Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.
Dear Rosie,
Well, well, well. Imagine my shock when Lily—not you—decided to owl me about your little outings with Scorpius. Yes, the same Scorpius Malfoy you've rejected, scoffed at, and sworn on Merlin's beard you'd never entertain. Yet here we are.
Tell me, Rosie, when did you decide I no longer deserved to know about my own cousin's romantic escapades? You know, me—your best friend, your partner in crime, your confidant through every other ridiculous chapter of your life? I thought we shared everything. But no, instead, I'm left to hear about it secondhand. Secondhand, Rosie!
And when I ask Scorpius (who was known as my best friend, but conveniently forgot to mention this until I ask him) about it, what does he say? "It's personal." PERSONAL?! That's rich, coming from the same man who once detailed his entire theory on why Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans are an international conspiracy. Since when do we keep things 'personal,' hmm? Oh, right—apparently, it started when you began deceiving me, rolling your eyes and claiming to loathe him while secretly having cozy little meet-ups.
How long has this been going on? Weeks? Months? Years? Was all the eye-rolling just a performance? Should I applaud your dramatic flair? Honestly, I don't know what stings more: the fact that you're (clearly) dating Scorpius Malfoy, or the fact that you didn't trust me enough to tell me.
Trust, Rosie. Remember that? The cornerstone of our friendship? Well, guess what—it's shattered. I'm not mad. Actually, scratch that—I'm furious. Furious and disappointed.
Fix this.
Al
Dear Albus,
Let me clarify a few things, starting with the most important: your charming best friend is blackmailing me.
Yes, Al. Apparently, my darling owl Pippin, in a moment of betrayal—or perhaps sheer comedic genius—delivered a rather pointed letter I wrote about my boss to Scorpius. (It's not entirely Pip's fault, considering you apparently spend more time at his place than your own.) Naturally, instead of being a decent human and handing it back, Scorpius decided to make it his personal mission to torment me.
He's now holding my letter hostage, claiming I have to 'earn' it back by enduring not one, but two of his so-called social outings. Two! Do you know how insufferable he is? He practically radiates smugness every time I roll my eyes at him.
Honestly, you need to have a word with him.
This is not a 'romantic escapade,' Albus. It's a hostage negotiation. And if you think I'm lying, I'll be happy to send you a fresh batch of chocolate frogs spiked with Eloise Bulstrode's knockoff love potions. Don't tempt me.
Goodnight,
Rose
By midday, Rose was knee-deep in an internal tug-of-war, and, surprise, it was all Scorpius Malfoy's fault. One part of her—let's call it the 'sensible' part—wanted to march straight to him and get it over with. The other part, the one that liked to be difficult for absolutely no reason, stubbornly crossed its arms and refused. She wasn't one of his easy targets. Not today, not ever. She wasn't some love-struck idiot, despite his charming, relentless teasing.
But as the afternoon trudged on, guilt crept in like an annoying house elf that just wouldn't leave. Was she seriously overthinking this? It was just a letter! She had already made the deal. Why was this such a big deal? Was it the Malfoy effect, or had she lost her sanity somewhere along the way?
Trying to focus on her work, she fumbled through her potion-making. Hands moved faster than her thoughts, darting between ingredients like they had a mind of their own—an unfortunate mind, at that. She was brewing an antidote for rare poisons (because who doesn't enjoy a good dose of danger), and the ingredients were as friendly as a basilisk on a bad day. Noxfang venom, powdered Dragon Claw, bloodroot... Basically, one wrong move and she'd be meeting her ancestors early.
Her thoughts, however, refused to stay put. Each swirl of the cauldron brought a fresh wave of images—none of them particularly wholesome—of her encounters with Malfoy. Was it so wrong to admit that a small part of her actually liked their back-and-forth? Of course it was. She was Rose, not some starry-eyed fool. He was a pest. A very irritating pest.
Before she could finish her self-inflicted lecture, disaster made a dramatic entrance.
The cauldron—her poor, overworked cauldron—let out a deafening pop, as if to announce, 'You're about to make a spectacular mess.' Rose didn't even have time to blink before the explosion sent a shockwave of heat and glass shards in every direction. The potion splashed across her arm, and a sharp, searing pain shot up her skin.
Lovely. Just lovely.
The burn was instant, but she didn't panic. She was far too practical for that, even if her arm felt like it was about to rival the sun in temperature. She took a breath, steadying her hands and flicked her wand to put out the fire. The burn was still there, though, ugly and red, blisters already rising to greet her.
As if this day needed more drama, the door creaked open, and in walked Sablewood. His face was a perfect match for his name—dark and brooding, with just the right amount of 'I'm irritated by everything' radiating off him. The scowl on his face deepened when he saw her, then the cauldron, still sputtering in the background like a petulant child. Great. This day had gone from bad to worse, and they hadn't even reached dinner yet.
