December 24, 2029

Rose Weasley faced a tough decision.

Traditional eggnog or straight firewhiskey.

She considered the eggnog – it was Christmas Eve, after all – but grabbed the neck of the firewhiskey bottle instead and toted it to the sofa. Not that tough a decision after all. A flick of her wand at the wireless filled her tiny London flat with Celestina Warbeck. Not Rose's cup of tea, but her wailing matched the general air of melancholy and self-pity in the room.

As she plopped down in her pajamas on the couch and adjusted the paper crown from a Christmas cracker on her head, Rose caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Against the black night, her face stood out. She was looking particularly pale today, her freckles standing out on her pasty skin. The hair that she had tamed during the workday had come undone since she apparated home from the ministry. Between the crumpled crown from the under-attended department Christmas party and her sloppy striped pajama set, Rose looked like a prepubescent girl. To top it off, she stuck out her bottom lip in a rather girlish pout. She pulled the cork from the firewhiskey and took a swig straight from the bottle, hating family traditions with all her heart.

As was the rule in her family, Christmas Eve should be spent with in-laws or immediate family, and the entire extended Weasley clan would gather at the Burrow on Christmas Day for their festivities. Hugo was with his girlfriend's family in Chipping Norton, and Albus had begged out of spending the evening with her and was in Godric's Hollow with his parents. Lily had gone to France with Victoire and Teddy and would be taking the portkey back on Christmas day. James was at a Christmas party, and the rest of the cousins were scattered around the world with friends, in-laws, colleagues, and various romantic partners. Her parents were at home, but they weren't expecting her. Merlin knows what kind of compromising position she would find them in at night, alone in their home, on Christmas Eve.

And then there was the boyfriend issue. She had told them last week that she would be at a party at Alden Whitby's house. Which had been the plan until lunch on Monday, when Alden had cornered her at her desk and delivered the news. He told her that he had met a witch at a Nimbus Conference and that she had apparently grown very fond of his "broomstick." Rose had left work early, cried quite a bit, bought a hundred galleons of lacy lingerie in an "I'll show him" mood, and, in a fit, gotten her mass of hair cut. When she arrived at work on Tuesday, sporting a chin-length hairdo, she had avoided making eye contact with Alden and had managed to survive the week leading up to Christmas. After hearing about how happy her parents were to have the house to themselves for a very merry Christmas Eve, Rose refused to pop in for soothing parental words of consolation.

Instead, Rose had gone to work this morning to cover for her holidaying coworkers. In the nearly empty office, she ran into Scorpius Malfoy. They said brief hellos and happy holidays, but she couldn't bear to face him after her most spectacular personal failure to date.

In the past, the two had been competitive to say the least. She knew Scorpius had been watching her every move when she got essays back or tried out for beater of the Gryffindor team. And, she was embarrassed to admit, she had peeked over his shoulder when, the summer after fifth year, he and she had been at the Potters' and the OWL results had arrived over toast. They had been O for O in OWLs, but she suspected that her two "Poor" grades in her NEWTs had been the only reason why Scorpius had been selected to work directly under Kingsley Shacklebolt, while she was still an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. She scoffed at the memory of her "P"s. It really wasn't her fault she had popped a nosebleed nougat instead of a mint before the practical exams and had found herself gushing blood without the antidote candy.

As Rose took another sip of firewhiskey, she mulled over their years after Hogwarts. She and Scorpius had been friendly since their graduation, mostly linked through Albus. They had had lunch with Al more than once, and last year at one of her cousin's parties, they had nearly kissed. She thought.

31 December, 2028

He's standing awfully close. Rose looked down at their two bodies, hers in her nice navy skirt and soft grey sweater, his in black trousers and a blue shirt. There wasn't much distance between them at all. Her tongue felt as fuzzy as her jumper, and she figured through the dusky fog on her mind that the punch was much more than pumpkin juice. She really did exercise poor judgment. Thoughts were coming in fragments as she watched his eyes flick to her lips, just once. He was murmuring to her, his breath cresting and breaking across her cheekbones. She listened closely, but his words made no sense. He was talking about a job in Albania. Her uncle. Something about trees. Why is he talking about work? He should be kissing me.

Rose stopped herself. What's all this kissing business, then? She shouldn't be thinking about his lips, or his hands, or his shoulders like this. When did this new factor enter the equation?

Around the same time as the alcohol reached critical volume. Rose surveyed Scorpius' sharp face. She watched the shift in his throat as he swallowed, stopped talking, and leaned toward her, his eyes flickering. They were back on her lips. She noted this before glancing at his mouth, the gentle bell curve of his bottom lip. This is happening. Just let it happen. Screw consequences; right now let's kiss Scorpius.

She was going to. She meant to. But just that moment, Albus burst up to them and pulled an arm around each of their shoulders. He was beaming.

"Hello, dear friends of mine. Now, lovely chums, would you like to know who I've just been snogging? Well, my best mates, my very, very best of mates, I have just snogged, in that very corner over there, Morgana Montgomery."

Their moment had gone, and when Al released them, Scorpius just rubbed his neck and "hmmmmm"ed, before scooting away.

24 December, 2029

Rose groaned and slumped into the couch. How, how, HOW was this happening? She didn't even need to be thinking about Scorpius. She didn't need Alden either. There were plenty of other blokes who might take her on dates. I'm pretty, in a scrubby sort of way, right? And some people like boyish figures! Right? As was expected, nobody answered her thoughts. She blew softly across the bottle neck, listening to the hooting. The dull wind that roars through the chasm of my warped, mismatched heart.

Yikes. Maybe I should pick up and move to someplace romantic like Florence and become a writer. Alden can go to hell. Men can go to hell. Scorpius can go to he- well no. He can go with me. And we can share a lovenest in the Italian countryside and I can write delicious poetry about the way his hands move across me as-

Albus appeared with a crack in the middle of her kitchen.