Chapter Two: Break

Wanna know the secret message hidden in this chapter (because there's one in each!)? Google a line from the dialogue verbatim and you'll get sent to a song. The first person to get the correct songwill get to choose a song that I will base a chapter around in the sequel to this story (If it doesn't really fit the plot of the sequel, then I'll just name the chapter after the song and quote it in the chapter)!

"Rose?" I looked up from the fireplace towards my Aunt Fleur. "Your mother has owled. Again. She's worried about you."

I looked away, stubbornly. "Let her owl all she wants."

"Maybe you should talk with her, dear." I could feel the sympathy rolling off her words and bulldozing my pride.

"I'd rather jump in the fire over there." I motioned my head towards the hearth.

"I don't really think you have a choice in the matter, Rosie." I winced at the pet name and the hasty shift in her tone. "You're talking to your mum whether you want to or not."

"What do you mean?" I tried to mimic her tone, but it came out smaller and more nervous than I intended it to.

"The last owl said if you didn't respond, she'd apparate here. That was three hours ago, and you know as well as anyone that your mother's not one to fool around."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Bloody freaking great.

"She's here?" I let out hoarsely.

Fleur nodded in a way that made me want to snap her head off. Or maybe even my own head. I hadn't decided.

I sighed and stood, mumbling a few coarse words under my breath.

"What happened?" Mum decided to break the dense and dreadfully uncomfortable silence.

I crossed my arms and lied. "I hit her. Ashby the moaning cow. She called me a minger, so I hit her."

"Then why were you so upset, Rose?" The tremor in her voice was familiar. It was the same tone I got when I couldn't figure something out. "That isn't like you."

"I haven't been feeling well, and she just ruined what was left of my good mood." That wasn't a lie. Well it was, but not completely. I had been feeling ill a few days before we were let out for break, and she did ruin my fine frame of mind.

"That's no excuse, Rose." Mum looked at me the same way she always did when hearing of me getting into fights. "You need to better keep your temper. You can't just keep attacking people when they upset you."

"I know." I faked a humbled tone. Why not just hit them, though? It always worked. In the past, I mean. Not to mention they never did it again, whatever it was I hit them for. Granted it was never a real hit. Just a punch in the shoulder. And never to anyone outside my family.

"You need to abet your enemies, not take the Mickey out of them."

"Yes, mum. My altruistic ways will shine a light on our dark and angry world." I jeered, "Who am I kidding? I am not some Mother Theresa."

"No, of course not. I don't expect you to be, Rose. I just wish you'd think before acting out the way you do."

"I'm sorry, all right." I added hastily, "What is it you want from me?"

Mum looked taken aback by that. I'd never snapped at my mother before. I had this respect for her embedded into my brain so deep that it was impossible to remove without taking out my mind entirely. And I had to admit, it was almost exhilarating to talk to my mother the way my brother often does.

"I want you to come home," she said, her tone softening in a way only a mother's can. "We all want you to come home."

I looked down at my feet and glared murderously at the floor. Since, obviously, it was the all the French ceramic kitchen tile's fault that I was in this predicament. "Will you excuse me, mum, I have to use the lav."

I watched her nod and trudged towards the loo. I closed and locked the door shut behind me, trying my best to blink back the memory of the wretched train ride home.

Dad and Hugh always expected me to be levelheaded; after all I am my bloody mother. Acting out in a way that makes me look remotely human just baffled the two of them. They'd put me up on a high horse, and I'd always fall off of it. It wasn't like I hadn't let them down before. I was a Ravenclaw whose best mate - ex best mate - was a Malfoy for Merlin's sake. The first two things my father ever asked of me, I didn't heed to. Get in Gryffindor, beat Malfoy at everything. So why did they look at me the way they did? Just gaping like I'd unreservedly lost my marbles. Like I had just now, for the first time in my sixteen years, let them down.

Lily had all the right to look at me the way she did, with both anger and disappointment burning off her features. And Al had all the right in the world to look baffled at me. After all, he knew me better than anyone. And there was the promise, after all. The lot of us promised each other when we were young that, despite anything, we wouldn't hurt one of our own. I suppose Scorpius is one of our own now.

I remembered talking to Lily near the beginning of Ashby's reign of terror. We pinky swore that neither of us would do anything to make her feel ostracized or hurt, no matter what she said or did to us. Lily said it would lead to nothing but chaos, and chaos never helps anyone.

Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny had been pretty wary of me since fourth year, when they caught me attached at the lips with James's best mate, Peter. Even though I hadn't been the one to initiate the snogging, I was the one held accountable. Evidently I was supposed to know better. Even though Peter was, and still is obviously, a good four years older than I am. The Potter parents had always thought of me as "Hermione's little girl." The one who knew the rules and was never supposed to break them. I supposed my outburst was rather embarrassing for the two of them.

Louis was my favorite at the moment. His corridor was facing the lav, and he stepped out when he heard all the fuss and recognized my voice in the midst of it. I wondered if he hadn't seen what he did, would he have believed me? I doubt it. Louis knows me about as well as I know my cousin Dominique, his older sister. That being not well at all.

I sighed, looking into the mirror. I looked like utter crap. Like a head cold slowly molding into the Black Death. I swear I could've scared a Boggart with the state my face was in just then.

