Warning: I wrote Rose Weasley as an actual raging psychopath. This whole one-shot is disturbing and can be considered to have graphic imagery. Please don't read if you are triggered by death and disturbing thoughts.

I was not what everybody expected yet somehow I was. The daughter of two revered war heroes, the daughter of the glorified idols of the Wizarding World.

I'd inherited my Mum's brains and her sharp wit. I was able to see the crevices that other people weren't able to and it aided me in my escapades—if you could call them that.

And from my father, I'd gotten his strategic thinking, his ability to find loopholes and the unseen ways out of a particularly sticky situation.

These characteristics meld together to create an incredibly witty, intelligent, and truly remarkable person. Call it what you want, narcissism, confidence, arrogance, but you can't deny the obvious truth in it.

Had anybody actually said this to my face, I'd smile benignly, laugh appreciatively, and send them off. Nobody would actually know or hear the quite maniacal laughter inside. Wittiness turns into cruel remarks, intelligence into a double-edged sword, and remarkableness into marred hands.

It was what created me, in all my madness.

Nobody—and I mean nobody—would've expected me, Rose Weasley, the loved and famed child of two golden heroes, to be a cold-blooded murderer.

And I loved that. It gave me anonymity and a facade of innocence. The murders would never be found out—I was just too good for them.

My supposed intelligence paired with the Wizarding World's sheer idiocy makes for a highly lethal combination. I can get away with anything and everything.

I took those words of mine to heart because my first kill, murder, whatever you want to call it, was Lucy Weasley.

That day, I'd made sure that neither Percy, Audrey, or Molly were home, and I knocked on the door. For anybody else, it would just be a coincidence. A person making their way into a home normally never brought any suspicion. Why would it? There wasn't a hair out of place, so the memory was glossed over, a blurry vision in the back of one's mind.

Lucy opened the door, all smiles and laughter. It almost put a scowl on my face, I loathed it very much. I hated her and her never ending optimism. Everybody said she colors the world yellow but she painted it black for me. And truth be told, I wanted to paint it red, literally and figuratively.But I'll let her enjoy it for now, because it will most definitely be her last true smile.

"Hello," I greeted sweetly, with an equally saccharine smile plastered on to my face. It was so fake yet so real and it was honestly a surprise I wasn't sorted into Slytherin.

"Hi," Lucy chirped, with just as much enthusiasm as me, but for her it was not a facade. "What brings you here?" She asked me that question quite confusedly, but seeing that I could take offense, she quickly added, "Not that it isn't a pleasure to see you!"

"Oh, nothing much," I said, playing around with the ends of my hair, and ignoring her blunder. "Just wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to me," Lucy repeated flatly. Well, as flat as a voice could get when a voice sounded perpetually happy.

I nodded and smiled disarmingly. "Yeah, it's been a while since I've seen you, you know?" I played on her heart strings, taking advantage of her fierce loyalty to her family. Admirable and respectable, but today it would be her downfall.

Lucy's eyes faltered with something resembling guilt. She smiled a little brighter and said, "It has. Come in, and I'll get you something to eat, is that alright?" Impeccably well-mannered as well. Her parents were rather thorough in raising her, as they were with Molly.

"Yes," I replied shortly, stepping inside her house. Soon to be murder scene.

Lucy disappeared into the kitchen and I stood in the living room, thinking of all the ways this could play out. The best scenario would be if stood in close proximity to her, and I could strike easily. The worst was if I miss, and would have to try again. But that would leave a mess and traces, and I couldn't be found out. Not unless I wanted to keep doing what I do. None of my planned scenarios includes Lucy leaving alive. Now, that would just be disastrous.

Lucy came back with a plate in her hands, carrying various pastries and two cups of tea. She set them down, and gestured to them pleasantly. "Here you go."

I smiled at her. Lucy visibly shivered, not used to seeing me smile so much. I never do. I never find a reason to.

