Dear Rose [Scorose]

Chapter One

I unwrapped the somewhat crumpled parchment and smiled to myself. Scorpius could be so sweet. Cradling the petals, I carefully gathered some of Mum's old embroidery fabrics from my closet (which had somehow become the official storage place in the Weasley-Granger home) and bundled up the rose as I tucked it into my trunk. Hopefully it would be alive by the next night once the train arrived, but if anything I could use a flower regrowth charm to liven it up again.

I gently lowered the trunk lid and locked it. Dad always told me to use magic ("you're a witch, Rose, for goodness sakes, wave your wand!"), but Mum preferred the muggle way of doing things ("Ronald, she's learning to be her own person. Rosie doesn't need magic to get along.") She said it was important that my brother Hugo and I weren't completely clueless about non-magical people. And so even the simplest things like shutting my trunks or folding my clothes to be packed away for school were things I enjoyed to do.

"Rosie!" whined a voice from behind my shut door.

I groaned. "What, Hugo?"

"Can I come in? You aren't getting changed or anything right-"

I swung open the door and crossed my arms. Little brothers. "What do you want? Can't you see I'm getting ready for school? Don't you have things to do?"

My fourteen-year-old brother shook his head, his shaggy orange-blond hair violently flying around. (Uncle George had cut his hair using muggle scissors and affectionately nicknamed him "Pumpkin Pasty" a long time ago).

"I've finished all my chores, and Mum says we can play Quidditch out back if we want to." Hugo looked at me with big brown puppy dog eyes.

"Just you and me?" I stuck my tongue out in disgust for the extra dramatic flair. He shook his head again.

"Uncle George, Teddy and the cousins are coming in an hour or so for more wedding planning. Please can we practice, Rosie? Please? Uncle George kicked my butt last week-"

I stifled a laugh and squeezed his shoulder. "Because you're a fourth year and he's been a player all his life? I can understand that. But sure, let's go practice."

 ~

"Your team always wins!" Hugo exclaimed, stomping his foot on the grass. "Just because Rose is Chaser."

I tried to look offended but I could definitely tell that my cheeks were flushed a bright shade of red in flattery.

"Hugo, don't talk like that," Victoire called in her thick French accent from the sidelines (a.k.a the garden chair next to the back door.) She was knitting a blue and yellow scarf. "You are wonderful at Quidditch. Much better than me, at least," she added with a girly laugh that you could tell was inherited from her half veela mother, my Aunt Fleur.

"Everyone's better than you, Vicky," James laughed. Victoire stuck her tongue out at him (which was probably the worst insult she knew) and went back to knitting.

Hugo marched inside, angry at the world, and the corners of Uncle George's eyes wrinkled. He always had the brightest smile. Dad says it used to be brighter when his twin brother was alive.

"Your brother's just like Fred," Uncle Bill told me.

"You always say that," Lily giggled, overhearing his comment.

"I know," he replied, swinging Lils over his shoulder as she tried to gather her breath through her insane giggles. Her naturally blond hair, even more blond from the sun, swung around like strands of golden thread as Uncle Bill danced around the yard.