Title: Periwinkle Walls and Model Houses
Description: Lucy Weasley and Lorcan Scamander are not compatible in any way, shape, or form.
Prompts: Weasley – Lucy Weasley. Prompts – (word) Backpack. (Color) Periwinkle.
Lucy Weasley would never understand the complexity that is Lorcan Scamander. Lorcan was as mysterious as the ocean, tidier than an elder single witch, wiser than the non-fiction section of a library, and loonier than the toons on the Muggle telly. When Lucy had opened the door to her flat, she hadn't expected her childhood best-friend to be standing on the front steps with a surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. She also hadn't expected him to push past her with luggage in one hand and a duster in the other. He cleaned and scrubbed and washed and stayed silent. He scrubbed his way into Lucy's home, and Lucy did not say a word about it. It was not as if it was his first time barging in her front door and cleaning his way inside, but she hadn't expected him to come back after he had left only a month before. Her once charming, homely flat was transformed into an unrecognizable, organized exhibit. It was as if no one had lived there or as though it were a model-home of some sort that was made to be seen but not lived in.
Lorcan doesn't seem to mind, of course. He wiped every seat before he sat on it, he transfigured rubber gloves before he washed the dishes, and he leaves a row of candles going down the hall, the stairs, and to the kitchen.
"For the Nargles," Lorcan would say if Lucy ever tried questioning him, his methods, or his seemingly organised disorder. He didn't so much as bat an eye when Lucy burnt herself when she trudged downstairs for a midnight snack. The candles always seemed to be gone by the morning, Lucy had noticed, and after the 'burnt incident' the candles found their way to the walls instead.
It needed no mention that Lorcan was a complete and utter git. Everyone knew it, and Lucy knew it best of all. There wasn't a day that went by that Lorcan didn't insult Lucy about her "lack of education," despite the fact that Lucy was ranked third of her entire graduating class. He would tell her that her hair color clashed with the outfit he was wearing. He'd rattle on and on about just how "completely insulting" her wardrobe was or nag her about cleaning her room. And if the growing list of sins against Lorcan's world wasn't long enough, he would order her to stop checking the wards every few minutes.
"Stop it," Lorcan would say when Lucy complained that there was nothing to do.
"Eat it," he said when he experimented with cooking.
"Leave it," he said when Lucy tried to ask him what happened to his mother.
He rarely left the house and when he did it was because Lucy was practically dragging him to see the newest addition to the Weasley name. He used words that cut deeper than a knife and spat insults that stung more than a hex. Thus, it was the utmost irony that it was Lorcan that could whisper words that dripped with such emotion and comfort that it soothed Lucy in an instant.
Lorcan Scamander would never understand the complexity that is Lucy Weasley. Lucy was more stubborn than a mule, as frantic as a criminal on the run, left a mess in her wake that was worse than a tornado, and was as indecisive as a candy-addict thrown in a candy shop with only 5 knuts to their name. She never cleaned her house and decided what was acceptable to eat by whatever she touched first when she reached her hand into the fridge. She left a backpack full of her old school things in the kitchen despite knowing that Lorcan would just throw it in the trash every time he arrived.
He knew he had a habit of leaving just to come right back the next month. Lorcan decided that Lucy needed him in her life, after all, despite their bickering and disagreements. He was proud of the outcome of the flat when he was finished tidying it up. He even found himself sleeping that night without any interruptions or nightmares; he even woke up with a tiny smile.
Whatever peace he may have gained, however, all went away as soon as he stepped downstairs. It was as if he never touched it. Lucy came out of the bathroom with a bounce to her step. She whistled, she skipped, and she was loud. The cabinets were opened, the sink had dishes, and, just as Lorcan was in the midst of analyzing the horrible mess, Lucy had spilled a container of orange juice all over the counter.
He just didn't understand. It was as if a pig lived there, as if it were a farm. Lucy doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. She didn't take off her shoes when she came home from work. She refused to disconnect the fireplace from the Floo network ,no matter if the house looked like a stampede of rhinos has gone through it, because she "wanted her friends to visit whenever they wanted to," and she kept a whole cabinet stocked full of coffee beans.
"For the jitters," she'd say about her constant paranoia when Lorcan ever tried questioning her.
Lucy, honestly, was the last witch on earth who needed coffee in her diet. She was too energetic than her own good. There wasn't a day that went by that Lorcan didn't catch her running in place at the strangest of hours or have her randomly ask him about his constantly changing hair color. She'd talk on and on about how much she hated the color periwinkle despite the fact that her room were painted the exact color along with her nails. She'd wear clothes that made her look like she was homeless and had only one outfit to her name and then stare in disbelief when Lorcan told her to change.
"Do it," Lucy would say when Lorcan was sure he should do the exact opposite.
"Deal with it," she would say when Lorcan complained how bad the shirt would look with his hair color.
"Look at it!" she would plead when she held a sickeningly adorable puppy up to his face.
She would always leave the house and drag him along with her. Her smile was the only calm thing about her, and her laugh made Lorcan wish he were somewhere else. Yet, when she looked at him with those startlingly bright, blue eyes as he walked out of the door for the umpteenth time, he would slowly analyze why he kept trying to leave in the first place.
Lorcan shared his mother's genes in so many ways. He had her dream-dazed eyes, her starry blonde hair, and her love for believing. He would recite random quotes from different plays from his mind as he cooked without a second thought, he would meditate every Sunday to "become refreshed for the upcoming week," and he would sometimes even remember to ask Lucy about her life and how she was handling it. At times like those, Lucy thought that he was his mother in mind and spirit.
Lorcan would deny it all, of course. "I'm nothing like my mother," he would say.
"Do not speak of her," he'd snap soon after before going silent.
"Coffee?" he'd ask as an apology always half an hour later.
Lucy shared her father's genes in very little ways. She had her father's obnoxious, red hair but that is where it all ended. She had the mouth of a sailor and the eyes of adventure like her mother. She was constantly in fear of her father coming to visit her. She would check the wards every few minutes, she would carry her wand in her left sleeve, and she would never walk into a room without casting a slew of various detection charms.
"I'm nothing like my father," she would say, seemingly more to herself than to anyone else.
"I am not afraid of him," she'd say once Lorcan would state so before biting her lip.
"Read to me?" she'd ask as an apology always five minutes later.
Lorcan would leave every month, and every month Lucy became less and less sure that he'd come back.
"Living my life," he'd say when Lucy would ask where he went.
"I won't leave again," he'd promise her soon after.
Lucy would pretend she didn't hear the crack of apparition during the night after a month passed.
Lucy would leap into his arms when he would return the following month, and every month Lucan was less and less sure that she'd hug him again.
"Where have you been?" she'd ask while she buried her head in his chest.
"Ok," she'd whisper when he would promise he wouldn't leave again. Lucan would pretend he didn't hear the sobs coming from Lucy's room just before he apparated away.
They were both good at pretending things didn't matter when they did. It was the one thing they could truly say they had in common. Despite a hundred, thousand clashes like two opposing seas meeting together in a whirlpool, when Lorcan looked into Lucy Weasley's eyes, it was there he saw perfection. As he saw himself reflected in the cerulean majesty of her eyes, he knew exactly why he would always return.