Disclaimer: Everything recognisable as belonging to the Harry Potter world belongs to J.K. Rowling, and I am most certainly not making money off it. Rosaline Staunton and anything else original is mine. The title of this fic is from the Ani DiFranco song of the same name, which I assume she or her record co. owns.
Spoilers: Yes, most likely from all the books.
A/N: This is the second part of Falling is Like This. It'd probably be a good idea to read that first. ^_~. So maybe I lied about not writing it anytime soon. I couldn't help it, the inspiration faerie has me black-listed and just refuses to leave me alone.
*the Latin in this chapter is translated as "If you want peace, prepare for war."
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PROLOGUE
Our view is on a young woman who stands over a bubbling cauldron, her face a mask of concentration as she skilfully adds three drops of a golden liquid to the potion she is brewing. It expels a puff of smoke and instantly cools, turning a soft shade of green. She exhales slowly in what appears to be relief and pushes a stray strand of unruly brown hair off her forehead before turning away.
As she moves from the workbench on which the cauldron sits the rest of the darkened laboratory comes into view. It's cool and damp, and the high stone walls are windowless, a necessary measure when dealing with some of the more delicate ingredients essential for many potions. Large cupboards line the back wall, which she moves towards. As she opens one, we are given a glimpse of bottles and jars, filled with strangely coloured liquids and creatures, or parts of creatures. Multi-coloured liquids shimmer in their glass containers, reflecting the light of the torches ensconced in the opposite wall and the flickering candles which drip slowly onto their candelabras, placed strategically around the room.
Selecting one of the aforementioned bottles, she turns and returns to her cauldron, passing the bookshelves which line two of the other dark walls, their shelves filled from floor to ceiling with volumes of all descriptions and sizes. Turning our attention back to the young woman, we watch her resume her work. This potion is complex, and requires a great deal of attention and care.
Her youth is deceiving – one would not expect to find such precise skill in one so young. Yet precision and skill she has. Her countenance is intent as she measures and adds ingredients, her hands careful and controlled. She is in her element here, in this dark, cold room and cloistered silence. Her youth is deceptive in this as well – who could imagine that a woman such as this, little more than a girl, could choose this kind of life? But surely she has chosen this existence, and relishes it.
Her potion is completed, and successful. The pride is palpable in her demeanour, her clear eyes reflecting pleasure as she quickly produces a number of empty bottles from another of the cupboards and begins to fill them with the solution. She finishes quickly, and proceeds to label the jars, her neat, slanted writing gracing the labels.
As she places the jars neatly on a shelf within one of the few half-empty cabinets, we see her straight back waver for a moment. She finishes her task and turns back to her workbench. With a tired wave of her wand, the surface is left spotless, the cauldron clean and ready for tomorrow's work. She walks towards the wall opposite the cupboards, and opens the previously unnoticed door.
The young woman steps out into surprisingly bright sunshine. She blinks and raises a hand to her eyes, waiting for them to adjust. The scene shimmers into view – a long hallway, lined along one side with large windows, all catching the late afternoon sun. She walks briskly towards the door at the end of the hallway and through it, out into the warm spring evening. The countryside is lush, green and utterly deserted. The house behind her is more of a manor – she has just come through a small door at what is obviously the rear of the stately hall.
As she walks through a small garden and out onto the moor, we are given a better glimpse at this conundrum of a young woman. She can be no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven; her skin is smooth and her hair dark, her body still firm and slender. But her manner is not that of a carefree girl. She carries herself with dignity and restraint, and her eyes are old, much too old for her face. This one has seen the world, and knows how cruel it can be.
She walks slowly down a well-trodden path, till she finally reaches her apparent destination – two burial mounds, sharing a single marker. The gravestone is not very old at all, quite new in fact. She gracefully sinks to the ground, and begins speaking in a soft voice, perhaps to the graves, perhaps to herself.
As we take a closer look at the woman and the graves, the inscription on the marker becomes legible.
Ciara R. Staunton & Sean N. Staunton.
b. Oct. 17th, 1950 b. Dec 12th, 1947
d. May. 25, 1996
Beloved Parents of Rosaline.
"Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum"
The young woman is silent now, and the sun is almost set. She smiles faintly and rests a hand on each mound of earth, before speaking again.
"I'm going away for a while. I'm needed. I know you always wanted me to be an Auror Mum, if only so that I could help fight, should You-Know-Who ever return. Well, I will be fighting…but in my own way…"
She is silent for a moment, her head bowed, before her she feels her voice, soft and quavering already, is strong enough to proceed.
"I think you'd be proud. I love you both."
The young woman stands, her eyes brilliant with unshed tears, and slowly begins walking back towards the manor.