Sequel to A Crazy Little Thing Called Quidditch. Rated M for many reasons including, Adult Language, Adult Situations, Adult Content.
Nothing is set in stone. She didn't like thinking, or remembering that she had declined adventure and peril with Ron, Harry and Hermione this summer to be babysat by Lauren Chang. She didn't like thinking that she was in the London suburbs when her siblings were hauled up with her great-uncle something's in Northern Cali. She didn't think that her nightly behavior was wrong. She didn't mention to anyone that she was pregnant. Not until Lauren had cornered her with that dreaded pink box-
"When did you stop getting your period?" the older woman questioned sternly.
Rachel didn't look up from the TV, "I don't know, I'm a couple days late, no biggie. New house. Different women. Throws me off."
Lauren moved to stand in front of the TV and crossed her arms, feeling somewhat insulted and amused at the same time by her tenant's response. "I don't remember you getting one since you arrived here as a matter of fact."
"Really? That so, eh?" Rachel said trying to look around her.
"Wow, Rachel, I wasn't born yesterday," she said turning and shutting the TV off.
Rachel began to protest, sitting up, but the wicked sunburn that she subjected herself to in daily torture prevented her from the rapid movement.
Lauren rolled her eyes in disgust and annoyance at the teen and turned, reaching into the hallway, grabbing a plastic grocery bag and thrusting it at her.
She dug around in the bag and retrieved a small pink box. "Are you kidding me?" she glared, "a pregnancy test? I'm not pregnant!" she squeaked.
"Just take the damn test Rachel, I made you a doctor's appointment for Saturday."
Rachel frowned, "don't those take, like, months to get?"
Lauren shrugged, "I pulled some strings."
The young mother gulped and pushed herself up and off of the bed with shaking arms and set a path for the bathroom. White knuckles enclosed the box as she gently forced the door, creaking it enough for her to slip in and slam it tightly behind her. She flipped the light on and set the box reluctantly on the counter, peering up at her glowing red form, scorched face, already beginning to appear leathery at seventeen. Ripping open the cursed packaging and tossing the test on top she hastily unfolded the instructions. "Remove cover, pee on stick, wait ninety seconds, receive results. If blue minus, no le preggo," she paused. "If positive," she exhaled and tossed the paper in the trash. Preparing herself, she breathed slowly as she squatted and peed, trying to hit the stick. Finishing, she set the test back on the box and cleaned up, washing her hands and leaning back on her right hip, crossing her arms underneath her chest. She allowed herself to slip from the present to a familiar instance.
Then she paced the small bathroom in New England, biting the skin on her thumb. The two equal tests sat before her and she glanced over at them both nervously until she checked her watch and snatched them up, giving each a thorough inspection. After her eyes confirmed that both tests were in fact negative?, she breathed a sigh of relief and wrapped them in toilet paper and discarded the bundle with the box.
Now Rachel jumped as Lauren quietly knocked on the door. "Rachel?" she called out before twisting the knob until it clicked and the door squeaked open, causing the teen to repress the urge to vomit as the creak transformed in her ears to the shrill of an infant.
Lauren entered and saw the look on her guest's face, glanced at the test while picking it up. She opened her mouth to say something comforting but paused unable to think of anything to ease the girl before her into motherhood.
"Did you want to see it?" Lauren questioned skeptically, stretching her hand out to Rachel.
She shrunk back and looked at the test with disgust. "I already knew," she frowned and spun on her heel, walking away.
Hogwarts would be very different. Unfriendly even. If most students remembered her at all, they remembered her brazen, carefree attitude, and her necessity to be in charge. Her "American Ways" would certainly have left a bitter taste in their mouths. If they cared to remember her. If they cared to notice. They would when she ballooned.
Her experience, with Oliver tainted her Californian core. Life was, colder, now. Humbler, if only slightly. Nothing was set in concrete. This year she had no Harry to make her fit in, no Hermione to hide behind. No Oliver to run to when she wanted to play house, to fuck when she was scared. Things were changing rapidly beneath the surface. It rippled, reverberated in her life like the aftermath of an explosion. An explosion that would steal her hard earned body, destroy her mini washboard abs, one that would kick her intestines like she was a giant soccer ball, do a jig on her bladder and one that would ruin her life utterly and completely in nine months. Possibly sooner.
Sitting stashed away in hiding did nothing more that lower Rachel's tolerance to whining and complaining. And Cho Chang frequently found herself being verbally assaulted by the Californian, hence to ease the tension that had built to a breaking point in the Chang's sprawling residence, Lauren, for everyone's sake, sent Cho to stay with friends and relatives, bouncing her around, often creating Cho's supreme happiness and her woe. However, sending Cho halfway across the world could not quell Rachel's own desire for freedom and her restlessness drove her from the home most nights. She would swoop out of her window on her broom and take off flying high and low, practicing new Quidditch moves, testing her own new limits, which often had her flights grounded and she was forced to seek entertainment elsewhere. Elsewhere, were the many dimly lit, techno pulsing clubs closer to the heart of Muggle London where Rachel found herself luring gorgeous men to her dark corners where she did what she pleased; danced, teased, always fucked. The other two were her ways of getting back at them. Getting back at Oliver. Upon returning home, her temporary place of residence, she would peel off the smoke drenched clothing, banishing them to the bottom of her hamper, and rinsing out her greasy and overdone hair before crawling into her bed, and letting the dampness of her hair caress her cheeks and mingle with the unwanted tears that dance down them as well.