Chapter 1 : Better
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CI of extreme beauty by Idioteque @ TDA
They named you for a beautiful flower, your mother's favourite. You believed it was because they'd pinned their hopes and dreams on you. You thought it was because they wanted you to be as lovely and beautiful and untouchable as a quaint and perfect little English rose.
Little Rosie was the smartest. She could state Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration word-perfect and make her teacup tap-dance and a million and seven other things that her cousin's couldn't and that earned her her mother's previous title of "The Cleverest Witch of the Age".
Little Rosie was the bravest, because she killed the huge spiders in the attic when baby Hugo and Dad ran away screaming, and because she didn't even cry when she fell off her broom and broke her wrist in second year. (Okay, maybe she did. But just a little, she swears.)
Little Rosie was the sweetest, as she made her Nana the prettiest drawing on her birthday, and she helped Aunt Ginny bake cookies on Christmas, while all the other cousins were out there, playing in the snow.
Little Rosie was the kindest, the cutest, the loveliest little flower in the garden. She was just every superlative adjective personified. Heck, she was the best, wasn't she?
(Silly girl, you always thought too much of yourself, didn't you?)
You were like a meteorite- you shone bright, brighter than any star or moon, owning the night sky and drawing "ahh"s and "ooh"s like no other, before burning out; gone, finished, vanished. And then you discovered an ugly truth- even angels fall.
Clever little Rosie wasn't clever enough, because she got an 'A' on her Herbology homework. A stinking, pathetic, worthless 'A'. What would her Mum say?
Brave little Rosie wasn't brave enough, because the ancient Sorting Hat didn't put her in Gryffindor. Her heart sank to the pits of her stomach, thinking of her Dad's shame.
And you discovered that you were no longer the personification of a superlative adjective, because no matter how good you were, there was always someone better than you. And instead of introspecting and improving, you grew to hate yourself, because you weren't, infact, the best.
(Stupid girl, you really expected too much of yourself, didn't you?)
You were your own best admirer and your own worst critic.
Just look at you- all tall and slender and graceful, such long, shiny hair and porcelain-perfect skin. You were so, so beautiful. No, the most beautiful.
Uggh, you were too lanky and skinny. And your hair- it was all frizzy and firetruck red, your face always as pale as the Bloody Baron and freaking freckly. You should've been curvier and tanner and cuter and better.
And so you always strove for perfection, without ever knowing what was perfect.
(Foolish girl. How silly of you to be proud of everything you were and ashamed of everything you weren't.)
Why not me? Why not me? WHY. NOT. ME? That's all you asked yourself when Dom, and not you, got the Head Girl's badge. You were so indignant, because you were so much better. You were the best! You were the most intelligent, the most sincere, the most responsible, you were Rose goddamn Weasley!
(You always asked the wrong questions, you self-centered fool. "Why not me?" instead of "Why her?")
You were appalled, horrified, furious, when they gave your position on the Quidditch team to Roxy. Stupid little cow, who couldn't even dodge a bludger or do the Sloth-Grip Roll properly, had replaced you. You were the best Chaser Hogwarts had ever seen, and yet they chose her. But never mind. They'd regret it when they lost all their matches. They'd regret it so much.
(You always were so vain...)
You stare at the alphabets scrawled on the last page of every textbook, so numb, unfeeling, unthinking. “RW+SM”, in vermillion ink and a curly font, ringed by swirls and stars and Valentine hearts. They will never be. Scorpius rejected you. Honestly, and in front of the entire Great Hall, too.
And as the words sink in, you cry your first bitter tears in ages.
Two weeks later, you see him in Hogsmeade. With Lily. That bint! There are whispers in the corridor, how he asked her out and she said yes in a heartbeat. You break your favourite quill when you hear. You want to kill her; she stole your Scorpius, your love, your perfect little fairytale.
(Silly girl, don't you know, what was never yours can't be stolen from you.)
You hate Dominique. You hate Roxanne. You hate Lily and Scorpius and that stupid Marissa whose Patronus Charm was better than yours and pathetic Ethan who got an 'O' on his Arithmancy essay when you didn't. How dare they steal your glory, your birthright- how dare they be better than the best? You hate every sorry git who tried- and succeeded in- one-upping you.
But most of all, you hate yourself because you weren't good enough and let them.
(Poor, poor girl... No one could've broken your spirit like you did.)
You were a narcissist, and you loved and admired yourself the most, but every one of your failures brought on an inconquerable mountain of self-loathing.
You were a mess- the cliché poster girl of teenage angst. And in your state, where you were your own best friend and worst enemy, and every emotion was either envy, or bitterness, or paranoia, every wrong became a right, every possibility, a reality, every lie, a truth.
There were rumours, the gossip-grapevines were abuzz with news. Did you hear? Dominique planned that prank that got a Sixth-year suspended. I just heard, Roxy's selling the team's secrets for money. Gwen told me that Lily is cheating on Scorpius with Ethan. Marissa was copying her assignments from books in the Restricted Section? Oh my Merlin!
You never cared that they were your cousins, friends or classmates when you plotted their downfall. For you, they simply had no right to even attempt to be better than the best.
(Despicable, that's what you were, and you knew it.)
You blamed your parents, your uncles and aunts, the entire goddamned wizarding world, anyone but yourself. They kept pressurising you, expected too much of you. They wanted, no, needed you to be a lovely, beautiful, quaint little English rose, all perfect and untouchable. You were just trying to fulfil their hopes and dreams. Afterall, you didn't want them to despise you too.
(Pitiful girl. No one in the world could loathe you more than you yourself.)
You're drowning. Everyday, it's a downward spiral, and you're being pulled under by your own jealousy and regret and anger and guilt and greed for better, better, better. You can't breathe, you can't feel, you can't think.
You wish they'd save you. Someone. Anyone. Mum and Dad- but you failed them, didn't you? Cousins- you were so mean to them, right? Friends- do you even have one of those? Scorpius- but why would he save you? Your Prince Charming ran away with the infinitely better Lily.
You were an English rose, alright. One whose petals had fallen to the ground, like odious, dark crimson droplets of spilled blood.
(Always so morbid...how do you sleep with all your dementors haunting you every night?)
You, Rose Weasley, personified a superlative adjective again. Little Rosie was the loneliest girl in the world.
A/N: If you're reading this, I congratulate you. This was a confusing little short story that came to me while I was eagerly waiting for Laura/sour-grapes-snape to update her story Inventing Imperfection (which, btw, is a lot more comprehensible than this, so you should go and read it right now). Consequently, this was written in the dead of the night, so it's all puzzling and crazy and makes you wonder if i was high when I wrote this. (I wasn't, I promise. Just sleepy.)
Anyway, if you have any questions, praise or constuctive criticism, you know where to leave your review.
Thanks for reading,
Edit 21/03/13: Grammatical errors, spelling mistakes and stuff.
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