This round's theme was next-gen Weasleys. I chose Dominique Weasley.

Word Count: 2,485

"What did you do to your hair?"

I fight the urge to roll my eyes and snap something dark and sarcastic at her, because I know she's just being the typical mom figure. But seriously, I haven't been home for a visit in years, much less a long stay, and this is how she greets me? No hello, no happy-to-see-you, just the usual nagging and all-body scrutiny for any and all blemishes. It's enough to make anyone go mad, and it's enough for my guard to go way, way up.

I knew this was a bad idea.

"I cut it, Mom. That's what you do with hair."

She presses her lips together, and I know she didn't miss the way I called her "Mom" instead of the French variant she loves. I prepare myself for a fight, but her eyes are still roaming the top of my head and taking in my grungy appearance. She doesn't know where to start. My skin prickles as self-consciousness sets in, and for a split second I regret asking Mav to shave off the left side of my head. My fingers are running through my hair before I can stop them, so I cover up the movement by scratching my scalp. Then I lift my chin, just a bit, because I'll be damned if I let my mother make me ashamed of who I am at twenty-two.

I'm an adult now, and if she hasn't figured that out yet, then that's her problem.

"Are you going to let me in?"

She hesitates for a second—just a split second—but then she's backing up, waving me in, and trying for a smile. I step into foyer and wait patiently as she closes and locks the door behind me. It's warm in here, even though it's evening and the windows are all drawn. She's reorganized the furniture since I was last here, something she does when she's antsy over someone or other.

Usually, that someone is me.

I offer her a tight-lipped smile, holding tightly onto the strap of my pack with one hand. I can hear the soft ticking of the clock in the other room, and for two beats we just stand there, looking at one another.

I try for another smile.

"Soooo…where's Dad?"

She breathes a sigh a relief. It's a quiet exhale of air, but it unlocks her arms from around her chest and releases her shoulders from where they were set so high up against her ears. He's in the yard, she says, and she'll be back in a minute to bring him. She invites me to get comfortable, to make myself at home on her way out, almost as an afterthought. It's strange being told that. I used to be able to make myself at home without being told, because it had been my home, once upon a time. I used to run around these halls, tape pictures up on these windows, and do my homework on that dining room table.

But that was a long, long time ago, before Beauxbatons, before Hogwarts even—before they all tried shoving me into a tiny box, smothering me, just like everybody else.

I'd burned my box before they could even fold down the flaps.

"Hey! I thought I heard you come in."

I look up and find the speaker standing on the landing, smiling down at me. I stiffen. In nature, the deadliest creatures have the most vibrant, beautiful colors. And she is beautiful, the speaker, in a way I could never be. Her long blonde hair is pulled up into a bun on top of her head, wispy strands of silver dangling down from where they had broken free of the tie. Her stomach is bulging, her bare feet are swollen, and she looks tired, but her face is all lit up and her blue eyes are shining with warmth. Not even twenty-five, and she's already perfectly married to the perfect man with a perfect little baby on the way, her perfect house waiting for her down the road with a white picket fence that adds the perfect finish to her tiny-little box-life.

Victoire, my sister, who picked out her box and sealed herself in at the tender age of twelve.

I try searching her face for any sign of mockery or superiority as she hobbles toward me, but I don't have the chance because she's pulled me into a tight hug. Though it's an awkward hug due to her middle being, literally, in the middle, I can tell that it's genuine and warm. She's happy to see me, and I feel guilty for getting all riled up and defensive.

"It's so good to see you!" she says as she releases me. I don't know what to say, so I just nod. If she thinks something's off, she doesn't say anything.

"I'm so glad that you're back home. Everyone's been so worried about you, especially after Grandad—"

"How's work?" I say, cutting her off. I don't want to talk about that—not now, not ever. All these people thought that things like that made it all right to reach out and sidle real close and pretend to be alive, to feel. But they didn't feel, and they didn't understand; they only pretended to, safe inside the comforts of their little box.

And I couldn't pretend along anymore.

"Dominique, votre père est de terminer un appel, mais il sera dans bientôt. Travail - vous savez comment il est." She smiles that phony, tight-lipped smile at me, like everything's just fine, but I feel myself sour. I hate French. I hated it ever since I walked through the front doors of Beauxbatons Academy at the age of fifteen. I had never been as good at languages as Victoire, as my mom never failed to remind me, and I had never quite lost my British accent, as The Painted Girls never failed to remind me.

I had sealed everything, including French, that tied me to that place in a giant, cardboard box and burned the lot.

"C'est le weekend! Il a besoin d'arrêter de travailler si dur," Victoire clucks, and Mom positively beams. They continue this for a bit, this back and forth in French, and I don't even bother to keep up, just stand there steaming because right here is just another example of how I won't ever live up to my sister.

"Ah, but it's so good to have you two in the same place at the same time for once! My two girls." Her head bounces between the two of us, smiling into our faces, but I notice how she stands closer to my sister than she does to me, like she's drawing strength from her. "Has she told you about the baby? No? Well, it's a girl—isn't that wonderful?"

They gaze at me expectantly, smiling from the flaps of their boxes.

"Congratulations," I say. My voice is so monotone to my hears, like a dull buzz. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

A pause.

"Well," Victoire begins, and although she's looking shyly at me, I can tell she's quite please about it. "Teddy and I rather like Arthurina. We think it's appropriate to name her after Grandad, since we found out about her only three days after—"

"Do you mind if I shower?" I ask sharply. "Only, they turned off my water three days before I moved out, and Mav's lease ended before mine, so…"

I don't wait for a response, just edge around them and made a bee-line for the stairs. I make straight for my old room, and it's exactly the same as when I left it five years ago, as far as I can tell. But I don't let myself get too nostalgic. I ruffle through my pack, pull out a clean underwear and clothes that will work as pajamas, and seek refuge behind the closed bathroom door and the rush of water falling from the showerhead.

