There's a fine line, Rose Weasley decided, between carving your own destiny and forcing a path that isn't your own. Knowing this, she had decided long ago that any future she would have would be one of her own creation, based upon her own likes and desires and hopes and ambitions. Not in any way would they be similar to anyone else's. This included family.
"Ronald Billius Weasley! If you don't get out of bed this instant, I swear –"
"Bloody hell, woman, you sound like my mum!"
"Is that such a bad thing?"
"…yes!"
"Hmph."
"If you tell her I said that, 'Mione, I'll –"
"You'll what? If I tell her, you'll what, Ron?"
"Nothing."
"That's what I thought."
She had learned at an early age that if you were born with the last name "Potter" or "Weasely", in a similar way if you were a "Malfoy" or a "Goyle", your entire life was composed of the shadows of giants. Great, towering giants that swallowed your entire being up before you even had a chance to run.
"But I wanna go to Hogwarts!"
"Three more years, my angel. Then you can go."
"But I wanna go now, Mummy!"
"I know you do, but – "
"'MIONE? I CAN'T FIND HUGO'S KNICKERS!"
"Why don't you go find Rose, sweetie? Tell her breakfast is ready. FOR GOD'S SAKE, RON, ARE YOU A WIZARD OR WHAT –"
Oh, you're a Potter? The Harry Potter? Wow, he's amazing…
Oh, you're a Weasley? As in, the Weasleys? You're so lucky…
Meeting new people was the worst part. There was a sort of ashamed realization that washed over their face once you revealed your dreaded last name. A name can be a powerful thing – it can strike fear, awe, or something in between without any pretext.
In fact, that's why Rose had enjoyed Muggle school so much. At her mother's insistence, she attended a local elementary school to get a strong footing in reading, writing, arithmetic, and of course, submerge herself in Muggle culture the way her mother had been raised. There, the name "Rose Weasley" meant nothing. Oh, Rose? That smart kid in my class? She's pretty nice, instead of, Rose Weasley?! Granger and the ginger's kid?
And so Rose Weasley was set out to find her destiny. Away from her parents, away from her uncles and aunts, away from all of the greatness that was expected of her…and closer to whom she really was.
And who was that? So far: a bright, stubborn, competitive, brutally honest, Quidditch-obsessed ginger girl.
This was her year to carve away all that was expected of her and become her own person.
If only she could make it through the first day of school.
There was a knock at Rose's door. Putting away her book she had been engrossed in (Hogwarts, A History), she opened the door to discover her eight year-old brother Hugo standing there. His red curls nearly covered his eyes, as his hair grew like weeds despite haircuts, and his small arms were folded. He frowned.
"Mummy says you need to come down for breakfast," he told her importantly.
Trying not to smile at his dead-pan sass, Rose folded her arms in the same position and asked the only question worth asking, "What's on TV?"
"The Chudley Cannons game."
Rose wrinkled her nose, pondering on whether or not Quidditch was worth leaving the beautiful solitude of her room. The answer came quickly.
"I'll be there in a minute!" she told him. As her brother turned to leave, she called, "Hugo?"
He looked back at her.
"When you get to Hogwarts, what house do you want to be in?"
Hugo thought deeply for a moment, and then answered honestly, "Ya know…I think I wanna be a Seeker."
As he skipped off to breakfast, Rose held back a snort. Now, she wasn't the type to usually snort, but from the nervousness of her first day and the exhaustion from being up all night studying, she just wasn't herself.
Yeah, I'll just be in Quidditch, Rose agreed. Forget classes and actual education – I'll tell the Sorting Hat I would much rather drop out and play Quidditch!
If only.
Just as she turned to place her book in her trunk, a large tawny owl flew in through the window and dropped a yellow letter onto Rose's bed. It was Lancelot, Albus's owl.
Rose gave the owl a bit of toast left from her late-night snacking and sent him on his way. Eagerly tearing open the note from her best friend and cousin, she read:
Rosie –
Meet you at the platform…Mum's a wreck, blubbering about how we're all growing up, and Dad's doing a decent job at keeping her steady, though I don't think he's noticed his shirt's on backwards yet…blame it on James…
Honestly? I'm terrified. What about you?
