not, for the record, help with the nausea).
Little specks of people were running everywhere, and more were apparating onto the yard by the second. A great, ballooning sheet of fabric in a magnificent magenta color was being spread over the grass. Slowly, the sheet was lifted upwards and bent into a roof. A glittering flag hovered above it, and was lowered into place. She watched as her mother (the bushy hair could only be Hermione Weasley's) draped tree after tree with gold streamers. It was already looking to be quite a party, and Rose could only imagine how bad it was going to be when the entire yard was actually filled with people.
No, Rose decided. She could only imagine how bad it was really going to be when Uncle Harry showed press was going to positively vomit with excitement. She amused herself for a moment, conjuring up images in her mind of reporters regurgitating various party favors.
Of course, Rose had read the newspaper articles and the magazine covers that had featured, as the journalists loved to call them, "The Golden Trio". Page after glossy page recounting Harry Potter's numerous near-death encounters, but none with any direct quotes. As a principle, Uncle Harry never did interviews. Her father particularly liked to make fun of the tabloids that always claimed that he and Harry were divorcing their respective wives to be with one another.
Rose shrugged off the image of her uncle and father exchanging vows (he had once pantomimed this in her third year with great gusto, actually) as she turned away from the window and made her way to the attic.
Rose hadn't been to the attic in ages. She distinctly remembered the last time she went up there, thinking she had found the perfect place to hide from Albus during a particularly competitive game of hide and seek. She was hardly in there for three seconds, however, when she walked headfirst into the snoozing ghoul and let out a shriek so bloodcurdling that Albus came running to the attic and declared Rose 'found', barely giving the ghoul a second glance. Uncle Harry had burst through the door seconds later with his wand out, panting and clutching his glasses to his face.
Of course, Rose realized now that ghouls were harmless. As she clambered into the dusty attic, she glanced at the sleeping ghoul almost fondly. It was as docile as a flobberworm, as ugly as it may be.
The attic was stiflingly hot. Rose reached over to the round window and pushed on the bottom. To her dismay, it did not move. She pushed harder, and after a few more moments it popped open, depositing a cloud of dust into the air.
Rose coughed. Her unbrushed hair was expanding exponentially, she still didn't have any shoes on, and she was now covered in a fine layer of dust.
And yet, oddly enough, she was at peace.
Albus Severus Potter surveyed the clear blue sky suspiciously. He had been so sure it was going to rain-but it seemed, he thought a little humorlessly, that even the weather was frightened of Molly Weasley.
As Albus turned his head towards the stray streamers that adorned the grass, he saw something shift above him. A window way up high, on the very top floor of the Burrow, popped open. For a short moment, the glass glinted in the sunlight. How bizarre, Albus thought to himself, for no one had ventured the realms of the attic in years.
"Al," a freckly hand appeared on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. Ronald Weasley, in a completely uncharacteristic gesture, was crying. Sobbing, in fact.
"Uncle Ron?" Albus said, alarmed. "What's wrong? Who's hurt?"
"No one," Ron gasped through his tears. "It's... it's the c-cake!"
It was possible that this caused Albus even more anxiety. "Is the cake ruined? Are we going to have some sort of birthday party devoid of any cake? Is that-is that even a birthday?"
"Actually, that would be preferred," Ron shook his head. "The cake..." Ron trailed off, finally drying his eyes. He let out a slight chuckle. "Albus, don't you worry. I was just crying-tears of joy, really-about how beautiful his cake is. It's truly, truly, a piece of art. Your father is absolutely going to love it," Still laughing, Ron walked away.
"It's cake!" Albus called after Ron. "It's only cake!"
Until that day, Albus had never seen the heavens disregard The Daily Prophet's weather reports. Or seen his Uncle Ron cry over pastry. Or such a fast-moving cloud.
Albus squinted at the sky, and he realized. That was certainly not a cloud.
**
There was a sudden cacophony down below. Rose placed her book down and peered through the window. Uncle George had arrived with about four boxes, all of which were moving in opposite directions. Albus glanced at him momentarily, but refocused his attention above, to what seemed like a rapidly approaching swarm of locusts. Upon, closer inspection, however, Rose realized that it was a huge pack of owls, descending with news from Hogwarts.
