A/N: So, this is not a sequel to The Ridiculous Ramblings of Rose, though I do still want to write one. The problem was that while I was trying to, this idea kept distracting me, so I thought I would give it a try. This is my first ever story that is not in diary format, and it's a lot harder than I had anticipated!

You oughta hear the mirror in my house
You oughta fear her pretty, pretty mouth
Says I'm imperfect in every way:
Miss Almost, Miss Maybe, Miss Halfway

-Miss Halfway, Anya Marina

Today was the first day of my life. Well, obviously, not technically, as I am more than a day old. I'm at the ripe old age of twenty (which sounds a lot more mature than I actually feel) and just set off on the grand adventure that is to be the 'best time of my life'.

It was the first day of my new job.

Which was going to be so totally and completely kick-ass that I could hardly stand it. Or so I thought. Although maybe, just maybe, I had a few 'first day' jitters. Like, the kind that caused me to be unable to eat anything for breakfast, forced me to chug a third cup of coffee in the span of forty minutes, the kind that were the main contributing factor in last night being a completely sleepless one.

And now, crouched behind a lovely-smelling shrub, craning my kneck to get a better view inside, the knees of my jeans getting grubbier by the second and all of my joints beginning to cramp, I once again repeated my personal mantra, which helped slightly (very, very slightly) in calming me down: I am Rose Weasley, and I am going to be an excellent PR assistant for the Chudley Cannons.

Take a guess, on a scale of one to a million, of how thrilled my dear old dad is that I have become intensely attached to the one and only team he deems deserving of the game. And, don't get me wrong, I love them too; it's why I was so determined to take the job here instead of competing for a position in the Puddlemere franchise, or somewhere else equally as asinine.

Though, I suppose asinine is not the right word. I mean, at least Puddlemere wins every now and again. I suppose my determination to work for the Cannons is really the only reason I am even employed right now; because nobody else wanted to have to 'sell' a team that is useless. I sincerely hope I do not get fired if the ticket sales do not improve this season; do they really expect me to work a miracle like that?

Honestly.

Nobody wants to watch a team that can't win. Except, apparently, my father and I. But come on, how can so many people not cheer for the underdog? Who really wants the arrogant, conceited teams to take home the victory that they just expect? It's gross.

Almost as gross as the wasp that just emerged from the shrub and tried to eat me alive. I was left to wonder, again, how I had ever ended up in this ridiculous position.

I was running terribly late from, seemingly, the moment I woke up. How is it so difficult to decide what to wear? This may sound shallow and vain, but oh contraire, it is extremely essential to be properly attired for ones first day of business! If you look good, you feel good! But I just didn't know what would be most appropriate. On the one hand, I wanted to look professional and to represent the corporation in a mature fashion, so should I have worn the high-waisted pencil skirt, oxford blouse, and classic black heels? Or, as this is an athletic franchise, perhaps all of my colleagues would be dressed as if it were Casual Friday, in jeans and cheesy t-shirts that say 'Cannons Blow Me Away' or something just as ridiculous.

I decided to just don a pair of jeans, stuff the fancy outfit into my bag, and hope for the best. Once I arrived, I began to skulk around the outside of the headquarters in order to try and ascertain what level of professional dress was considered appropriate by my peers. I was already incorrigibly late, which is, of course, the one and only thing you never want to be your first day on the job (other than over/underdressed) and lurking outside was taking quite a lot longer than I had bargained for.

And so here we are. I have already been reduced to sneaking around my own building like a petty thief.

When I finally did catch a glimpse of a young woman walking past the window, all I could see was that she was wearing a tank top. Perfect. I could just wear my casual attire after all! I knew that comfortable and practical was the way to go in a corporation like this one! Although, who knows what kind of embarrassment could have befallen me had I not taken the time to double-check!

I hurried inside, and took only a second to admire the lovely décor of the foyer. Okay, perhaps it was several seconds, but the place never ceases to amaze me. On the morning of my job interview, the first time I walked in those doors, my jaw literally dropped in awe of how beautiful it is. The fact that it was so completely not what I expected factored in to my general speechlessness, because I expected it to be, well, orange.

