A/N: Hey all! Guess who's back :D This story was written for Round 3 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition's fourth season. I, as beater 2 for the Caerphilly Catapults, was given the assignment of inserting a catapult into my story in 2251 – 2500 words. For judging purposes, the final word count of this story is 2,345 and my optional prompts were:

6. (song) 'Love Yourself' – Justin Bieber (I've underlined the lyrics that I've taken from the song.)

12. (word count) 2,345 (I can send you the Microsoft Word file if you need to verify.)

Vertigo

The only other time I can remember feeling this way was the day my dad took me to a Muggle amusement park. I was thirteen at the time, so I had already ridden a broom (only a handful of times, sadly, before I took a tumble and my mum decided it I would make a better spectator) and Side-Along Apparated with my father, but those couldn't compare to the enormous structures that were visible from a distance as we approached the amusement park. Right inside the gates, I spotted a large set of red poles with a gigantic ball, large enough to sit in, suspended between them. I made a beeline for it at once and begged my dad to go on it with me. He had seemed reluctant but handed the bloke in line behind us his camera and climbed in just before I did. There had been hardly any extra room once we'd squeezed ourselves inside. I had no idea what was about to happen. Thinking back on it, I should have probably looked at the ride's name. The Catapult might have given me a clue. Anyway, it was only a few moments before I found out, and I immediately understood my dad's reluctance.

As the ride lurched to life, my stomach shot backwards to wrap around my spine, and I screamed until my throat went raw. I held my dad's hand for the first time his years. I pretty sure he still has a scar from the nail of my index finger.

Even after the ride was over, my stomach was uneasy for days. Each step sent my gut into another spin, and I'm fairly certain that even my usual clumsiness took a turn for a worse that day and just never got better.

Up until now, that was the only time I've ever really been taken off guard; before now, those minutes riding The Catapult and the days that followed it were the most physically anxious I had ever felt.

The last two minutes have made The Catapult look like a flight on a toy broomstick.

I've just Apparated straight into my parents' front yard, and even though I can't seem to make my feet carry me to the gate, I can see them through the kitchen window; my dad's running out to meet me.

The pop Remus made when he Disapparated from the disgusting little apartment that my mother begged me not to rent is ringing in my ears, mingling with the echoes of our row, of the excuses he made.

I'm going to help Harry…

He needs me…

Dora, I've damned our child! I've already done enough, don't you think?

And above the roaring in my ears, all I can make out is that he doesn't care. He doesn't care that I need him, too. Before today—before I told him about the baby—I would have been sure that he would come back. He's always come back after our rows before; he always comes around, always sees sense, even if it takes him a while. In the few months (weeks, really) that we've been married, he's never stayed gone long, even on missions. Why do I feel that this time is different?

My body is quaking with a force I've never felt before. A lump that feels like it's the size of The Catapult has lodged itself in my throat. It tastes like copper, and the heat of my breath is melting shards of it that are dripping into my stomach. My gut convulses, and I can't tell if it's the baby making me queasy, or my own body's horror at what's just happened.

Either way, Dad has reached me, and I find myself doubled over with my head in my mother's rosebush, Dad's whispering assurances, his hand on the back of my neck, and suddenly, it's actually quite like the day we were at the park.

"All right," he mutters. "You'll be okay."

I don't have it in me to believe him. Remus said the same thing just last week.

When my stomach has settled and I've managed to choke out enough of what's happened to assure them that no one is dead or dying, my mother's soft hands take over for Dad's. She leads me toward the house, calling me sweetheart and stroking my elbow. I'm still shaky and tense, and my skin seems to burn at her touch, but I know she's trying to be helpful. I don't say anything.

My parents help me settle on the sofa in their sitting room. I turn down every offer of food and distraction that they make, and before long, they go quiet; they feel deflated at the very sight of me. I can tell. I'm their little girl, but something's gone wrong. The son-in-law they barely knew has gone and left me alone, vomiting in their garden. They don't even know about the baby yet.

Damn it. They don't know about the baby yet.

I run a hand through my hair and raise my head, biting my tongue to suppress even more tears. I mumble something about needing to rest and stumble off to my old bedroom. The Catapult-sized pain in my throat intensifies, and I find myself clutching my stomach with such an intensity that I can feel it bruising.

I'm going to help Harry. You'll be fine. You're better without me.

The pillowcase under my cheek is damp with my tears. My shoulders thrum with an anxious energy I've never experienced before.

You'll be fine.

How can he know that? How can he walk out, after what I told him, and just toss that back at me over his shoulder?

You'll be fine.

Pieces of molten Catapult percolate in my abdomen. My stomach is reaching its limit again. I feel myself starting to shake.

"I won't!"

I don't know that I've shouted it until Dad comes barreling into the room; I'm on the floor—how did that happen? He pulls the duvet from the foot of the bed and drapes it over me. He sits on the ground and draws me close to him.

I'm pretty sure I'm giving him another scar.

— — — — —

The nervousness I feel before telling my parents about the baby is different from what I felt when I told Remus. With Remus, I was worried about him pitying himself (rightly so, apparently). With my parents, I'm worried about them pitying me.

They're sitting across from me at the dinner table, staring as if they know there's something I want to say, but I keep my eyes on my food. I push it around my plate, bring some to my lips and act like it doesn't swell in my throat as it slides down. After a while, I can't take it anymore. I use the same approach as I used with Remus.

