characters: victoire, teddy, lily luna, hugo
word count: 1,331
wasting my younger years
part i. teddyvictoire
.
you love like you've always been lonely,
and that's alright honey, that's alright with me.
—bones, ben howard
.
She's something of legend, really—Victoire Weasley, age of seventeen, ethereal blonde hair and ivory pale skin that is as long-lasting as pristine parchment. She strides through the hallways of Hogwarts, little Lily Luna Potter, trailing behind her—protege, next in line, they call her—a smirk engraved onto her face, her eyes always blank and judgmental.
.
"The boys here are easy," she says, almost complaining; her voice is always monotone, never flickering with emotion. Victoire Weasley does not show emotion; that's just not who she is, and there are far better things to do in life than to pretend to be someone you're not. "I want a challenge, Lily—somebody who's not as easy as these boys are. I want men."
Lily Luna looks up at her with wide green eyes, brightbright red hair dangling in curls. "What do you mean, men? Like the teachers? Because if that's what you want, then I think you've lost your mind, Tory."
She almost flinches at the nickname, but hides it well. "Not those sort of men—boys who want a challenge; boys like me."
"You're one-of-a-kind; there's nobody like you. You just have to settle for less, I guess; Dominique's always on about how girls are so much better than boys, which is why we're with them—for a relationship to work, one person has to be better than the other, right?" Her eyes are bright and filled with hope, nothing of experience and age, repeating the words she is told like a little songbird from the mountains.
There's a clamor in the hallway—Victoire and Lily Luna stand up slowly, and peer through the stained-glass windows. "New boys," Victoire murmurs, her voice plain. "How wonderful."
.
She plays with Hugo for a while—
It's all lust; lust or love, that is the question to be asked. Her parents, prettyperfect parents, ask her how she's doing in her classes, what profession she would desire—love is not something that think her capable of, and she slowly molds into their image of her.
They're fourth cousins, once removed, but after a while it's a little difficult to keep track of the gnarled family tree; the marks are still inked in the home—there are large stains of X's over traitors and the neatly painted script of 'deceased' that replicates itself more often than not.
The Weasley's with the fire burning through their veins, lions' heart resting in a hollow cave, are all but extinct—they are a dying race, wasting like pastries. Her mother tells her of when the Weasley boys thrived; they are all but dead now. Survivors, that is what they are called; that is all they are, survivors through whatever means necessary.
.
And then there's Teddy—he's the last of the lot, her last choice—
("He's a nice boy; you'd liked him," Lily Luna had told her. Victoire had promised to save Teddy for Lily Luna—at least from what she could tell, reading the new boy, it seemed as the two of them, both too nice, too sweet, would be lovely.) "Teddy—do you ever think of the future?" The two of them are standing in the meadow; she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, grey orbs flickering—he is not particularly handsome, not the same pale mysterious looks as Scorpius or the naiveté of Hugo, but he is lovely, nonetheless. Lust, she tells herself, lust and boredom—it's the only reason why he comes up in her mind, sometimes. Of course; Victoire won't let herself think of anything else.
He takes a breath of the fresh air, his lungs yet to be corrupted—she'll corrupt him soon enough; she corrupts all the boys from innocent little children into bloodthirsty monsters (or so, she likes to think). "It's the future; I'd rather live in the present, really."
"Wouldn't you like to live in the future? The future . . . it's ethereal."
"So is the present; sure, it's a little unsatisfying, but that's the beauty of the present—the future would just be a conglomeration of new ideas and concepts; neither of us belongs there."
I don't belong here, Victoire thinks; but she is Victoire Weasley, and she is not meant to be weak, so she does not voice her thoughts and lets them seep into the crevices of the Earth, forgotten like all things are, faded. The river rushes pass, droplets raining from the sky one-by-one, as Victoire and Teddy settle into their usual arrangement, lying down on the grass across from one another, the sun (now, the rain) beating down upon their skin and threadbare garments, heads tilted towards the sky; the sky is something carved out of dreams, but then the thunder rolls in, and it is carved from nightmares once more—there is always a balance between the two.
.
He tries to change her—
She won't change for a man; those things never go well in the stories, and stories are the only things that don't fade (but they will fade too; everything must always fade and fall). "Why are we friends?" Victoire asks, not for the first time, to Lily Luna, who sits on a rug, eyes focused upon a blank piece of parchment, ink splotches on her fingernails.
"Because I'll do anything you say and you know it." There is no hint of defiance, and not for the first time, Victoire thinks that life is too easy—it is too easy to be indifferent and cold, but it's lovely all the same. "Teddy was talking about you. I heard him. He called you lovely, Tori: lovely. Do you think he's the one?"
"The one?" It's almost condescending the way she speaks.
Lily Luna sets down her quill, crumpling up the parchment and throwing it in the corner—emotion, human emotion, any sort of sentiment; it's a chemical defect found on the losing side. "The one that you're going to fall in love with, of course." Lily Luna lives in a world carved from dreams and fairytales where the people who are nice win—this is reality, and the monsters always succeed. Victoire thinks it's better to be the wicked girl than the good girl with faded hopes and broken dreams.
"I don't have to fall in love at all—the more people you love, the weaker you are." I am not weak, she repeats.
"What's the point of life, then?"
She stares outside into the harsh fall of rain; the tinkling of alarm bells is heard, and the roar of the water crashing upon the coastline engulfs her—Victoire will not change herself for anybody. It's a decision she's already made.
.
"I love you." The words are faint and wisp through the air like the circles of smoke from a bitter cigarette; her pale grey eyes regard him cooly, no flicker of weakness—Victoire is one-eighth Veela and one-eighth Weasley, which makes her ninety-nine percent heartbreaker, one percent human. "Well, are you going to say anything?" His words are hesitant and shaky, ire ready to roar.
She fingers the cigarette and takes another puff; He presses a kiss to her collarbone and leaves with the changing of the seasons; Victoire tastes like regret and second chances—he is sunshine, sunshine and lions' heart in bursting, rainbow veins; a child. He leaves a farewell peck upon her foundation-covered cheek and recoils back because this is not the Victoire Weasley he had begun to admire.
This is not her.
