I'm kind of back. Um, you'll have to read in-between the lines to really understand why I was gone. It's much too short. I'm sorry.

This wasn't a love letter, she told herself, it wasn't. It couldn't be. Because Rose Weasley didn't write love letters. Rose Weasley was practical, and feelings like love were impulsive and largely imaginary. So it wasn't a love letter because she wasn't in love.

But what really is love? She could have sworn she felt something, a tingling in her stomach or an acceleration of her heart, when he looked her way. But that was just hormones, her body telling her that he would be a good candidate for reproduction because his traits would combine with hers to form a child that would be more immune to sickness. It was just a chemical reaction, basically. Because love didn't exist.

There were things she enjoyed, the glow of accomplishment from learning a particularly difficult spell or the small smile she allowed herself when she received 'E's in every one of her classes; but those were because she was given a task and excelled at it. And the results were real, tangible. Feelings, like love and fear, couldn't be reached or studied and, therefore, only had an impact because people believed and expected them to have an impact. Love affected anything unless people made it so. And Rose didn't believe in love, so it couldn't hurt her or hinder her.

Sure, sometimes he made her feel special, often he'd fiddle with a strand of her hair or hold her hand briefly and she felt a little fluttering in her chest but that was just because… because science explained everything. Because love didn't exist and couldn't touch her. Couldn't hurt her. Because Rose Weasley watched her parent's marriage fall apart, watch her mother cry and her father resort to finding peace from the emptiness in a bottle. She stood by as she was ignored; her parents both too busy wallowing in their own pity to see how apathetic she was becoming, too busy with themselves to notice that she didn't care anymore, didn't care about anything anymore. And they'd each come and whine to her but neither listened when she came asking for help. Because love, even between a parent and a child, didn't do anything. It didn't stop them from forgetting that she needed attention, hugs, kisses, pats on the back. They were too occupied falling out of love to realize that all she really needed was their hearts. Love only hurt, only destroyed. Only fools fell in love.

History always repeats itself, a motto she lived by, the same things always happened again. And her parents, who were once so blissful, demolished their peace. That meant it would happen to her, too. Because nothing was ever a one time occurrence. Love never worked. And what did it leave in the rubble? A teenager so battered and bruised and insecure that she hid herself under layers and layers and refused to let go. And no matter how little Rose believed in love, she believed in keeping the pain of the future generation minimal, and so, she vowed never to love because she never wanted anyone else to ever watch as a marriage, a family, fell apart.

So she'd never write a love letter, because love didn't exist. This was just a letter, nothing more. She touched the pen down to the pale parchment and traced out careful letters.

I love you.

Yeah, Rose Weasley didn't believe in love. And this wasn't a love letter.

I figured because I obviously suck so much at delivering on my promises I'd at least give you all a happy ending. Good enough, right?