Which is okay in small doses, but let's just say I wasn't keen on working inside a giant pumpkin. As soon as I saw how unorange it was, I was even more determined to get hired; you would be too if you saw this place. Everything made out of marble or glass, cooling and relaxing. Not to mention the miniature snitches they have just floating around, far enough away to not be a nuisance, but close enough to be admired. And there's a waterfall.

It's always been my lifelong dream to work somewhere that has an indoor waterfall. I'm thrilled to have completed this goal at the tender age of twenty! It's a special room; I don't think I'm at all doing it justice. It's huge, a single room that is half a Quidditch pitch long, with a ceiling so high you get dizzy if you look at it for too long.

No wonder the Canons aren't doing well. Management is clearly spending too much funding on interior design and not enough on training costs and development camps.

By the time I had finished gawking at the foyer and finally rushed to the PR Department, and then found my office, (I have my own office!) I was out of breath, red-faced, grass-stained, and over half an hour late. My hands were shaking uncontrollably from the copious amounts of coffee I had consumed earlier, and I felt jittery all over. I sat down at my desk, (which has my name on it, how exciting is that!) and then… stared at it. Now what was I supposed to do?

Shouldn't somebody maybe have given me a run-down of what my responsibilities are? Maybe given me a little bit of training? Would I get in trouble for just sitting there uselessly? Maybe there was something important that I was supposed to be doing. Except… What on earth was it?

Luckily (I guess) Rob Loboutin, the man who interviewed me for the job, burst into my office at that exact moment. And when I say burst, I mean it completely literally; the man is the size of a small hippopotamus. He's got an extremely thick neck, broad, broad shoulders, a wide mouth and jaw, and basically completely fits the image of my stereotypical 'sports meathead'. He seems to fit that description literally as well; there does not appear to be much going on upstairs with him. And this guy is my boss. The Director of Public Relations, (it will forever be a mystery to me how he managed to wedge himself into such a prestigious position) and he… was not thrilled to see me.

At least, not thirty minutes late and looking a right mess. As soon as I saw his suit pants, stretched yellow button-down, (a man of his girth should not be wearing horizontal stripes) and tie, I started to have a slight sense of foreboding that perhaps I had misinterpreted the whole 'every day is Casual Friday' aspect of this job. Though, in my defense, shouldn't someone have informed me of this? Merlin, I'm not a mind reader, how was I supposed to know? What about Tank Top Girl? I did my best to dress appropriately; I doubt any one else had the dedication to crush their nose against an unsanitary windowpane for fifteen minutes.

"I see we've finally decided to show up," He snarled, "I'm very glad to see how dedicated you are already proving yourself to be."

Okay, ouch. It's the first day of my first job, he hadn't even given me a chance to 'prove myself', either negatively or positively! I mumbled an apology, spouting plenty of 'sorry, Sir's and 'it won't happen again, Sir's.

"Well what are you doing just sitting there?" He seemed as though he may start foaming at the mouth any second. "Are you not my assistant? Assist me!"

Sweet Merlin. What had I gotten myself into? He had seemed much more pleasant at the time of my interview. Probably because I was the only person who applied for the position, and he knew he had better turn on the charm if he wanted the position filled.

"Assist you… how?" Perhaps I should start counting the seconds until I'm fired.

"Firstly, by showing me that you value this job by showing up on time." Okay, I would love to, but it's a bit late now, I was not on time, it's done with, can we just move on please?

"Secondly, you can owl these media companies and demand that they be present in our Press Room at 2 PM today for an exclusive release and interview opportunity." The list of media companies I was supposed to owl was longer than the awesome foyer. Which is longer than half a Quidditch pitch. How did that make for an 'exclusive scoop'?

"And thirdly," He growled, marching towards the door, "You can make yourself presentable. Please, show some professionalism." He shook his head in dismay, I assume at my utter uselessness, and slammed my beautiful, new, fragile office door behind him.

For the seventeenth time that morning, I decided I needed to take a few calming breaths. I closed my eyes, tried to focus on getting my hands to stop shaking, and counted to ten; then I rushed to the restroom to 'make myself presentable'. I was just thanking my lucky stars that I actually did bring outfit option #2 with me. Though, the shirt was slightly wrinkled from being stuffed into the bottom of my bag, and the shoes were cruelly uncomfortable.