"Weasley!" Sablewood bellowed, his voice a sharp crack that could have sliced through glass. "What on earth is this? A disaster waiting to happen?"
Rose gritted her teeth, willing herself not to flinch from the pain that shot up her arm. She straightened, wincing as she did, but standing her ground. "I'm sorry, sir. I was—"
"Sorry?" he cut in, the word dripping with disgust. "You're always sorry, Weasley. Do you even think when you're brewing potions, or is it just some kind of bizarre game to you? How could you be this careless?"
The words hit harder than the burn on her arm, but Rose wasn't about to show it. Not this time. She clenched her jaw, ignoring the sting, and tried to keep her tone steady. "I was following the instructions."
"Following instructions?" Sablewood's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer, inspecting the burn on her arm with all the empathy of a troll. "Ha! You should be more than that, Weasley. This is potion-making, not a bloody arts-and-crafts project. If you were half as careful as you pretend to be, this wouldn't have happened. What kind of potioneer burns herself on a routine antidote brew?"
Rose's patience was rapidly evaporating, and it wasn't just the blistering pain in her arm. His condescension was like nails on a chalkboard, except it was worse because he didn't even seem to notice she was literally on fire. "The potion—"
"Don't even try to explain," he sneered, not bothering to look her way. "I don't want to hear your excuses. You need to take responsibility for your actions. If you'd been more careful, we wouldn't be wasting time over a simple mistake that could have been avoided."
His eyes flicked toward the cauldron, which was still bubbling like an angry cauldron-sized toddler. "That mess is going to set us back days, Weasley. Days! You've been nothing but trouble since the moment you started here."
Her temper flared, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Not yet. She had made it this far without losing her cool. "Sir," she said, her voice tight with a careful restraint, "I didn't do this on purpose. I was just trying to do my job, and yes, I made a mistake. But I'm handling it. I'll clean up the mess. And I'll finish the antidote. But there's no need for this constant scolding."
Sablewood's nostrils flared, and his eyes widened in genuine surprise that she'd dared to speak back. "Constant scolding?" he repeated, as if the words were foreign. "Do you think I want to be here, wasting my time on you, Weasley? I expected more from you, but instead I get this."
Rose's heart pounded in her chest, the burn on her arm still thumping like a drumbeat in time with her frustration. He wasn't even acknowledging her pain. The gall. She'd taken it from him—his insults, his endless reprimands—but today was different. Today, she wasn't about to let him walk all over her. Not anymore.
"You know, sir," she said, her voice now dangerously calm, "sometimes a little bit of concern for your staff might go a long way. A simple 'Are you okay?' might have been appreciated." Her eyes locked onto his, daring him to fire back. "But apparently, that's asking too much."
For a brief moment, the room fell into an almost comical silence. Sablewood's mouth opened and closed, like a fish caught on dry land, as if his brain was still processing the sheer audacity of her words.
And then, finally, he spoke, but it wasn't with the quiet dignity of someone who had just been put in their place. No, it was with the sneer of a man whose pride had just been trampled.
"Really, Weasley?" he scoffed, the sarcasm so thick it could've been sliced with a knife. "This potion—this disaster—was worth more than your entire month's salary. You've completely ruined it, and now you have the gall to lecture me on caring for my employees?"
Rose could feel each word slam into her like a ton of bricks, each one heavier than the last. "Clear up the mess. Don't expect any help. Oh, and by the way," he added with a gleam in his eye, "consider yourself demoted. From now on, you'll be a junior Potioneer."
With that, he spun on his heel, leaving Rose standing there, seething, with nothing but the sound of her own breath for company.
She stood frozen for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on her as heavily as the burn on her arm. She'd taken it all—every insult, every sharp remark—but this time, something snapped. She wasn't some pawn in his petty little game. She'd worked her ass off for this job, and all he saw her as was another Weasley screw-up. Her pride, though, that was a different story.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself, but the bitterness wouldn't leave. The burn on her arm flared as she moved to clean up the mess, the potion splattered across the floor like some cruel reminder of her failure in his eyes. She wiped it up with the kind of careful precision that made it clear: this wasn't just about the mess. It was about everything she'd given and how it had never been good enough for him.
Once the mess was cleaned, Rose walked into her office. The pain in her arm surged with each step, but she ignored it. There was no reason to stay in this miserable place any longer. Quietly, she gathered her belongings, each item packed away with a sense of finality.
Taking one last breath, she sat down at her desk and wrote a letter. Every word was crisp, calculated, and utterly devoid of emotion.
Dear Sablewood,
In light of your recent feedback, I have decided that this environment is no longer conducive to my professional growth. While I appreciate the opportunity to work under your guidance, it has become evident that my contributions are neither valued nor recognized here. As per your request, I will clear up the mess I've made. But rest assured, I will no longer be available for this position.
Thank you for your time.