Within the course of thirty seconds, Rose had leapt over the ghoul, jumped out of the attic, bounded down seven flights of stairs, and burst through the front door. The owls had settled amongst the branches of various trees. She stumbled forward, feeling as if her heart was going to shoot up her esophagus.
"Hey Rose," Albus coughed, materializing behind her. "I think that one's yours." Albus pointed to a gray owl, perched at the very top of the tallest tree. The envelope it bore in its claws displayed Rose's name in a messy scrawl.
"Here, owl." Rose called to it. "Come...here... owl. It's, um, me. Rose Weasley." The owl only turned its head at Rose, and surveyed her mockingly. "Er, please?" The owl seemed to smirk at her, and then, as though it was exasperated by her ineptitude, it swooped down and landed a few feet from her.
Rose walked over to the owl, her fingers shaking as she took the suspiciously light-weight envelope. Albus found his owl amongst the flock and unwound his envelope, as well.
"At least we're not James right now," Albus muttered. Through the window, James Potter was staring at the owls, his eyes wide and paralyzed. Rose spared a small smile. She could only imagine how hard she would be shaking if she was getting her OWLs scores back right now.
Slowly, Rose opened her envelope and pulled out two thin pieces of parchment. On one was the reminder of the start of the school year, and the other, a list of books required for fifth year, along with some materials and ingredients for the more advanced things that they would be brewing in Potions.
Rose peered into her envelope. It was empty. What-
"She's gone mental." Albus whispered under his breath. In his palm gleamed a shiny gold crest, a tiny engraving of a lion prancing back and forth across it. "McGonagall has gone mental. Mental. Officially lost her mind! She's made me prefect! How many rules have I broken last year alone? I've had more detentions than Quidditch practices! Mental."
Rose felt as if her eyebrows were going to stay permanently arched in the middle of her forehead. "Well, congratulations, Al," Rose said, forcing a smile.
"Ah, well. Being a prefect; that might be fun, eh?" Albus hooked his arm through Rose's. She stumbled forward. "We're going to be prefects next year! That's the entire family now, isn't it?"
"Albus, I-"
"Well, okay, fine, James wasn't prefect. Neither was Dad. I don't even know if Mum was."
"Albus-"
"Hmm, you know, I think you're right! I'm the first in the family to be prefect! Our parents are going to be so proud!"
"Albus, shut up." Rose snapped. She thrust her empty envelope against Albus' chest. "I'm not prefect, okay? I didn't get it!"
Albus gaped at Rose, his badge still sitting in his clammy hand.
"Stop it," Rose said, her voice much higher than usual. "You look like a fish, with your mouth open like that," she added with a hiss.
"Nevermind my fishiness!" Albus exclaimed. "This is fishy! I look like a-you think-you think there's been a mistake or something? Maybe they've gotten us mixed up. That would make sense, you know," Albus' fishy-visage was still in place.
"No," Rose said resignedly. "It said your name, didn't it? I suppose," she said with as much dignity as she could possibly gather, "They didn't want me."
Albus looked back down at his badge. "I don't even want this, really," he said. "It's not fair, Rose, you've got the best grades in the year, and the only time you've gotten in trouble it was because you wanted a bloody book from the restricted section!"
"You should go tell your mum, Al," Rose turned around, resisting the urge to rip the envelope in her hand. "She'll be really pleased."
"Rose, don't worry about it," Albus ran after her as he shoved the badge into his pocket. "If anything, you'll be sure to get Head Girl or something-maybe you should talk to McGonagall-."
"No," Rose whipped around. "I'm not going to bother her about it."
Rose turned and slowly made her way back into the house. Behind her, James had finally mustered up the courage to go to the yard and retrieve his O.W.L. scores. Rose had made it up to the fourth floor when she heard his whoop.
"Eight OWLs! Albus, I've got eight OWLs! Uncle George owes me ten sickles!"
"Yeah, James?" Albus replied with a hint of incredulity coating his tone. "Well, I'm prefect, aren't I? The world's gone mad!"
Rose scoffed under her breath, and realized with a feeling of dread that she would eventually have to find out who had gotten the other prefect position. That wasn't the worst of it, though.
Rose hated parties. And this one hadn't even started yet.
A/N: Hello all! This fic is brought to you by the collaborative efforts of Erra and .nette! It will span from Rose and Albus' fifth year at Hogwarts to their last.
Reviews, as always, are highly appreciated!