But these are sacrifices that must be made if one wants to be successful in life!

Shoes of death, and ultimate boredom. Perhaps I chose the wrong career path after all. Owling the exact same message to dozens of media companies got incredibly tedious after, oh, about five minutes. Not to mention that I wasn't even aware of what this scoop was, and therefore found it increasingly difficult to write an enticing invitation. I couldn't even give juicy little hints. How disappointing.

All I could do was pray to Merlin, on the lives of all innocent baby animals, that at least someone would show up to this press release thingie. Though I couldn't imagine why they would; all Cannons news tends to be of the negative, make you shake your head in pity kind. 'Then again', I thought, 'the press is a sadistic machine that takes joy in the downfall and suffering of others. I probably have nothing to worry about; they won't be able to resist showing up and spewing another tale about what a disaster the Cannons are.'

And right I was. At 1:50, Loboutin barged into my office again (the man must learn the meaning of delicacy) and growled, "What are you still doing in here? Get down to the Press Room! I need you to take note of what questions are asked and how they are answered. Then I want you to interview them privately, and write a more personal article for the Cannonball. I don't care what you ask them, just make the reader feel like they know them."

My heart started racing again, and I felt a little pool of real excitement start to build in my belly. Write a real story? A personal article? On my first day? Maybe I would like this job after all!

Until, "Oh, and Weasley… This is much more appropriate." He was positively leering at my legs (which, yes, I am aware that they look quite shapely in this skirt, but that is no excuse to ogle them like I am some centerfold!) and caused a distinct shudder to run through me. What a creep. I considered just wearing jeans to work from now on in spite of his desire for professionalism; I was not expecting to feel visually violated by my boss when I took this job.

Plan B was to simply hide under my desk every time I heard him approaching my office, and perhaps prop up a little sign saying I was in the loo for an indeterminate amount of time.

I didn't have much time to come up with anything more realistic, though, as I was once again running late. Maybe deciding to work in a building that's larger than my entire neighbourhood wasn't such a good idea after all; there was no way I could get all the way to the Press Room in ten minutes. I made the best time that I could, doing that awkward, 'I'm in a terrible hurry but don't want to show it' half glide/half run. I got to the Press Room only four minutes and fifty-two seconds late, and was honestly feeling quite satisfied and impressed with myself.

Until I took a good look around me at just how many media corporations had shown up, (pat on the back, Rosie, well done) and the… excited buzz that was in the air. People were either whispering conspiringly to each other, or joining in the loud hubbub of hundreds of voices yelling on top of the other, all trying to get someone's attention.

Squeezing my way to the front of the crowd was a physical challenge; I am certain that I will be bruised from head to toe. I may even have a black eye. These people are brutal.

But when I finally did get close enough to catch a glimpse of who it was they were all so desperate to talk to, it took several minutes for the pieces to come together.

The fact that Scorpius Malfoy, star seeker, voted Best Rookie and runner-up for League MVP last season, was standing in front of me in the bright pumpkin orange of the Chudley Cannons rather than the dark grey and blue of the Falmouth Falcons that he should have been wearing.

Why was he wearing Chudley Cannon orange? Why was he in our Press Room? And why, oh Merlin, why were various reporters screaming, "Tell us, Malfoy, what made you decide to leave Falmouth? Why join the Cannons? Were there any… disagreements at your previous franchise?"

Oh Merlin, no. Do not tell me that Scorpius Malfoy, my one and only true rival, the one man I could honestly say that I would not ever miss in a million years after graduating Hogwarts, had joined my team. I was working here first! (Granted, only by several hours, but that is absolutely irrelevant) Do not tell me that I really have to do a private interview with him, and make him sound likeable to the general population.

I cannot write an article that will make the public feel like they 'know him'. Knowing him is torture. I cannot put innocent fans through that.

Why was I ever excited to work here?

A/N: So? Please let me know what you thought and if you consider it an idea worth continuing!

Though, to be honest, even if everyone says they hate it I will probably still write it, because... I have no self-control.

Review if you've ever dreamed of working somewhere with an indoor waterfall :)