Rose Weasley
With a sense of quiet finality, Rose folded the letter, sealed it, and stood. She walked out of her office with a strange feeling settling in her chest—a mix of relief and something else, something stronger. She'd given him every chance to see her worth, to recognize the effort she'd put in, and he hadn't. So now, she was walking away. And this time, it wasn't just her arm that burned. It was her dignity—and it was hers to take elsewhere.
As she stepped out, her thoughts a chaotic whirlpool of frustration and exhaustion, a firm hand clamped down on her shoulder, halting her in her tracks. She froze, recognizing the touch instantly. It was both irritatingly familiar and annoyingly comforting. She spun around, already armed with a defensive retort, but the words caught in her throat when she saw his face.
Scorpius Malfoy stood there, his grey eyes sharper than usual but flickering with something she hadn't anticipated—concern. Actual, genuine concern. That threw her more than anything else.
"Scorpius?" she started, half suspicious, half confused.
"Show me your arm," he interrupted, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
"I—what? It's nothing—" she began, but the look he gave her silenced her instantly. It was that no-nonsense Malfoy glare, the one that could reduce lesser beings to puddles of regret. Against her better judgment, she complied, rolling up her sleeve to reveal the angry, blistering burn snaking across her arm.
Scorpius's expression darkened as his eyes moved from the burn to her face. His jaw tightened. "What, exactly, were you thinking?" he demanded, his frustration barely contained.
Rose huffed, already regretting her decision to entertain this conversation. "It's not a big deal—"
"No more words, Weasley," he cut her off, his tone icy enough to freeze the potion splattered on her robes. "We're going to St. Mungo's. Now."
"Excuse me?" Rose blinked, startled by his sudden bossy tone. Her heart did a funny little leap, though she firmly ignored it. "I don't recall appointing you my personal Healer."
Scorpius didn't dignify her sarcasm with a response. Instead, he turned on his heel, leaving her with little choice but to follow. His strides were long and purposeful, and Rose found herself hurrying to keep up, a mix of irritation and grudging amusement bubbling inside her.
The lift ride to St. Mungo's was silent, apart from the occasional sound of Scorpius muttering under his breath—something about stubborn Gryffindors and their penchant for self-destruction. Rose didn't bother responding. She was too busy pretending not to notice how the tension in his jaw only softened when he glanced at her arm.
When they arrived, Healer Lysandra Finch took one look at Rose's burn and let out a dramatic gasp worthy of a theater performance. "Oh, Miss Weasley! Why didn't you come sooner? This is serious!"
Rose shrugged, too drained to explain. "I was busy," she mumbled, shooting a sideways glance at Scorpius, who was now leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his face locked in a scowl. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to strangle her or lecture her—or maybe both.
"This must be antidote for rare poisons," Lysandra tutted, examining the burn. "The ingredients are reactive. It's going to take time to heal. You'll need a Wiggenweld Potion and proper treatment."
"Fantastic," Rose muttered under her breath, wincing as the Healer dabbed at her arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Scorpius watching her like a hawk, his brows drawn together in that infuriatingly protective way she didn't know whether to appreciate or mock.
After what felt like an eternity, Lysandra finished her work. The pain eased slightly, but Rose still felt unsteady as she stood. Scorpius was there in an instant, moving to steady her, but she waved him off.
"I'm fine, Malfoy," she said, attempting a brave smile.
"Fine?" he scoffed, his sarcasm cutting. "You were walking around with half your arm melted off and thought that was fine?"
Rose rolled her eyes, but her irritation was quickly replaced by curiosity. "Why are you even here, Scorpius? You don't exactly strike me as the 'drop everything to play hero' type."
He shrugged, though the motion seemed forced. "I had business with Sablewood," he said, his tone dry. "Something about approving a grant for his department. And, oh, I happened to hear about your latest escapade while I was there."
Rose raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Really? And this 'business' had nothing to do with checking on me?"
Scorpius gave her a pointed look. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to witness firsthand how someone could burn themselves and ruin a potion worth a fortune in one go."
Rose let out a sarcastic laugh, but her guilt lingered. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm fine. I don't need a knight in shining robes."
"Who said I'm your knight?" he retorted smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm more like the poor bloke who keeps cleaning up after your disasters."
She shook her head, biting back a grin. "Merlin, you're insufferable."
"And you love it," he shot back, his tone infuriatingly smug.
Rose didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she focused on the warmth spreading through her chest—a warmth she definitely wasn't ready to name. But as Scorpius walked her to the Floo Network, barking instructions about resting and avoiding Apparition, she couldn't help but smile.
"Thanks, Malfoy," she said softly, her teasing tone replaced by something genuine.
"Don't get used to it," he quipped, though the gentle press of his hand on her back said otherwise.
As the green flames engulfed her, Rose caught one last glimpse of his smirk, and for the first time in days, her burdens didn't seem quite so heavy. Maybe Scorpius Malfoy wasn't entirely insufferable. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't mind him being around.
A/N: Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
Please review.