Because that worked out so well.

I take a deep breath and blurt it out: "I'm pregnant."

I refuse to meet their eyes as they lock their gazes on me. I'm sure Dad's jaw has dropped, and Mum's eyes have tears in them. Then, a moment later, Mum lowers herself into the chair beside me. She stays silent until I give in and make eye contact.

She studies my face for just a moment before pulling me into a hug so tight that I have to slide out of my seat and crouch next to her in order to fit comfortably. I feel my dad's hand fall on my shoulder and his lips press to the top of my head. Neither of them says anything.

I'm not sure how to take that.

— — — — —

My reflection is glaring at me with such intensity that I use my wand to steam up the mirror. With clouds hanging between my reflection and my actual self, I can almost ignore the dark circles and bloodshot eyes. My hair has been brown since Mad-Eye's death, but now I feel like it's taken on a gray hue. For the first time in my memory, I realize that for one reason or another—grief, pregnancy, or something else—I've lost control of my power, and somehow that's just as terrifying as the rest of the unknowns in front of me. I close my eyes and try to focus on the individual strands of hair, the way I did when I was first learning to really control my Metamorphosing. I picture them flaring out and around each other, like The Catapult launching from its perch; I picture them shortening and then shading into a vivid pink. I feel a tingle on my scalp and let out a deep breath, but when I open my eyes, it's the same, flat bangs and ashy streaks. It's enough to make the lump in my throat expand, but I quickly swallow it down. I reach for my mum's eyeliner pencil and press it to the base of my lashes. My hand scrubs back and forth with a precision that defies my earlier jitters. When I return the pencil to its place on the vanity, my eyes are encased in dark brown, and I pull my wand out of my pocket. I mutter a few spells and watch as chunks of hair fall from their place around my shoulders. By the time I tuck my wand away, my hair is the same mousy color, but back to its edgy length around my ears. It's jagged and slightly pathetic, but I'm pleased nonetheless. Sometimes you have to make do.
— — — — —

I've hated my name for as long as I can remember, and for the majority of my adult life, I've been able to keep people from using it. After the last few days of my parents' dears and loves, however, I'd give anything for one of Remus' whispered Nymphadoras.

Mum is baking again. It's the third day in a row, and I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten this many sweets since my first year at Hogwarts, when I decided to take full advantage of the common room's close proximity to the kitchen. I've grown quite sick of desserts, honestly, but Mum's face lights up whenever she pulls the tray out of the oven, and I know I can't turn them down. She's trying, and I really do appreciate that.

My dad's a whole other situation. Every time he walks by, he kisses the top of my head and looks me up and down, and I have flashbacks to the first few days after the Catapult incident, when I had been green in the face for days. I'm resisting the urge to find a mirror to check my skin; it feels like I'm green all over again.
— — — — —

The moment that I tell them I have to leave, I know it's different from when I told them about the baby. There are no silent hugs or soft reassurances; the pity's still there, but it's weighing more and more in their eyes with every protest they make. I understand that they want to protect me, but I can't handle the coddling anymore. Remus might have checked out, but I can't. It's time to get back to real life and to figure out my next step, and I know I won't be able to do that here. When I tell them that, they grow quiet again. I watch as hurt replaces the pity in their gazes, but I don't have it in me to feel too guilty. I led a perfectly fulfilling life on my own before Remus came around, and I know I can do it again. I tell them I'm leaving tomorrow. My mum purses her lips. My dad looks like he's got a Catapult stuck in his throat, too.
— — — — —

The flat is cold when I get back, but I don't think of it for the first few minutes. Remus was always the one to cast a Heating Charm or light a fire when we got home in the evenings, so it doesn't even cross my mind to do so. As soon as I realize it's not getting any warmer, I cast one myself, but it doesn't seem to work as well as his do. I know I'm crazy and imagining things, but that doesn't make me feel any better.

Mum and Dad made me stay for dinner before I headed home, so I don't even bother stopping by the kitchen on my way to the bedroom. I just want my own bed, even if Remus isn't in it. I second-guess that thought as I settle underneath the covers and feel a phantom embrace around my middle. I catch a faint scent of him on his pillow.

"I'm better sleeping on my own," I tell myself firmly as I snuggle in with an ample amount of spite.

I hope Remus has found Harry, Ron, and Hermione by now.

I hope they all snore, and I hope that Remus has to stay awake to listen to it.

— — — — —

I've already Flooed Kingsley to tell him I'm coming into work when I hear a distant crack of Apparition. I draw my wand and watch out the window for the approaching visitor. It's been two days since I got home, and it's been completely silent: no calls and no visitors. Until now, that is.

I can see a shabby set of robes crossing the road outside, and suddenly, the lump is back in my throat. His shoulders are slumped, and his wand isn't drawn. His eyes are fixed on the ground in front of him. The ball in my throat pulls back a bit farther as I open the door to wait on the porch. He moves slowly until he looks up and finds my gaze. Then he quickens his pace, and reaches me in a matter of seconds. We stare at each other for a moment, him gaping and me focusing on keeping The Catapult in check. When he speaks, it's around a shuddered breath.

"I'm so sorry."

The Catapult snaps forward. My stomach wraps itself around my spine. My heart races.