Chapter 1: Breaking Fast
Smell was the first sense that came to Brynn that morning, arriving in the form of a savory fragrance that wafted from beneath her door. She guessed—or hoped, really—it was bacon, eggs and toast, her favorite breakfast. She smiled internally, still too tired to bother with moving about. The visions came easily. First, the kitchen table: the starched, white tablecloth her excitable mother always set out when Brynn was home. Next manifested her father sitting at the far-end of the table. He would likely be working on his laptop or reading the latest news, waiting patiently for her to come down to eat before putting it away. Then of course, the centerpiece of her mental tapestry: the jam.
The jam would be placed at the center of the table, placed out by her mum for toast. The jam would still be fresh, made from the strawberries her dad picked from his garden just the week prior. He made it for her, as was their tradition. Before she had left school, she had requested that they have some when she returned home, and her father happily agreed. She could nearly taste it lying there— sour enough to remind you it wasn't store bought, but sweet in a way only her mother could manage to cook it. Too much sugar, maybe— she didn't guess too much as she found the magic of it all was in the mystery. Her mouth watered. She was nearly ready to take on the day, stirring half awake from visions of adding bacon to her jam-toast when thunder clapped. The sudden crack shook the house in a low rumble, and her body spasmed in recoil, kicking her covers off the end of her bed.
Staring into the dark, her sense of sound gashed what remained of the pleasant visions.
The gentle white noise of the rain pattering the windowpane of her bedroom was accompanied by a cacophony of yelps which seeped through the council house's thin dividing walls. As the young Bichon dog ran across its home in sudden terror, it's burly owner, Brynn's neighbor, beat their shared floor with his feet like an oversized wooden drum, yelling after the dog to "quie' doon" several times. She was more-or-less awake now.
Unfortunately as reality caught up with her once sleepy mind, the disturbances from behind the wall had all but sapped away the warm feelings from the moments before. She was rushed with self-reminders that she had hardly packed for the trip, and still had to explain the ins-and-outs of international Door Travel to her parents. To top it all off she still needed to run an important errand in town. She groaned breathily at the sudden realization she would need to head out in the rain, now—she had forgotten her only poncho at school, and her parents had been playing an annoying game of "I thought you already bought a new umbrella?" for years. Groggily, she reached for the glasses on her nightstand and swatted them immediately to the floor.
"Aye, piss off…" she sternly mumbled in defeat. The glasses triumphantly said nothing in response.
She continued to grasp blindly until she found her wand—the new one, as the now scared-quiet neighbor-dog had chewed through her other one completely the first day she was home from school. It was awkward for her parents to explain to the burly neighbor's equally plump wife why she had suddenly begun crying over a stick. Alas, she was still getting used to this one as its fresh spruce exterior, though still given a spritely spirit with its dragon heart-string core, managed a flexibility a little more, well, swishy from the worn wood of her old one. She inaudibly mumbled the spell, but the wand knew what she wanted—it was quickly getting the picture. Her phone flew from her desk to her hand. After checking to see that she had gotten a response from last night's message, she thumbed the phone's light on and glanced over the side of her bed.
Beside the bed a mess of used towels made confluence with her uniforms and school supplies spilling from her trunk. There, atop the steadily growing pile of dirty laundry, the black frames of her clubmaster glasses sat idly taunting her. She found herself missing the days, as recently they were, where she could Accio the glasses to her face. It was a routine she had perfected since the trying early days as a muggle-born First Year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Managing to catch her frames on her face after months of poked eyes was one of her earliest magical victories.
Rolan and Margie, her years long friends and companions throughout her seven years at school, knowing her routines, had hexed her glasses as a practical joke. She had, apparently, offhandedly mentioned to them she was getting new ones upon returning home. The stark reality was that she planned to get them after she returned home from America, months from now. The morning they were all to leave Hogwarts, she learned that summoning the pair would give them wings, sending them fluttering across the room like the Snitch. A Seeker Gaby wasn't, and though the Gryffindor girls' dormitory found themselves excitedly chasing the glasses around for a half hour, someone from the Quidditch team arrived with a broom to graciously fetch them for her. Since then, she didn't dare tempt the lenses and instead picked them up and wore them like a normal human being.
As she thumped lazily down the stairs into the house, she let a small grin creep on her face. Regardless of how the weather was, she could count on her mum and dad to be themselves. The table cloth, the food, the jam, laptop, and parents were all where they ought to be. When her mother caught her coming down, she poked her husband's arm and he instinctively shut his computer and placed it in his work bag, a jolly grin greeting Brynn as she rounded the corner. Today an exception, he often worked late into the evening and this was his time to see her. When she was home, he aimed to give his attention to her when he could, and she never took that for granted.