I sat myself down across from her and took my cup, with only a mahogany colored coffee table separating us. Would I have to climb over it? Go around it? How inconspicuous could I be? How long could I let the oncoming mindless small talk go on before I killed her? So many things to think about…

Lucy drummed her fingers on her knees and averted her eyes away from me, seemingly at a loss as to what to do or say. "Um, well… How's your extracurricular project going for you? You took one up over the summer break right? The one about the Salem Witch Trials I think?" Lucy tilted her head here questioningly.

I smiled at her, a bit mockingly this time. "Yes, it is. It's a quite an interesting subject. I find it fascinating how terrified the citizens of the time were of witches. Enough to burn or hang them at the stake. The paintings I've seen are grotesque and rather beautiful, in a way. I'm connecting the parallels from the muggle world to the magical one."

"Oh," Lucy said uncomfortably, rightly so. "I suppose so…"

I filled up the silence with useless chatter and Lucy dutifully replied to any questions, no matter how uncomfortable, under the pretense that she was doing this for me.

Not long after, I finished my tea and I set the cold cup on the coffee table. I wordlessly and wandlessly sent a charm at the cup to rid it of my fingerprints. Wandless magic, as I had learned, could not be traced back to their owner, as the magic had not been filtered through the wand's core. Every wand was unique, as Ollivander made a point to say, so every wand can be traced back to a specific name, without fail.

"Say Lucy…" I said in a casual tone, "What would you want your last words to be if you died?" This was a question I'll make my hallmark. Nobody would want their last words to be something as idiotic as 'the Chudley Cannons would win if they tried hard enough,' which was exactly what Lucy exclaimed before I'd asked my question. It seemed strange of me to let Lucy have this one indulgence, but I have morals, no matter how diluted.

Lucy jumped in fright. Understandable. The question does not mean well for her. She stuttered, "Wh-what? Why would you ask that?"

"Just a simple question, Lucy. Answer it." I sent something akin to a cold smile at her.

Lucy's eyes widened, intimidated. She answered obediently, too scared to do otherwise. "Well, it would be that I loved my family, I guess. I've never told them that too often and it would be horrible if I died without them knowing." Typical. I'd expected the answer, but I hope I won't get the same one every time. It would ruin the fun in it for me.

I shrugged. "Then so be it. Those are your last words, and I hope you won't regret them. Not that you'll be able to." I laughed just then, sounding like chiming bells, but with none of the calm it induced in people. I saw it in Lucy's eyes, that panic I had so wanted from her, which had widened imperceptibly. It seemed funny to me that I was going to do something seen as the devil's work and yet I was so emotionless about it.

I quickly moved towards Lucy and struck, swinging my knee forward to collide with her nose. I'd expect her nasal bone to pierce through her brain. She'd die instantly or slowly, but she'd die either way. She fell backwards onto her couch, lifeless. Her eyes were wide open, still holding their fear. I leaned down and looked at them closely. I searched my soul for something, anything resembling regret. I didn't find anything except for a strange sense of satisfaction. Oh well, she was too happy a person to be alive anyway.

With my job done, I left. I readied myself for the show I'll have to put up now for my family. I forcefully made myself cry and made myself look distressed and clueless. I couldn't look like I was actually alright with what I saw.

I made my way to my home quickly and banged on the door. Hugo opened the door, looking disheveled, as if he'd just woken up.

"Ugh, who could it be at this—Rose?" Hugo cut himself off after seeing the mess I was. His eyebrows furrowing in worry, he asked, "What's wrong?"

I stuttered and made my voice waver purposefully. "I-I tried going to L-Lucy's house today—and oh god, oh god, oh god—" I collapsed in tears, crying loudly.

Hugo panicked. "My god, Rosie what's wrong, what happened? Did someone attack you? Did someone threaten you?"

I jerked my head side to side. "No, it's Lucy, it's Lucy, it's Lucy…" I trailed off, making it seem as if I couldn't get out another word.