Oh and Mum says to tell your dad that he better not use the car this time. The flying one, I mean.
See you soon – and don't forget change for the trolley!
Your cousin and most trusted advisor and bestest friend,
Albus
P.S. Do NOT correct my grammar. I am well aware "bestest" is not a word.
Rose smiled. Blame it on Muggle schooling; she was a bit of a grammar Nazi. Or blame it on genetics.
Rose grabbed a pen and paper and quickly jotted an answer back.
Al –
Bloody hell, buy a dictionary! And yes, I'll tell Dad. (Doubt he'll listen, though.)
"Terrified" doesn't cover it. We'll talk on the train – I've made up my mind about something. Promise you won't be mad…?
Your cousin and BEST friend,
Rose
Sealing the envelope, she reached beside her bed and unlatched her large bird cage. Inside, slept her birthday present, Juno, her brown barn owl. Tapping the cage a few time to wake him, her owl glared sleepily at her, angry to be disrupted in much-needed sleep. But today was so ordinary day, and there were things to do. So she handed him the envelope (and a toasty bribe) and set him on his way.
Before heading downstairs, Rose did a final look-over in the mirror. Hair…mostly tidy. Shirt…mostly unwrinkled. She never considered herself "beautiful", despite Al's protesting, but in her mind, she was decent enough. And if "decent-looking" could make her Head Girl, so be it.
Today, her usually-untamable fiery hair fell loosely at her shoulders. Trying to control the usual frizz, she slid in a few pins to keep it out of her face, but the attempt was just that – an attempt.
As Rose walked out of her room and down the stairs, her mind was fogged with fears about the Sorting. Your house is your family – it defines you. It shapes who you associate with, what you value, and your habits for the next seven years. It was almost terrifying to think that by simply reading an eleven year-old's mind, you could stick them in a particular group, forever affecting them.
Gryffindor would be an expectation. Why wouldn't she be in Gryffindor?
Slytherin would be the very opposite, a horrible surprise.
Hufflepuff was a joke – for her, at least.
And then…
Was there even an option? Or was her Sorting simply a condemnation?
Her mother had already lain out a fabulous array of breakfast on the table. The aroma was practically ambrosia – omelets, toast, pumpkin juice, marmalade, and muffins – and Rose knew the reason for all of this grandeur: her mother was trying to use food to get her mind off the Sorting.
She knows me too well, Rose thought, grinning at the feast in front of her. Without any other family members present, she sat down and began plowing through an omelet.
Just then, a tall, red-headed man came out of the master bedroom. There was a large amount of goop on his hair, in a desperate attempt to look polished. He had a slight belly, as most men of his age did, and was wearing a suit and button-down shirt. He stretched and yawned, taking a seat across from Rose.
"Morning," Rose greeted her father cheerfully, but her optimism was rebuked.
"It's eight in the morning. Eight o'clock in the morning! Does it really take three hours to get ready?" Ron Weasley side as he spread some marmalade on a piece of toast. "Your uncle Harry and I were up until two in the morning, chasing after some bloke who decided it would be funny to cast the Dark Mark in a Muggle super market. Ended up being some idiot Hogwarts drop-out. Pass the coffee?"
Rose reached across the table and handed her father the pot of black coffee her mother had prepared.
"Coffee? You never drink coffee, Ron."
Just then, Hermione Granger entered the room. She wore a blazer and skirt, her hair tucked into a neat bun. Rose inhaled sharply, wondering how her mother could be an early-forty-something and still look so beautiful. She noticed her father took note of this, too, by the glint in his eyes.
"Well, when you're chasing juvenile delinquents 'til past midnight, you find it extremely difficult to stay perky," he argued. Then, his frown softened into a small smile, and looking at his wife, he added, "You look lovely, 'Mione."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn't wipe the grin off her face.
Hugo came running into the room, a green dinosaur in his hand. He took a seat beside his sister, and announced excitedly, "The Cannons won, Daddy!"
Ron's drooping eyes lifted at these words. "They did?" he said, almost disbelieving. He stood up from the table, invigorated. "They did?"
Rose's eyes filled with utter joy. "They won, Dad! They bloody won!"
