Chapter Text
07/04/2027
Dear Future Archaeologists Reading This in My Ruins,
Please note that this was the day Rose Weasley officially lost the will to live, courtesy of one Mr. Jenkins, Head of Division at Magical Artefacts Regulation. Jenkins has all the managerial skill of a Blast-Ended Skrewt and half the charm. The idiot ordered me to spend an entire workday (a full eight hours of my finite life!) in the bowels of the Ministry, sorting through mouldering boxes of 'historically significant magical artefacts', as if anyone in the universe would care about a cracked teapot that screams ‘murder!’ at irregular intervals. (Don’t worry, I silenced it. With force.)
The dust was so thick I am fairly sure my lungs are cursed. My hair ruined, my robes torn, and I smell faintly of Doxy droppings. Imagine my joy when, staggering out of that accursed storeroom looking like I’d wrestled a grindylow in a coal chute, I collided—of course, with him.
Mr. Scorpius Malfoy.
Can anyone tell me why the fuck does that blonde bastard always appear at the precise moment I’m losing my shit? Naturally, he was immaculate, because he always is. Not a strand of his stupidly perfect blond hair out of place (does he dry it with unicorn tears? is that a thing rich people do?) , robes crisply pressed, as if he’d just stepped out of a catalogue entitled How to Look Infuriatingly Superior While Doing Absolutely Nothing. He took one look at me—dust, soot, suspicious bite marks on my hand, and smirked. In that infuriating way that suggests he’s storing this moment in his mental Pensieve for future mockery.
I was too tired to hex him. Too tired! So I muttered something unintelligible and stomped off, leaving him to his smugness. Which, of course, is exactly what he wanted.
Conclusion: my job is degrading, my boss is incompetent, and Scorpius Malfoy is a walking insult to humanity.
Yours in eternal exhaustion,
Rose
29/10/2027
Dear Self Who Will Probably Die of Second-hand Embarrassment,
Sunday dinner. Again. You’d think the Weasley-Potter family would eventually run out of things to criticize me for, but no. Aunt Ginny asked me if I’ve “considered Quidditch commentary” since I’m “so enthusiastic.” Translation: I talk too much. Uncle George asked if I’d like to test products at the shop, which is code for volunteer as a human guinea pig. Aunt Fleur asked if I’ve met “any nice young men” lately (NO), James (the idiot cousin, not the historical hero) jinxed my chair to sink lower every time I spoke, and Hugo ate three servings of pudding while I had none. Meanwhile, Albus sat there smirking like a gremlin, clearly delighted that for once the Weasley Grilling Machine wasn’t aimed at him. Traitor.
By the end of the terrible evening, my mother was giving me that look-the Hermione Granger patented “I’m not mad, just disappointed.” I’m 21. I should be immune. I am not.
Families are overrated.
Lovelessly,
Rose
06/02/2028
Dear Stationery,
Today my so-called friends dragged me out for drinks after work. Apparently I “need to relax.” Relaxation is difficult when you trip over a chair leg on the way in, spill your butterbeer, and land in the lap of your least favourite co-worker (guess who). Malfoy, naturally. He whispered “you’re crushing me, Weasley” in that ridiculously low voice, and everyone laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Ella told me I should “just admit I like him.” Excuse me? I’d sooner marry a banshee. And Dom thinks he's secretly in love with me or something. Dom is wrong. Dom is delusional. I’m applying for new friends tomorrow.
Scorpius Malfoy does not like me, nor do I like him. He is smug, pretentious, and far too aware of his own jawline. … Also, his eyes are stupidly grey. Not that I notice.
Considering new friends,
Rose
12/07/2028
Dear Future Recluse Rose,
I’ve decided. I’m buying a cottage in the woods and never speaking to another human again. Because today, Malfoy held the door open for me. A simple, normal act of civility. And what did I do? Did I glide gracefully through, thank him politely, move on with my day? No. Of course not. I panicked. Dropped my files. Made a noise that can only be described as a squeak. And said “thank you” in a voice three octaves higher than usual. He looked at me. He SMILED (the first time this week— that smirk must’ve evolved). And then he said, “Charming, Weasley.” Charming. Do you know what’s not charming? Nearly dislocating your spine while scrambling for parchment on the floor. Do you know what else isn’t charming? My face turning the exact shade of a ripe tomato while Malfoy leaned in the doorway like the cover model of Pureblood Monthly. I hate him. I despise him. … I do not hate his voice though. Which might be a problem.
Fuck.
Yours in eternal embarrassment,
Rose
14/03/2029
Dear Whoever Invented Ink,
Do you ever just exist to spite someone? That’s how I feel about Scorpius Malfoy existing near me. Everything about him is a personal attack: his neat handwriting (mine looks like a doxy chewed it), his immaculate robes (mine are perpetually wrinkled), his bloody calmness. He never stammers. He never trips. He never mispronounces anything. He’s an annoying Greek statue come to life.
And yet… why does my brain betray me by noticing his stupid smirk even after I leave work? Why do I know the exact shade of his hair under lamplight? Why do I secretly suspect that if he wasn’t my sworn nemesis, I’d find him… tolerable? Ugh.
Burn this page immediately.
Yours regretfully,
Rose