I let half a book of empty pages flutter past my fingers with a soft chuckle. I was never one for regular diary entries, as my regularity in writing habits is sporadic at best and nonexistent at worst. A glance up at the clock tells me, to my surprise, that I have passed two hours engrossed in the patchy account of my late teenage years. With a smile, I realize that my memory must have wandered far beyond the page-long complaints of my youth and filled in the stories behind them.
What a set of characters in my diary! Melody – how she tried to torture me, I remember. My fists still clench when I think of her, but I haven’t seen the viper in years. Annalise, Adara, and Sandra keep in touch sporadically, but not as regularly as before, I realize wistfully. Adara has a daughter now, I remember as my gaze falls on the moving photograph in the Christmas card on my dresser. Ash is the girl’s name. She has her mother’s eyes and her pale blonde hair is exactly like that of her father, Scorpius. I laugh softly at the thought of Scorpius and how little he has changed. He still doesn’t look me in the face, nine years later, but I find it amusing now rather than irritating. And Thomas – oh, Thomas. I acted so silly, trying to convince myself that my heartbeat sped up when I saw him. I managed to trick myself into really liking the boy. I shake my head ruefully at the memory of my frustration when he didn’t pay attention to me. Mum gave me the same advice then that she’d given Aunt Ginny: don’t pay attention to him, and he’ll pay attention to you. I kept myself from reminding her that it had taken Aunt Ginny four years since, after all, Aunty Ginny and Uncle Harry had ended up married. So, I had waited, I recall with a smile.
Golden light has filtered into the room through the half-closed curtains, reminding me that evening is whispering at the window, so I extract my limbs from their tangled position on the bed and stretch before unwillingly rising from the plush duvet. I shiver slightly as my feet touch the cool wooden floor and reach for a pair of fluffy socks patterned with broomsticks that my Granna Molly had knitted for me last Christmas. Though I’ve never been one for Quidditch, Granna Molly insists on giving me Quidditch-themed gifts, perhaps to instill in me the Weasley tradition of Quidditch expertise. My mum’s complete ineptitude at anything involving brooms, however, seems to have won out in me, as various backyard matches over the years have proven beyond any doubt.
“Rose?” his voice meanders up the stairs, warm, mellow, and round as it caresses my name. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Dinner!” I reply, my shriek of excitement so different from his easygoing call. I hear a chuckle from the kitchen and roll my eyes. My strangeness is apparently a constant source of amusement to him.
I hurry down the stairs as quickly as possible without slipping, as fuzzy socks are wont to make me, my feet thumping in a most unladylike manner. The aroma of his signature pasta sauce drifts enticingly out of the kitchen and my stomach rumbles, much to my chagrin. “Someone’s hungry,” he says teasingly in response to my stomach’s louder growl. I glare at him, but he just grins back cheekily. Mum says he’s probably the only man in the world who’s immune to my Granger-Weasley-woman glare, which is, as she always adds, for the best.
“Pasta!” I squeal. He eyes me as though concerned for my sanity; a not baseless worry, in my opinion.
“Yes, pasta,” he replies, as though introducing me to it for the first time. I go to hit him upside the head, like I usually do. He ducks and ruffles his hair with a grin, as is his habit. I relax as though in defeat before springing at him in an attempt to whack his head. Of course, he anticipates this routine move and takes shelter behind the high countertop. My feet padding softly on the linoleum floor, catlike, I creep around the side of the counter and, with a loud HA!, hit his head. Rather, I hit where his head used to be before he moved, taking it with him.
“Fine, fine, let’s eat. I won’t hit you,” I sigh, walking back to the table. He’s too smart for me, for he stays where he is. I pull out a chair and sit down, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. This is a new tactic. “Well, are you coming?” I ask impatiently. “The food is getting cold.”
He tiptoes warily from behind his defending fort, namely the tiny sliver of space between the refrigerator and the wall, and cautiously sits down at the table. I gesture impatiently at the pasta and he takes some, still frowning in confusion. I’ve never given up before. I raise an eyebrow in pretended skepticism of his caution – he taught me how with an afternoon in front of the mirror.
