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You name your daughter after Romeo and Juliet.
A rose by any other name…perhaps, by any other name, it would smell less like prison. Less like death. Rose is your surrender. You will not, cannot, be a Muggle now. You are not going to get another chance to escape.
Angelina was the one to tell you. She said that Alicia did it for her, and that Fleur—Fleur who only learned of the English restrictions when she started dating Bill—had been the one to intercede for Alicia. You don’t know if you believe Angie about how she learned, but it was information you needed to know.
Purebloods and halfbloods were told that they would have children. There were rumors and discussions about what that meant around the girls’ dorm as far back your first year. But you were Muggleborn and thought the rules didn’t apply to you too.
(You wanted children, you assume now, in some vague, formless way. You were supposed to want them, at least. But when other girls were playing with dolls, you were reading books. Your parents thought that you would go to Uni; so did you, once.)
You thought when you entered this world that babies and weddings were something that would come eventually. When you were all settled into the Ministry or in Diagon Alley or wherever else you ended up making your fortunes.
But the doubt was there, you realize now, from the moment you realized how young Lily and James were when they died. There was a war on and they always need cannon fodder. An aberration, you told yourself. Then you did the math, hiding out at Grimmauld Place the summer after fourth year. Molly Weasley, Lily Potter, Alice Longbottom, Narcissa Malfoy and even Andromeda Tonks…they were all a year out of Hogwarts during their first pregnancies.
They didn’t use protection, of course. You know better, so you can protect yourself.
You didn’t know then to look for the pattern. Would you have run if you had?
Your mother gave you the talk after your second year and took you to get birth control the next summer. She said you were too young, but that it was better to be safe than sorry. That she would not, could not, take her fourteen year old to get an abortion if something went horribly wrong at school.
She asked what St. Mungo’s had in the way of birth control and abortive measures for witches. You said that you didn’t know. You do now and you fear for your daughter: young witches can only get the potions until marriage. Just as the ministry decreed, during the first war.
For the next few years, you heard rumors. You stood guard for one of the other girls in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom once, while she did something. You don’t know what exactly happened, but you know that Penelope Clearwater almost bled to death during her seventh year. The rumors said that Percy never knew, but you wonder sometimes. He was a pillock, but not an idiot. You kept your head down and your nose to the grindstone. You repeated to yourself: I am smarter than that. I am going to be in the Ministry someday. I will not let Ron get me pregnant.
And then, during sixth year when everything was taking a turn for the worst, Angie took you to the Room of Requirement and gave you Wizarding Sex Ed. She apologized for how late it was, that there had been too many chances where something could have happened.
You laughed and said, “My mother already gave me this talk. Use protection and abort if I must.”
Oh muggleborns, she said mournfully. “It doesn’t work that way here, honey. You have to give him a baby your first year of marriage, or the world will talk. They’ll say your magic is too weak or you’re too inbred. But you can’t conceive before marriage because that will cause the marriage contract to fall apart.”
It turns out that the Wizarding World—your world now—doesn’t believe in abortion. The implication is that any life is precious. (Voldemort’s reign becomes that much more ironic for you, standing in the room where the DA met, learning about your duty as a witch.) It makes sense because of the population density, or lack thereof. And yet, it is so horribly old-fashioned. When Penelope’s contract to Percy was dissolved, it took her another five years to get a suitor. The stain will follow her for the rest of her life.
You appreciate Tonks now, envy her for her ability to stay unattached for so long. You know now that she had to work hard for that freedom. You wish you could have asked for advice, that you had had time that last summer.
You lasted 3 years out of your second 7th year. Three years, and you walked down the aisle.
Four and you name her Rose.
She and Harry’s James are the same age. Most of your class got married the same year. There is a population boom on, and Rosie will only be your first.
You can never go back to the Muggle world now, to your mother with her dreams of Uni for you, a future with a job and responsibilities. You suspect she still doesn’t remember you anyway.
You started your job at the Ministry almost four years ago, just out of Hogwarts. Rose to the head of your department quickly, part intelligence and part lack of people, too many dead from the war.
Unfortunately, you’re expecting a demotion soon. You don’t know how long it will take, but everyone says that mothers aren’t supposed to stay in high stress jobs.
Kissing Ron at night tastes of bitterness and regret. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
A Rose by any other name might have a brighter future. James will have a better future, and you know Ginny is thankful for that. Neither of you wanted daughters.
You wish you could give your daughter what she would have had in the Muggle world.
Your wants and wishes turn to dust.