Scooping up his son and placing him on his shoulders, Ron danced about the room, yelling random team chants and jingles, Hugo giggling all the way. Rose jumped along beside them, laughing so hard that her side hurt. Hermione, too, couldn't help but chuckle at their over-excitement. It was no secret that the Chudley Cannons weren't exactly the greatest Quidditch team of all time, but they meant the world to those three.
Finally, it was time to settle down. "Alright, alright, sit down you three – before your father pulls something."
"Aurors don't just pull things," Ron defended, sitting down. "Now, I can how someone with a boring office job might –"
"Excuse me, Ronald, but I think being head of the department of Magical Law Enforcement might be a bit more than just another office job," Hermione cut him off.
Ron just scoffed. "And you used to laugh at the idea of being a lawyer."
"Things change. For instance, your father's waist in the past three years has –"
"Not funny, 'Mione!"
But Rose and Hugo continued to giggle as they ate their food. They were always like this – bantering and teasing, but it was their love language, Rose had discovered. Every nagging comment about weight or career was an "I love you."
The laughter faded as bellies filled. Rose began staring intently at her pumpkin juice, which did not go unnoticed by her mother.
"You're worried," she pointed out.
"Well, can you blame me? My whole life, defined in one day…" Rose let out, frantic.
"Your whole life isn't going to be defined in one day –!" Ron began, but his wife stopped him.
"Well you're one to talk. You were practically green during the entire ceremony!" Hermione noted. Ron sunk in his chair.
She continued, "But honey, the Sorting is nothing to be so concerned about. Every house has its good attributes and it's bad, so really, you have four great options!"
"Except Slytherin," Ron interjected, without looking up from The Daily Prophet. "Unless you want to sell your soul to the devil, and –"
"Ron!" Hermione objected. "Be supportive!"
Ron said nothing, sheepishly taking a swig of coffee.
"But…I thought Rosie was doing Quidditch?" Hugo asked, lost as to where the conversation was heading.
"I am," Rose said, raising her eyebrow.
"So what about Slytherin and stuff?" he continued.
"Those are Houses."
"Well, yeah, but what about Quidditch?"
"That's…not a House."
"It isn't it?"
"Nope."
"But there are four of them! Gryffindor, Slytherin, the Chudley Cannons, and Quidditch!"
"Hugo, no –" But after a look from her mother, Rose sighed and rested her case.
Hugo just smiled proudly, thinking he'd won.
In many ways, Hugo reminded Rose of herself – stubborn, even if totally incorrect, insistent, and competitive. It was the Weasley genes, she was sure.
But that reminded her of another worry – Quidditch try-outs. From the time Rose could walk, her father had put her on her toy broom and watched her fly it higher than all the other kids – fearless and quick. Over the years, she practiced more and more, until she graduated to a Cleansweep, then a Nimbus Two Thousand, then a Firebolt, and for her eleventh birthday, a Cosmo, the fastest broom in the world. If she could become Keeper…her mind was soon lost in vain fantasies filled with trophies, fans, and the sweet taste of victory.
Her visions of Quidditch were rudely interrupted by her mother: "9:00! We'd better get in the car. I mean, with traffic, and of course Rose will want to find a good seat…" Her eyes drifted to her husband. "…so Ron, why don't I grab her trunk and you start up the car?"
"You got it," he said, smiling, "don't worry, Rosie, you'll be the most popular kid in Hogwarts when your dad flies you in, and –"
"Oh God, no, not the Ford," Hermione stopped him. Rose let out a silent sigh of relief. "The Beetle."
Ron nearly choked on his coffee. "You – you want me to – to drive the normal car –?"
Hermione didn't flinch. "Well, of course. After all, you did get your license last week, so you're practically an expert…right?"
"Oh – oh yeah. Definitely," said a flushed Ron Weasley. "Let me – uh – go and…start it up…"
As Ron got up and ran outside, Rose could see the smirk on her mother's face. Hermione sighed.
"He thinks I don't know," was all she said, and with a hmph, she headed upstairs to levitate her daughter's trunk.
Ten minutes later, Ron sat nervously behind the wheel, Hermione beside him, and Rose and Hugo in the back. Juno's cage and her trunk were stuffed inside, and trying not to scream, Ron cranked up his Weird Sisters CD and drove off.
Let me get past today, Rose silently prayed, just today.
