For the Woman in Black challenge on HPFC, this is my Molly Weasley II fic, read the soon to be posted 'she watches me shatter' companion with Lucy when it's posted, I present, 'i watched her break'. And in fabu second person and everything. It involves hinted lucyroxanne.
Lucy covers herself in makeup: painted on smiles and (happy) eyes, and you find yourself not recognizing the girl who is (used to be) your sister.
Lucy has a different 'boyfriend' (read; sextoy to help distract herself from Roxanne Weasley) every night, pretty blue eyed- or green eyed- or brown, or grey, or gold eyed, whatever, pretty boys with (obvious) lust filling their eyes to the brim.
You can't help but notice as she falls into this - this - this daily breaking she goes through, her love affairs with misery and heart-breaking, not necessarily in order, of course. She wears something black everyday and belts her muggle music loud, blaring her rock rebellion loud.
(As if you didn't hear it, didn't see it, didn't know it.)
So Lucy has her pretty eyed boys to distract her from the gorgeous - and horrendously straight and terribly too related to Lucy- eyed girl named Roxanne Weasley, and you can't help but watch, can't tear your eyes away from the beautiful shattering of Lucy Weasley.
It's like a trainwreck, you think morbidly, staring at the mess of a girl with painted on smiles and (happy) eyes (oh no, I think they're starting to smudge- better go reapply.) and a bit of black who used to be your beautiful blonde sister. You can't look away.
So, you're a bit lost here, babe. Not really sure what to do, 'cause, you can ace a million tests and exams and get Os on 10+ OWLs, but you never were the 'people' sister, were you?
You can't save her and you can't stop her, so you do what you can and watch.
(maybe that's all you're good for anymore?)
You're sitting on the couch, reading, when she gets home.
Her painted on face is smudged, her black mini skirt is rupled and hastily pulled on, her heels are sloppily put on, her loose, purple shirt's riding up, and her hair's a ruffled, tangled, mess.
You're used to this... attire.
There may have been some 'where- have - you - been - it's - two- AM's and some 'you're not my mother's exchanged - you don't really care to remeber, this isn't anything new, nothing different from every other night's redone, rerun, routine.
Her sleeve rides up a bit, and a gasp takes wings and flies itself out of your mouth. Lucy hastily slides it back down, but you've seen enough.
You look at Lucy with hard eyes, and, mustering up courage you supposably have, gesture to the scars casually shattering the skin's porcelain view, you whisper, "How long?"
Lucy doesn't answer- just storms up to her room in seething silence.
At the top of the stairs, Lucy might've said, 'I'm a grown girl, Molly. I don't need you,' or, maybe she didn't.
And you want to say back, 'No you're not. You're just 16, all dressed up and wanting to grow up and be an adult.' But you don't- you stay silent.
You may've said, "I love you, Lucy. I'm your sister, I hurt when you do." but wait, you didn't.
You're a coward, Molly.
(But, hey, you know that, right?)
Your sister's dying.
No one else can see it, not your parents, who pretend everything's perfect, or your cousins, too entangeled in their own drama to notice, not the pretty, lust filled, eyed boys Lucy plays with.
Someone has to mourn Lucy Weasley.
You come to this realization early in the morning, and nod. It's a picturesque winter morning, snowflakes falling ever so daintily. You pull on black leggings, a black veil, black turtleneck, black glasses, black skirt, black trench, black heels.
You are the Woman in Black.
As you lide into the cafe, your high heeled boots' clack clack interrupt the six AM silence.
"Mourning someone, ma'am?"
You shake your head then make a gesture that says, 'in a way'. You order a carmel frap, and sit down, chatting up a pretty eyed boy named Sam Evans, with impressions and blondeblonde hair. Peoplee paass through, and there's alot of 'i'm-sorry's for people as they share thir tales.
At the end of the day, the Woman in Black sweeps out, and returns the next day in similar attire.
She watched her sister shatter last night again.
She mourns again.