Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.

Dear Al,

I can barely contain my overflowing enthusiasm. Magnus Sablewood, in all his infinite wisdom and unmatched sense of urgency, has graciously threatened to demote me if I don't finish this potion in three days. Yes, three whole days to complete a potion that normally requires four. Because, clearly, time and space bend to his will. Who cares about proper brewing times when we can just manifest results through sheer terror, right?

I naïvely believed that once I left Hogwarts, I'd be free of this kind of nonsense. Oh, how wrong I was. Enter Magnus Sablewood, the living embodiment of regret. If I ever thought dealing with Scorpius Malfoy was the pinnacle of my misery, life has truly outdone itself. At least Malfoy—arrogant, self-absorbed, and intolerable as he is—has some redeeming qualities, like the ability to be charming in that 'I-annoy-you-but-not-really' way. Sablewood? He's about as appealing as a wet Flobberworm on a frosty morning.

Let's discuss the finer points of my tormentor, shall we? His voice—oh, his voice—is like a Howler stuck on replay, shrill enough to shatter glass and my will to live. And his eyes? A delightfully unsettling cross-eyed glare that seems capable of dissecting every molecule of my potion without actually looking at it. The pièce de résistance, though, is his smell—a delightful bouquet of Uncle Percy's post-rain boots, mothballs, and crushed dreams. How his wife hasn't filed for divorce, or at least a restraining order, is a mystery worthy of an Unspeakable's research.

Honestly, I was this close to hexing him today. Not an Unforgivable—no, I'm not quite ready to spend quality time in Azkaban—but something just impactful enough to make him regret his existence for a good week. Got any ideas? Surely, a curse-breaker like you has a trick or two that could make him squirm without risking my job or freedom.

Oh, and speaking of freedom, I've got 20 hours left to finish this potion. If you happen to know a spell to pause time—or, better yet, speed it up so this nightmare can be over sooner—I'm all ears.

So, farewell for now. If my next letter comes from the bottom rung of St. Mungo's hierarchy, you'll know I've failed. Rest assured, I'll be cursing Sablewood under my breath until the very end.

Yours in exhausted misery,

Rose

(Still technically a Senior Potioneer)

Rose folded the parchment with the precision of someone pretending their life wasn't slowly unraveling, sealing it neatly in an envelope. She turned to Pippin, her ruddy screech owl, who was perched on the windowsill, looking altogether too smug for someone who didn't pay rent.

"Alright, Pippin," she said, holding the envelope out as if offering him a priceless treasure. "This one's for Albus Potter. You remember him, right? My cousin? Dark hair? Chronic overachiever?"

Pippin blinked, the picture of innocence, which only made Rose more suspicious. She raised an eyebrow.

"Don't even think about pretending you don't know who I'm talking about. And before you start negotiating, no treats until this letter actually reaches him."

The owl let out a dramatic screech, flapping his wings with all the subtlety of a toddler throwing a tantrum. Rose sighed, reaching for the jar of Eeylops Premium Owl Treats like the sucker she was. Shaking it once, she watched Pippin's yellow eyes light up with triumph.

"Fine. One treat," she grumbled, tossing a single pellet his way. "But don't think this is your bonus. This is your salary—and I expect results."

Pippin snatched the treat midair, then fixed her with a look so accusatory it could have been mistaken for betrayal.

"Oh, don't give me that face," she said with a chuckle. "Deliver this to Albus, and there'll be more waiting for you. Mess it up, and I'll replace you with a post office owl. Your move, Pip."

With a disgruntled huff, the owl finally took flight, the letter clutched tightly in his talons. Rose watched him disappear into the night sky, shaking her head.

"Unbelievable. A feathered extortionist." She turned back to her workbench, where her latest potion gurgled softly in its cauldron, glowing an iridescent violet that would have impressed her on any other night. Tonight, it just mocked her. Every muscle in her body ached as though she'd been dueling, not brewing. Potions had once been her escape, her passion. Back at Hogwarts, she'd been top of her class, the go-to genius even the Ravenclaws envied. Professors had praised her precision, her creativity, her brilliance. Rose Weasley: destined to revolutionize potioneering. Fast-forward a few years, and here she was—sleeves stained, eyes burning, and feeling as revolutionary as stale bread.

Her mind drifted, unhelpfully, to her family. Albus was off curse-breaking, unraveling ancient mysteries like a real-life hero. James and Fred were running the wildly successful Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, making a fortune while having a blast. Even Lily and Hugo, both Aurors, seemed to radiate purpose as they saved the world one Dark wizard at a time. And Rose? Rose measured ingredients, stirred counterclockwise, and prayed she didn't blow anything up. How ironic that the "brightest witch of her age" felt so... dim.