I made a face in the mirror to try and cheer myself up a bit. It didn't matter, really. I was going to have to face my family sooner or later. And with my mother waiting for me in the kitchen, "sooner or later" seemed more like "now or poof, I'm facing them."

I turned on the sink and ran warm water over my hands. I hadn't realized how cold I was until then. I took a pool of water in my palms and splashed it on my face.

"Try the facial cream, dear, you look dreadful."

I jumped back from the mirror, making a sound that was a cross between a scared cat and my dad singing The Weird Sisters. I regained my composure after realizing that, yes, of course a household filled with partial veelas would have a talking mirror. It hummed a little laugh and said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right. I've been off all week." I faked a smile towards the mirror, not sure of how it actually saw me.

"Try the facial cream. It'll give life back to your face."

I nodded. "Where might it be?"

"In the medicine cabinet, darling."

I was feeling odd about opening a relative stranger's medicine cabinet but did so anyway. I looked inside the cupboard's endless looking supply of creams, soaps, perfumes, and sprays. I glanced back over at the mirror. "Which one is it?"

"The one on the bottom shelf," the mirror, a "she" I presumed from her feminine voice, said to me.

I looked to the bottom and spotted it. A silver jar, more expensive looking than anyone- Scorpius aside- could afford. The cap alone looked priced higher than my life's worth. This, retrospectively, was quite sad. I removed the spherical bottle gently, my heart jolting at the mere thought of dropping it. I placed it down on the counter near the sink and unscrewed the lid.

A thick snow-white cream shimmered perfectly untouched in the jar. "Has it ever been used before? I don't want to be the first to use it; that's fairly intrusive."

The mirror laughed. Any action, if heard by a muggle, would get them sent to an asylum.

"It's enchanted, bird. It's been used hundreds of times. All you have to do is tell the jar what you want from it."

I blinked in confusion. "What I want from it? You mean if I say 'I want a pony' it'll turn my face into a pony? Isn't that dangerous for someone with an accent or speech disabilities? Or Luna, for that matter."

The mirror laughed again. Oh bother, but this was strange. "It knows what you mean, no matter what tongue you use to address it. You can say anything you want and it'll regard your wants."

"That's rather poetic," I said, turning from the mirror to the bottle.

"Close your eyes, deary, otherwise it won't work."

I did as I was told and whispered what I wanted to the magic face balm. "I want to look like I usually do when I'm happy."

I felt a tingling on my face, and it felt like something scurrying across my skin.

"You can open your eyes now" the mirror whispered, sounding pleased with herself. Or itself. Or whatever.

I opened my eyes and screwed the lid back on the jar, just as carefully putting it back into the cabinet as I had been in taking it out.

I turned towards the mirror again hoping that the cream didn't cause anything drastic or deforming. The sorts of things like moles or warts or hair and such; things that require a paper bag over your head. Because that is not what I look like when I'm happy.

I was a little shocked at how much better I looked. I couldn't remember the last time I'd looked this nice. My skin was glowing, my lips were perfect, and my eyes were sparkling. I even had a little twinge of color to my cheeks. I looked gorgeous, although I didn't even know that was possible. "My Merlin, I do believe I've found it," I muttered to myself. 'It' being a reason to want to go home. Ha! I looked completely normal. I looked better than normal. I looked perfectly put-together.

"You look dashing, love," said the mirror.

"Thank you! That worked perfectly." I smiled towards the mirror again. "Good thing I don't have my mum's hair, or I would have looked like the undead."

I looked towards the door, remembering my mother. "Speaking of my mother, I have to go. But thank you… um… ma'am. For helping me."

The mirror laughed a light and breezy laugh and said you're welcome.

I focused on the easiness of her laugh as I opened the door and made my way, step by step, to my mother- and inevitably- the rest of my family.

"Rose, what took so long?" my mother asked, standing from the kitchen table.

"Sorry. The painters are in." I lied. Again.

"Oh dear, the painters around Christmas?" She sighed, finally looking at me. "That's unfortunate."

"Well, yes, but it should end today. Thank God." I smiled at her, something I usually did when I lied to her. Lying to my mother being something I've never gotten used to.

"That's good, love." She paused, returning my smile with one of her beaming-mother looks. You know the one, right? It's usually followed by misty eyes, and her wailing "YOU'VE GROWN UP SO WONDERFULLY! TIME IS SUCH A SHORT FUSE! ONE OF THESE DAYS YOU'LL HAVE BABIES OF YOUR OWN!" Rubbish like that.

"You're growing up every day, Rosie." There, see. I told you it'd be there. I looked at my mother, and couldn't help but to feel a daughterly flutter in my chest. Despite all the differences, and the mass number of us, my family and I have always been close. Although my mother and I never really bonded the way most do. We grew more like colleagues at a library; someone the other person could rely on for intellectual stimulation. We're both known for how much and how often we read, and I was surprised to realize the literature that I enjoy was the same literature my mother did when she was my age.

"Are you ready to go now?" she asked, as I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded yes.

"Oh, um, may I say bye to Louis?"

My mother sighed. "You'll see him in three days, Rosie."

I imitated her sigh. "Alright, alright. Let's go then."