“Can you give me some, too?” I ask, careful to sound frustrated in my defeat. His shoulders relax slightly as he begins serving me pasta. Without warning, I smack his head, causing him to drop the pasta-serving device.
“Dammit, Rose!” he cries. “You tricked me!” He rubs his head, an injured expression on his face. I grin cheekily.
“Yes, yes I did, darling,” I answer patronizingly.
“I made cheesecake for dessert,” he begins, as though he hadn’t heard what I said. My eyes light up, a development he notes with satisfaction. “But you can’t have any, because you tricked me.” My jaw drops in incredulity.
“But Simon…” I whine. “Cheesecake!” He shakes his head firmly. Then, realizing what my next move will be, he races to the freezer, his longer stride getting him there first. He stands in front of the freezer bravely.
“I will defend this cheesecake with my life!” he cries valiantly. I smirk and shake my head. He’s fighting a losing battle.
“Your life it’ll have to be,” I warn, preparing my battle face. He snorts.
“Rose, lose the battle face. You look like a teddy bear with gingivitis,” he snickers. I pretend not to hear him in order to salvage my dignity. I have to think of a new tactic; he always beats me in hand-to-hand combat.
“Simon?” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. This hasn’t worked before, but you never know.
“Yes, Rose?” he mimics my tone, fluttering his eyelashes mockingly.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you too,” he replies. I take a step closer.
“Quite a lot, actually,” I inform him, still looking up at him through my eyelashes.
“That’s lovely to know, Rosie,” he answers, still firmly in front of the freezer. I take another step so that I’m only about a foot away from him.
“The sunset’s lovely,” I say abruptly, looking out the window.
“I’m sure it is,” he agrees, not turning his head. I take yet another step and kiss him lightly on the nose. “It’s not going to work,” he chuckles.
“I don’t care,” I pout, putting my arms around him and kissing his lips softly. He kisses me back much more enthusiastically, one arm around my waist and the other still on the freezer. He is one stubborn man. I tangle my hands in his hair and his hand, I note, comes off of the freezer.
“You should convince me like this all the time,” he murmurs.
“Is it working?” I whisper back, my hand reaching toward the freezer.
“Definitely,” he purrs. I smile and yank the freezer open with the triumphant cry of victory.
“There’s no cheesecake!” I shriek, turning around to see a smug grin on his face.
“I know,” he replies placidly. “I wasn’t going to put it in the freezer, that’s the first place you’d look.”
“That’s why you let go of the freezer?” I inquire.
He laughs. “You’re good, Rose, but you’re not that good.” I pout at him.
“So you lied? There’s no cheesecake?” I ask miserably.
“Yes, there is,” he grins. “But I’m not telling you where it is.”
“I’ll look for it,” I threaten.
“Or you could eat your pasta first and then I’ll get it,” he suggests.
“But you said you wouldn’t give me any!” I cry.
“I changed my mind,” he smirks.
“Meanie,” I glare. He smiles back.
“Let’s have pasta.” So we do.
That night, as I drift off to sleep with my arms around Simon, I begin to wonder. Who am I, really? Sleepless nights always lend themselves to the metaphysical, I observe dryly.
Am I Rose Weasley, daughter of Ron and Hermione Weasley, niece of Harry Potter? Or perhaps I am Mrs. Rose Witting, wife of Simon Witting. Maybe I am Rose Weasley-Witting, top-class solicitor in the department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. Or perchance I’m Rose, bushy-haired, slightly crazy, owner of a ferocious glare, lawyer, family girl, and completely in love. I like the sound of that: just me with no surname and no definition. With a smile, I snuggle into the pillow and decide that I am myself. I, Rose.
A/N: I know this is a very fluffy, very short chapter, but there it is! "I, Rose" is actually over. Thanks to all the readers and a big shoutout to AriesGirl for the awesome reviews! I might do a one-shot sequel on how Rose and Simon met, but I'm not sure.