When I return to my room from the shower, all red from scrubbing and smelling like my mother's lavender-scented soaps, I am surprised to find Dad sitting on my bed waiting for me. I pause at the door, my hands holding the towel up to my damp hair. He blinks a few times in surprise, taking in the haircut, but eventually he smiles. When he speaks, it isn't to tell me off.

"Hey, Dom," he says quietly. The crow's feet around his eyes are deeper than I remember them, and there are a few gray hairs in his auburn hair. I am happy to see that he's kept it long—I don't know why, but it's the first thing I've seen all day that didn't stir up my inner defenses. I take a few tentative steps into the room, feeling more at ease.

"C'mon," he says, patting the space on the bed beside him. "Why don't we talk?"

Aaaand, there goes the "feeling more at ease" bit.

I shrug. "What's there to talk about?"

"Well, we haven't really talked since you decided to go off to that Muggle collage so lots I'd—"

"College, Dad. College."

He grunts and shakes his head in what I think is supposed to be a nod, but I can't be sure. I crawl onto the bed into the space he indicated, but we don't say anything for a while, just gaze out to where the flames are dancing on the wicks of a few white candles. Mom must have lit them while I was in the shower.

"So, how was living with the Muggles?" he asks finally.

I sneak a peek at him, but he doesn't sound mad or revolted. He sounds…genuinely curious.

"It's fine," I say, nodding my head up and down. "Good."

We grow quiet. Then, almost as if compelled, I opened my mouth and kept on talking, telling things that I had always wanted to say, wanted to share, but had found no one to listen.

Well, no one except for one, and those days were over.

"…and the technology! Dad, I got a mobile that was this big, literally, fit right in my hand, and I could Google anything or look up any site. And if I wanted to call someone I could just do it! Press a few buttons and bam! I could talk to them face-to-face right on my mobile, anywhere I went. And the creativity—"

I stop talking, because he's laughing at me. His eyes are twinkling.

"You always were like your grandfather," he says with a chuckle. I look away. The comment pleases me, but it makes me sad, too. We were alike. In a world determined to shove you into a little, pre-packaged box, he was the only one who lived without one, content to go about box-less in a world full of box-people. I used to be his little box-less girl, learning the tricks and tools of our eccentric trade.

Those days were gone now.

"You know, I've never seen your work," Dad says slowly. It's not a question, but I hear the question in it. I reach down for my bag, open it up, and rifle through it for any one of my sketchbooks. I enchanted it to fit my few possession, but I've lived so long in the Muggle world, making my way without magic, that I don't think to grab my wand and perform a summoning charm. Finally, my fingers close around a spiral binding, and I pull out a notebook with a blue and white robot, a character from a film Mav forced me to watch. I never admitted to loving the film, but I never turned down a chance to watch it or any of its sequels.

I hand him the book, and then busy myself with organizing things around the room. There isn't much to do, but I can't just sit by and watch him go through my work. From the corner of my eye, I see him pause at certain pieces: the paint horse, the goblin, a woman in medieval garb.

He flips another page. This time, he goes real quiet, and I stiffen because I don't need to look to know which piece he has reached. I can see it in my head, every little detail: the russet-colored weasel, twisted around to face the front, a miniature Ford Anglia in its paws, an outlet cover and light bulb by its feet, and a lime green iPod dangling at the end of a pair of headphones thrown cross his tail.

My throat is already choked up by the time Dad speaks.

"Grandad?" he asks softly. I nod. He gazes back down at the drawing.

"I got it," I blurt out, "I got it on my back." I tap my right shoulder, right where that russet-colored weasel is playing with his Muggle baubles on my back. Only, on this version, there's a set of dates etched right underneath: 1950-2024. "Mav's been scratching for years, so she tattooed it for me, right after he…" I trailed off. Dad nods again, and I think he understands; he may not agree, but he understands.

I teeter, between telling and not telling. Several long minutes pass before I make my decision.

"I was offered an apprenticeship at a tattoo shop," I begin cautiously. "The guy who runs it—the artist—he's one of the best in the field." I pause, gauging his reaction, but he seems as calm as usual. "I said yes."

"Could you use your magic?"

I cringe, because this is the biggest issue in the wizarding world.

"No. No one would know that I am a witch."

"But it's what you want to do."

I look at him then.

"Yeah," I answer. "Yeah. I really, really want this gig." I can feel my pulse bouncing in my ears. Whatever his opinion, he's not going to change my mind. But I could use the support. I could use a family member to go to, to rely on, to lean on.

I jumped when Dad clapped his hands.

"Well, I think you know what you've got to do, then. Just…make sure you come in to see your parents every once in a while, yeah? Your mother likes hearing from you, knowing that you're okay. And your sister." He bumped my shoulder with his, and I couldn't help but smile.

"We're proud of you, Dom. I know you don't always think we are, but we really are proud of you. And I know that you and Granddad were really close and that you use to talk a lot with him," he slung his arm over my shoulder and drew me in close, "but we're here for you, too. Your mother and I love you—very, very much. We just want you to be happy, whatever that might be."

I nodded, my throat closing and choking up. Then I buried my head in my dad's shoulder and cried.

Ugh. I wrote this in pieces and then had to glue those pieces together at a time when piecing fanfic bits together was NOT what I wanted to do...and now it came out like a Frankenstein work. I'm done.