"Your jam awaits, Miss Pemmasani!" he bowed and crooned nasally as if a hoity-toity butler. She chuckled earnestly, rolling her eyes, and sat across from her mum.
"Oh, don't you roll your eyes at your father." She teased.
Her mother's golden hair bounced as she turned to her dad with a coy smile. Her hair was cropped not too far above her shoulders, and her bright, pale face was punctuated by her emerald green eyes. Her father, who Brynn caught returning the loving glance, looked at her as if it was the first day they met, according to the way he told their story. The constantly regurgitated tale, if abbreviated for brevity went like this:
Her father was an Indian immigrant who arrived in Britain to manage his uncle's convenience stores. He met Brynn's mother, who he described as "the most beautiful woman from here to Delhi", at the local bank where she was a teller making change for him. He was sure to deposit there as often as he could, and after casually quizzing and learning about her, he asked her to brunch one morning and the rest was the beginning of an unexpected series of unexpected events.
To Brynn, their "mixed family" was a great distraction from the other truths she seldom talked about with the families along Blandford Road. To the people of Plymouth, Ripal and Dylan Pemmasani were normal people, living normal lives. Blue collar, one car, comfy home, and one child to feed. Football highlights in the morning, tea in the evening. Keep Calm and Carry On, God save the Queen, Dieu Et Mon Droit. They seemed to be agonizingly normal Brits and, like the rest of the Muggle world, neither knew anything of witches or wizards outside of books and movies. That was, until Brynn came along.
"Are you packed, love?" Her mother asked.
"Yep, all set." Brynn lied through her teeth. Her mother didn't buy it.
"You realize if you meet a boy in America they'll stay clear if smell like dirty laundry and owl—"
"Mum!"
"She's right, flower," her dad interjected, "you've got to learn to take care of yourself when we're not there to clean up after you."
Brynn crossed her arms for a moment before reaching out to dunk her knife into her treasured jam, working to fish a globule out of the jar while appearing as cross as she could.
"What do you think I do at school, huh?" she snipped. Her dad was unimpressed.
"Ah, they care for you there though, eh?" he pointed his fork at her sternly before digging back into his eggs, "It's not quite the same, flower, when no one pays a mess a second thought. Dormitories aren't houses. I've seen that room of yours—you'll embarrass yourself if you do that over there. Yanks are..." he twirled his hand in contemplation, "'chatty' folks. Don't want them chatting 'bout 'yer undies, eh?"
"Dad, I'll be fine," she assured him before taking a second bite of her toast, chewing quickly as to not talk with her mouth full, "—it's not though they won't let me wash what I've got."
Her mom, ever the worrier, shook her head unconvinced.
"We're just saying you can't stack your laundry in a massive pile while you're living with new people."
"At least not for a little while..." her dad added with a smirk. Her mum swatted him gently on the arm. Brynn added her bacon to her toast and bit in, finishing her food before bringing up her errand.
"Ms. Figgles said she would care for Browny while I'm away."
"Oh?" her mother answered as she sifted through her phone inattentively.
"Yeah, I just have to drop her off before lunch. Can I borrow the car?"
Her dad set down his fork, and leaned back. His black eyes squinted, and he studied her up and down as if she had said some spell he wasn't keen to. She noticed now, as she returned his curious glances, that his mustache was starting to grey—his bald head had hidden his age well, but soon even that wouldn't help. She didn't like the idea that her parents were getting older, but, then again, so was she—she would be eighteen next Hallowe'en. Suddenly, her dad's facade faded and he sighed. Her mum smothered a chuckle, looking up only briefly with her hand trying to cover her smile, her eyes twinkling at Brynn.
"When was it last you drove, Brynn Elise?"
Shite, she thought, he's using middle names.
"Oh, it hasn't been too long, papa." she was sure to add papa to try and lower his guard. The family car, his Kia crossover, was his pride and joy—the first car he ever owned new off the lot.
"When, Brynn?"
"It's when we went up north to see Gram—"
"That's two years, Brynn."
"Papa—"
He stood up suddenly, his face stern. Brynn froze. He sighed and reached into his pocket and pulled out the key fob and tossed it to her.
"If there's any scuffs on it—"
Brynn popped up from her chair and sprinted down the hall and up the stairs. "Thanks, papa!" she hollered down. As she reached the top of the stairs, she hopped and grabbed the hanging pull-cord and eased down the ladder into their loft so she could grab the roosting Browny.