Hugo pulled me inside and closed the door behind him. He put one arm around my shoulders and the other held my arm to steady me.

Not able to take care of me alone, he called for my Mum and Dad. He had never been good with emotions.

"Hugo?" I heard my Mum's call from upstairs. "What's wrong?"

"It's Rose," he said quickly. Steps descended from the stairs and came the worried and frantic presence of my Mum. My father stumbled in right after.

"Rose, sweetheart," my mum said pityingly, after seeing my red-rimmed eyes. My father showed immediate concern, his face morphing into one of question.

"It's Lucy…" I repeated pathetically.

"What's wrong with her?" My mum frowned, looking puzzled. My father looked the same as my mum.

"I wanted to spend some time with her, you know, girl on girl talk, but she wouldn't open the door… I figured I could just enter in because I thought she taking a shower or something and she couldn't open the door… But when I went in…" I stopped. I took shaky breaths every other word.

Mum looked at me, concerned. She prompted, "Go on?"

"I found her collapsed on her couch. I checked her pulse and… There wasn't one," I whispered, looking down at my feet, preferring not look her in the eye. It was the only way for me to say that she was dead. It still hadn't quite occurred to me that I'd killed someone with my own bare hands, and right now, I couldn't afford to.

My mum gasped and my father didn't move nor make a sound. He looked to be in a state of shock, accepting my words as if they held every bit of truth in them. My mum moved away from me, and flooed immediately to Lucy's, needing to see it for herself to believe me. It didn't take long for her to confirm what I had said. She came back grim faced and on the verge of tears.

The next few hours were hectic, with Magical Law Enforcement workers coming in and out, their movements blurry. I noticed not a single soul except for Percy, Audrey, and Molly, who had arrived not long later looking as if the world had crashed and burned around them. I supposed in a way it had.

I was forcefully questioned by the M.L.E workers but was saved from the use of Veritaserum on me after my mum had snapped that I would never tell a lie. I shot her a small smile of confirmation and assurance, and had an almost uncanny sensation of wanting to laugh again. It would be the first ever time that I would be grateful for a mother's love for their child.

The questioning was done hours later, and I was sent home. I spent the day in my room, lying down on my bed and no one disturbed me. My mum would have naturally comforted me whilst trying to calm herself down, but as one of the M.L.E workers, she too was swamped with work like the others.

The day in itself was unnaturally quiet and not a sound seemed to want to cut through it. As such, I was left to my own devices and for the first time I was able to think. No fog was penetrating my mind and every thought was crystal clear.

Lucy's death was nothing of importance to me, that I much I've surmised. She was just another speck of dust in the universe, so minuscule that she was barely noticeable. It was why she was perfect to be my first kill. Her tragic end played itself over and over again in my personal mind theater, and each time, it sent a course of excitement through my veins.

The truth of the matter was that I absolutely loved the power it gave me. I loved that in that moment, I had the power of life and death, and I chose death. It was a high all on its own and in those times I wondered why anybody would want drugs over having what I have. It was a power worthy of me.

I smiled, a truly happy and genuine one. I knew that this would not be the last time.

I spent the next few days walking around aimlessly around London and occasionally Diagon Alley. I wandered through like a ghost, transparent, but still present. I passed through people and the occasional reporter bombarded me with questions regarding Lucy.

Lucy's death may not have meant much to me, but it meant much to the Wizarding World. Her name was not as famous as mine, but she built up a popular and lovable reputation that had attracted everyone to her and made her a person loved by all. Her death hung like a sword above their heads and it was around constantly, much like the gray, heavy clouds that were perpetually present above London. People consistently sent me their condolences which I waved away pleasantly, but I felt annoyed, if not a bit angry. I wanted people to know that it was me who did it, despite the utter stupidity of even considering it.

