I have been hiding in the shadows for far too long it seems,

Because I am invisible to every eye,

They don't even notice when I pass by,

I have been trying so hard to change,

To become what they want me to be,

But with every passing moment it seems to-

I groaned and looked at the paper on which the lines were written. I glared at the paper, again. Scratching the last line, looking for the perfect rhyme, I wanted to be an author, a poet, a novelist. But my writing lacked the elegance that my mum's

I wanted to play with words and let them flow with their own accord but when I sat down to write, well this did not happen. I seemed like every good idea, every good rhyme, every beautiful adjective, grammar and syntax were just in my head and I would never be able to express them in black and white.

My mother was the perfectionist, Hermione Granger, and it was expected out of me that everything I did would be on a scale of perfection. I wasn't. It was clear from my grades in Hogwarts first year that I was not the second Hermione Granger, yes, I got Os and As, but apparently I wasn't on the level of my mother. So I pushed myself harder and harder, becoming worse in the process. I was exhausted by the end of every day, and did not know what to expect at its start. I had stopped hoping for anything good to happen. I had somehow established in my mind that everyone compared me to the greatness of my mom, which was not the case.

It was when I finally returned for Christmas at the end of first year, after losing five pounds from my already skinny frame that my mum knew something was wrong with me.

She asked me what was wrong, I did not know how to say and where to begin because I had not realized what was going on with me. I had become increasingly short tempered and snapped on everyone, my cousins, friends, even at my Professors and people I did not know. Everyone started to stay away from me, and that made me feel extremely lonely in the great castle.

My mum told me that Professor McGonagall who had sent her a letter regarding me and my temper. She said, she was feeling a little reminiscent about her own time in Hogwarts before she became friends with Dad and Uncle Harry. But she had been the way she was because she wanted to show the wizards that a Muggle-born was no different than a pure-blood witch. But I had nothing to prove, I was my own personality, my own self and thus, I can be who I wanted to be. I can be Rose Weasley, not Hermione Granger, junior.

"What's wrong, Rose?" Mum asked from her place on the couch where she was reading a book.

"Nothing mum, I can't just find the perfect rhyme for the poem…" I began, only to be cut off by her as she smiled and said, "Personally, I think it would be better to relax and think rather than glaring at your quill. And sometimes, it is not necessary to have the perfect rhyme, it is just necessary that your words convey your meaning."