By the time she made it to her office, she was ready to collapse onto her chair. Instead, she froze. Pippin was back, perched proudly on her desk, talons resting on a sealed envelope. His large yellow eyes gleamed with smugness, daring her to question his loyalty.

"Oh, you've got some nerve, haven't you?" Rose muttered, reaching for the treat jar again. She tossed him another pellet, which he caught midair with all the grace of a professional Quidditch player. He didn't even bother to hoot his thanks before fluttering off, leaving the envelope behind.

Rose frowned as she picked it up. Something was... off. This wasn't Albus's handwriting. Where Al's letters usually looked like a Flobberworm had slithered through ink, this was elegant, deliberate, and far too neat. Her heart sank. She turned the envelope over in her hands, noticing its strange weight. It felt heavier than parchment should—like it carried something more sinister than ink.

"Brilliant," she muttered. "Just brilliant." Breaking the seal, she unfolded the letter with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded louder with each word. And when she saw the signature at the bottom, she groaned so loudly it echoed in the empty office.

"Scorpius bloody Malfoy," she muttered. "Pippin, I swear, if you weren't so bloody cute, you'd be fired."

Dear Rose Weasley,

I must say, receiving your letter was a highlight of my day. Truly, I'm flattered. Of course, I always suspected you admired me from afar—who wouldn't? But to see it spelled out so eloquently in ink? Well, that's a moment I'll treasure. You really do have a knack for words, Rose. Almost poetic, really.

Now, I know this masterpiece of correspondence was intended for our dear Albus, but fate (or your owl's impressively questionable navigation skills) decided I was the better recipient. And what a fortunate twist of events! I can only imagine Magnus Sablewood's reaction should he catch wind of your particular talent for identifying his presence by—what was it again?—the unmistakable scent of Percy Weasley's vintage loafers? It's nothing short of legendary, Rose. Truly. I can almost hear Sablewood now: "How does Rose Weasley know I smells like loafers always?" A fascinating mystery, wouldn't you agree?

But don't worry—I'm willing to keep this... unique revelation between us. Of course, these kinds of favors tend to come with terms, but let's not use the word threat. Merlin forbid.

Oh, and Pippin—your adorable little owl? Delightful company. We bonded, actually. I'm fairly certain he likes me better now, though really, who can blame him? It seems he shares your excellent taste.

If you'd like, I could keep him. He seemed quite happy at my place, basking in the superior company.

In closing, Rose, let me thank you for your unintentional but undeniably entertaining letter. It's added a much-needed spark to my afternoon. I'm eagerly awaiting your response. No rush, of course—brilliance takes time to process.

Yours (but only in the most platonic sense, naturally),

Charming (and objectively irresistible)

Scorpius Malfoy

P.S. If you're at a loss for words after reading this, don't worry. Sometimes greatness is overwhelming.

"Pippin!" Rose groaned, her voice bouncing off the walls of her office. Her treacherous owl was perched in his usual spot, one leg tucked under him as though he didn't have a care in the world. He opened a single lazy yellow eye at her outburst, blinked, and promptly shut again, clearly unbothered.

"Oh, fantastic," Rose muttered, pacing the room as though sheer movement might keep her from combusting. "Pip, out of all the people in the world, you had to choose him? Albus Potter! I said Albus Potter, not his insufferably smug sidekick!"

Pippin fluffed his feathers and gave her a look that could only be described as, Calm down. Everyone makes mistakes.

Rose glared at him, slumping into her chair. "You've outdone yourself, Pip. Honestly, you're worse than Magnus Sablewood on a Monday morning." She eyed the offending letter on her desk, Scorpius's smirk practically radiating off the page. Letting out a dramatic sigh, she yanked a fresh piece of parchment toward her and grabbed her quill.

"Alright, Malfoy," she muttered under her breath. "Let's see how you like this."

Scorpius Malfoy,

Let's skip the theatrics. You have something that belongs to me—a letter, specifically. One that, thanks to a certain feathered traitor, has landed in your undeserving hands instead of with its intended recipient. I assume you're already scheming some absurd way to milk this for every ounce of entertainment, but let's cut to the chase: I NEED IT BACK. NOW.

Your little 'friendly reminder' was adorable—really, I almost laughed—but let me make myself clear. If that letter finds its way into anyone else's hands, you will regret every life choice that led you to this moment. Trust me, Scorpius, I can be very persuasive when I need to be.

So, what's your price? Name your terms, and let's get this over with. Though knowing you, your reply will probably be as irritatingly self-satisfied as your face. Still, I'll be waiting.

Rose Weasley

P.S. If Pippin does like you better, feel free to keep him. Traitors deserve each other.

A/N: Thanks for Reading. Please review.