Terror was present as well and it was all indirectly related to me. The warm blanket of safety that had fell over the Wizarding World after the war was torn to shreds. I had cast an incendio on it and violently burned it. It didn't take much for people to become fearful again and realize that their safety net was not there anymore. People would be more cautious, certainly, but most considered me their friend so their guard will be down nonetheless.

In my home, however, a never ending cloud of uneasiness and forlorn had set. The Potters, usually such a pleasant bunch, walked around with a certain sluggishness and tiredness to it, indicating exactly what this family was going through. I was not the same way as them, but I made sure that I was not out of place. I comforted people when they needed it, although it physically hurt me to do so. I never had sympathized with people who were going through a fit of depression. I had never sympathized with people, period.

I waited and bided my time. I couldn't risk another murder, not so close to Lucy's. It would be suspicious. If I spaced them correctly, and left no correlation as to how each person died, I wouldn't be found out. The workers on the case wouldn't find a connection between each murder, and of that I was confident of.

This was not to say that I was satisfied with this. I itched every day and to just walk out of my house and strangle some poor victim. Anybody would be surprised if I said murder wasn't only the part that I liked. It was also partly credited to the prelude. Letting the victim believe that they were safe in my presence, letting them think that I was a friend, letting them think that it was just another passing day. It wouldn't be. Not until their last few minutes with me would they ever know. So much to say for an inexperienced beginner, but it's something you do and it just clicks.

I was getting impatient and restless. It had been a month since Lucy's murder and my clouded mind had deemed it a good amount of time. I don't think a murder that happened now wouldn't go unnoticed per se, but it wouldn't be connected to Lucy.

It took me a while to decide who I wanted to be my next victim, but eventually, I decided on Francesca Longbottom, a fellow Ravenclaw at school. We got along fairly well, and there was no discernible reason for why she was my next victim, just that I wanted to her to be. The populace will surely, predictably, think that it was unprecedented for such an innocent person to die such a brutal death, but nowhere have I ever said that I was going to bring justice by killing the victims that deserved it. Occasionally, maybe it would happen, if my need to kill trumped the fact that it would bring justice.

I owled her to meet up with her, or have a girl's night as she loved to do often. She was always in the mood for them, no matter what she was doing at the moment, or how much work she has to do. But for me, she may take her time. She was the only one sharp enough to suspect me of being more than the facade I make a point of putting up. Perhaps she would make an exception for me. If not, I'll adjust, and make different plans for her.

Thankfully, she replied in high spirits, welcoming me over her house this Saturday, enough time for me to meticulously plan out what I want to do with her.

It took a bit to convince Mum to let me go; her grip on me became vice like in light of Lucy's recent murder. She wholeheartedly believed that I would be abducted into alleyways to be murdered. As if. If anyone does that to me, the cards would switch immediately. I knew the game of intimidation far too well, and I'm able follow through with my threats, unlike most.

Saturday arrived slower than I would have preferred. Everything has been taken care of: my mum and dad knew where I was, my overnight bag was packed—for show, of course—I knew clearly what my objective was, and I checked multiple times—as inconspicuously as I could—whether any of her immediately family would be home. They wouldn't be, and would be home long after I had already killed her.

I would have walked to Francesca's house myself, but my Mum insisted. I let her take me without protest to pacify her.

Mum didn't leave until I was in the safe confines of Francesca's house, and even then, she told me to keep in touch.

All the while, Francesca stood off awkwardly to the side, shuffling her feet. She was just as fidgety and uncomfortable in my presence as Lucy was. She'd be just as easy as Lucy.

After bidding my Mum goodbye, I plastered on a convincing smile for Francesca, and said, "Hello. How's it been? It's been a while since we've seen each other, hasn't it?" A tilt of the head here.

She gave me a shaky smile. It spoke wonders for her, and even I ponder why she made the idiotic decision to invite me. I won't complain however; it just moved my plans forward.

