a.n.
my first ever lucylorcan.
for s i l v e r a u r o r a simply because she is amazing, and HollywoodNights because seriously, she is the LuLo QUEEN.
disclaimer: i don't own harry potter, nor am i j.k. rowling.
gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.
-albert einstein.
She's like a prettylittle mirror, mimicking and copying and trying to find herself in reflections of other people. And she's got that box full of memories, of Muggle photographs, old and worn and tattered and still. She has those Muggle romance books, by (what'shisname) Nicholas Sparks, and she reads them over and over and over, until the edges start tearing and the pages are dog-eared and she's practically memorized the whole thing.
And still, she swears (up and down, left and right) that she doesn't know who she is.
He's the twin, just that. To everyone else, he's just a fading mirror image of Lysander, the funny one, the sarcastic one, the one that shines and glows and blazes. And he's slowly blending in with the background, and no one knows, but he clings to his life as the mirror image, trying to claw his way back up so maybe he can be the one looking in the mirror instead.
He and her are bestbest friends, and there are never-ending nights of tranquility between the two, and discussions of books (Muggle, mind you), but there's never any talk of dreams or ambitions or goals, because they both already know where they're headed (heartbreak). And he reflects her and she reflects him, but neither of them notice because they're both too absorbed in getting out of the goddamned mirror.
(And soon, they're only going to be shards of broken glass scattered all around, love and desire and need forgotten, feelings rotting away in some fiery pit of hell.)
She's always been a little oblivious, preferring to spend her time poring over the meaning of true love in books with the shadow of a smile playing on her lips, rather than finding it herself. (Molly's always been the adventurous one.) She supposes that's why she's in Ravenclaw. She's not the figments of color and splattered paint, of indecisiveness and fuzzy, unclear memories; she's the black-and-white, hones-to-god truth, no gray areas, thank you very much.
They're both equally ignorant, and everyone around them wonders when they're going to finally get their heads out of the clouds and realize they're mirror images of each other. It's quite frustrating, really, watching them dance around each other like two arrows that always miss their mark.
He's just as oblivious as she is, really. He spends his time reading Muggle books (he's always been a fan of Shakespeare) or listening to Muggle music with that pondering expression on his face, observing, scrutinizing, studying(what is that they call it? Rock?) or watching old-timey Muggle movies that boys really shouldn't watch, because he's never been a real good fan of Quidditch, has he?
And when they finally realize they're in love, it isn't anything like Shakespeare or that Nicholas Sparks describes, but maybe that's because they're different. (Or maybe love isn't some concept of forever; maybe it's just a feeling.) She's read Dear John and she wonders if he'll love her just as much if she leaves him for another man, because true love means you want the other to be happy, and she doubts it. (She's never been one to open crispcrisp letters anyway, she's far too impatient for that.) And he's read Romeo & Juliet, and he doesn't think they'll both be willing to sacrifice their lives for the other, but maybe they can work something out. (And, hello, their families aren't in some fight-to-the-death duel.)
After all, they're both one and the same, aren't they?
a.n.
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