This time, I don't have to do any work. As soon as Francesca warmed up to me, she was a chatterbox, spewing out the most nonsensical and irrelevant things. I just nodded and smiled at all the right places, and added in a comment or two to satisfy her.

After bantering tediously, it was nearing midnight. Or more interestingly known as the Witching Hour. Funny how little muggle sayings allude to the stranger and the much more fearful wonders of the world.

I abruptly interrupted her, with the dreaded question, my hallmark.

Francesca immediately fell silent, biting and chewing on her lip, staring at her feet from where she was sitting her bed. Suddenly, she lifted her head up, giving me a doe eyed look. "Are you okay?"

I was taken aback, and my facade cracked the slightest bit. "Y-yes, of course. Why would you ask?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "What the hell kind of question is 'what would you want your last words to be if you died?' It's definitely a question that no sane person would ask. It's a stupid one, and I quite frankly think no person should be asked that. Just makes them think of their impending death."

Well. She wouldn't answer the question, and if she doesn't want to take the chance, then fine, so then be it. She was pesky and annoying, to the point of being to nosy. I hated that, especially when it wasn't any of her business.

I moved forward to strike, barely lifting my arm up before she stood up and said, "I need water."

I groaned inwardly, this was already taking too long. On a spur-of-the-moment decision, I followed her into the kitchen, and just as she was reaching the table, I forcefully struck her, knocking her head on the table, hard enough to cause head trauma. A few more hits to be sure. She'll die of extensive internal bleeding of the brain. She should bleed out quickly enough for her to be dead within the next hour or so.

I stared at her, still feeling nothing for her. Good. Emotions are not part of the trade. Shaking my head, I started removing fingerprints wandlessly. Carefully analyzing everything else, I deemed the evidence completely and thoroughly wiped away, I went back into her room, and changed into my night wear. I climbed into bed, thus initiating the most difficult but quite frankly the most amusing part of the plan.

I woke up to bright lights, and many workers around the house taking in every bit they could.

I blinked blearily, still not registering what was going on. I rubbed my eyes, and made myself decent. Walking out, I saw many more workers—and from their uniforms, they are likely a part of the Magical Law Enforcement workforce—around a body bag, examining its surroundings, and some crouching down examining supposed evidence that they had found. In the crowd, I found my mum, aptly dressed in her work robes. I made my way to her.

I tapped her on the shoulder, donning a confused look. I asked, "What happened?"

She looked at me like I was a little puppy that had not yet learned the ways of the world. She bit her lip, and her eyes were beginning to tear up. She took me into her arms and repeated to herself—or me perhaps—'I'm sorry.'

I pushed her off—still all a part of the clueless act—and asked her more forcefully, "What happened?"

Finally, getting her wits together, she replied, "Another murder, no evidence. It looks like we've got a new murderer on our hands."

"Oh."

"It was... It was one of your friends this time. Francesca. Unfortunately, even I can't protect you right now. You'll have to be questioned."

"Right now?" I asked with the most pleading of looks.

She sighed, as if disappointed she can't do anything more for me. "Yes."

I was brought into questioning, where I sat down, hanging my head, not out of guilt, but a supposed grief for my friend's, ah, unfortunate demise.

The questioning was rapid fire, questions being asked a mile a minute.

"Full name, please."

"Rose Eleanor Weasley."

"Where were you during the time of the murder?"

I was the murderer.

"Asleep."

"Does Francesca Longbottom have people who wish to kill her?"

Me. Except that I already have.

"None that I know of."

"Can you name any people that would wish her harm?"

Me, once again.

"No."

"Are you particularly good friends with her?"

Too annoying and irksome for me to even consider being friends with her.

"No."

"Why were you here then?"

To kill her, obviously.

"A girl's night. I wanted to get to know her better."

"Hm. Alright. Can you describe exactly what happened, to the moment you fell asleep? Please don't leave out anything, and mention anything you found out of place."

And so it went.

This particular case was named a cold case not long after. Of course, Lucy's case was also declared cold, but nearly after more than twice the amount of time was spent on it over Francesca's, only due to Lucy's elevated status as a Weasley. Francesca was the unfortunate youngest child, and, compared to her brothers' lives, her life was as interesting as watching grass grow, at least in the eyes of the media.

She wasn't much appreciated, and she was of little importance, it seemed. It was true that people made an effort to leave flowers, or cards to the Longbottom family, but it was all too obvious that they knew nothing about Francesca.

Francesca's Mum bitterly remarked to me that, "They're not really her friends, are they? If they were, they'd know that she hates roses. Said that they were too cliché for her. It's the first thing she tells people."

Time was known to be the quickest medicine, and it certainly proved true for everybody that wasn't part of Francesca's close circle. All of them, every single one of them, forgot about her one by one, and everybody went back to life as normal. It was as if Francesca Longbottom was not even a presence on earth before her death. Near everybody would agree that murderers are cruel, but humanity was even crueler. So then I wonder what was scarier: that I'm human, or a murderer?

Everything from that point on just unraveled. As time went on, I had honed and perfected my skill. I learned how to clean up evidence well, and I learned how to be more discreet moving in on people.

I had built up a reputation for myself, despite the fact it was built around quite literally nothing. There wasn't a face to go with the murders; how could it? I came to be feared by those who were innocent, and revered by those who had far sojourned into the waves of immorality. They were curious, at the very least. Curious to know my methods, my skills, my techniques. They wouldn't ever know though, because they were too idiotic to see that my methods of madness were quite simple. People got so caught up in the complexity and the so called deeper meaning of the bigger picture that they forget to see that the simplest way was usually the best way.

I came to be known as the next 'you-know-who' although I'd beg to differ. I didn't target people of a certain color, or those of a certain blood, I did it randomly. It was whatever tickled my fancy that day. And if they saw a pattern in that, I won't stop them. It wouldn't lead them anywhere anyways.

It was amazing to see how everything just... deteriorated.

Before, the Wizarding World would have been perfectly happy being locked up in their cozy and warm little cocoon, but now, they were forced to wake up and smell the roses. Now, they were jumpy and cautious, looking behind their shoulders at any given second as if the person just around the corner could be the infamous killer. It wasn't completely out of their minds, not really, since it was possible that I could be the person around the corner.

I watched all of this happen, like a queen on her throne happy to see her kingdom thrive. If her kingdom was chaos.

But I had also created a sort of unity. People were comforting each other, they were helping out the auror force in any way they could, and they were finding solace and peace in other people. It created a family of sorts, as much as I loathe to say it.

I would have never thought that a murderer would create this warmth, connection, and camaraderie.

They need me. They need the fear I give them to bring them closer.

Somewhere in my heart, if I ever had one, the feeling of being needed coiled tightly, twisting into a sickening motivation to do more, hurt more.

I kept on killing, and I never was found out, not until the end of my days, like a stranger rendition of the ending of Amontillado.

For all my family had done for me, it didn't help much. They tried so hard to raise me to be the ideal daughter, raise me with the right morals and thought of mind.

I wonder how they'd react. I hope they rolled in their graves when they found out, because certainly that was where they would be when the Wizarding World finally put two and two together.

I was not who they thought I was.

Basically this was a response to all the perfect Rose Weasleys I see. Like, I see a lot of the same, perfect, 'I'm my mother's daughter,' Rose Weasley. I wrote this to like, augment to the amount of Rose Weasley's that aren't anything what people think of her as.

This whole one-shot was based off of Katherine Ewell's Dear Killer. The 'she doesn't like roses she thinks they're too cliche' comment is from Netflix's and Jay Asher's 13 Reasons Why. Amontillado is Edgar Allen Poe's.

AbraxanUnicorn, if you ever read this, the 'Witching Hour' comment is a salute to you.