guess this means you're sorry

Guess this means you're sorry

You're standing at my door

Guess this mean you take back

All you said before

~My Life Would Suck Without You; Kelly Clarkson~

They worshipped you, didn't they, darling.

They put you on a pedestal and called out to you.

They trapped you in a glass case and stuck to you a little card.

Name: Lily Luna Potter; Species: Daughter of the Boy-Who-Lived

And you never got a chance to be just plain Lily.

You didn't ask to be the daughter of a famous wizard, did you? You didn't ask for your mother to be an internationally-acclaimed Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. You didn't ask to have one brother, famous for his good looks and effortless charm, and another famous for his intelligence and kindness.

You didn't ask to have eyes and freckles and hair that showed you up as a Weasley, poor darling. You didn't ask to look like your mother and have your father's spirit. You didn't ask for everyone just to say that you were a 'chip off the old block'.

You didn't ask to gain fame by being the first Weasley relation to be sorted into Slytherin.

And after that, you begged them not to make a fuss. But they did, the bloody stupid proud lions. They stormed McGonagall's office and demanded that you were sorted again. And again…and again. But every time the hat placed you back into Slytherin. And they just couldn't put it to rest, damn their red-and-gold ties.

So you cultivated a Slytherin-esque façade. You learnt to never show your feelings and stand straight-backed and look down your nose at others. You learnt to boast of the achievements your house-people made during the war. You learnt to not mind about how people hated you. You learnt loneliness.

But you tried to cling to your old self. You kept the waves that sprang to red while others used straightening spells. You refused to cover up freckles with layers of make-up. You wore that necklace, day-in, day-out, with its pattern of orange and pink plastic and the L right in the middle. You still wore the silver lilies in your ears. You tried to show that being a Slytherin hadn't changed you at all, that you were still Lily Luna (Lils to your family and friends), albeit with a tie different from your brothers'.

But they didn't believe you. They thought you were an ice princess, like the others, and in time you grew to believe them. You used straightening spells. You wore make-up. The necklace and the lilies were resigned to a back drawer, gathering dust. You wore that tie with pride. You were a Slytherin princess, cold as ice and willing to sacrifice anything to get along.

And then he came along.

All fire and sunshine and warmth and hot air to melt the ice. And he'd just play his little guitar and girls would come running. They fawned over him, embarrassing themselves, and you watched with distaste as even some of your fellows in ice princess-ness fell dopey head over high heels for him. But when his cheeky eyes meet yours you think that maybe they have a point.

The ice is melting, just a little, all around the edges. It's a scary feeling.

And he walked right up to you, daring to go where no boy has gone before, and called you Lils and he was Lorc, but it had been so long since you spoke you wondered vaguely what he was doing. He said he wanted to make you happy and glowing and warm, the way you were before. But you didn't want that, did you, darling? Not right then. So you ran away.

But he stalked you through falling snow and dancing leaves and pink blossom and swirling sand. He was belligerent, stubborn and he never gave up. He wanted you to change and unfreeze and be happy little Lils again, not this new, grown-up ice princess who no one would ever dare call anything less than her Christian name.

And, under his soft eyes and musical hands, you found yourself unfreezing. Just a little bit at a time. The hair went first - you never liked the hassle of performing the spells every morning anyway. Turned out Molly and Roxanne were in cahoots with him - they took your make-up away and left you with no choice but to show the freckles that marked you down as a Weasley relation.

But the façade never left you. And the necklace and lilies never came out of their drawer. Pink and orange plastic and silver intricacies remained lonely and dusty in the darkness. And you couldn't melt entirely because you were Lily fucking Luna Potter and you were the coldest little bitch Slytherin had ever seen.

And, as time went by, your skirts got shorter. Your shirts got tighter. You enjoyed the feel of male eyes following you. You loved having power over them, making them your silly, but useful, little lapdogs. You could make them do your bidding and it all stemmed from your appearance and your 'can't touch this' way of drawing them into your web.

But you never liked their clumsy hands and heavy breathing. You bore it stoically because people thought you were a slut and, by God, you were going to show them how bad you could be.

But he put his oar in again. He kept boys away and he took over. He burnt up your new clothes, all of them, and forced you back into the old ones. You screamed and cursed at him and you turned your wand on him more than once, but he just wouldn't give up.

And you woke up one morning with Molly offering you a cup of tea and Roxanne making you breakfast, the snow falling outside the window, in your own bed in your own house, wearing your little-girly unicorn-patterned pyjamas. You were home, and you almost cried because it was good to be Lily again and not a Slytherin.

So for three weeks you hung up your green and silver tie and spent Christmas like you did in the old days. Snowball fights, making an entire snow family, decorating the tree, laughing over blushes when Dominique and Scorpius found themselves trapped under the mistletoe. You wrapped presents with Roxanne and Molly and you were happy.

And he was there for every expletive as a snowball dripped down your neck, every scream as you fell into a snowdrifts and every laugh as you sat on a plank of wood and sped down steep hills. He kissed you when you sat together in front of a cosy fire. Against all laws of physics and every chain you put on your emotions, you kissed him back and even shed a few tears over the moment.

And then James came in, sat between you and offered round a tray of mince pies. You smiled at him and you stayed together for the holidays, spending private time behind the tree (with your own sprig of mistletoe) and sipping mulled wine together as Albus pointed out constellations in the clear sky.

But then you got back to school and he just ignored you. He went back to playing pretty little tunes on his silly little instrument and attracting all the girls with his jean-clad long legs and floppy hair and cheekily glinting eyes.

He left you, and after that, life just fucking sucked. You couldn't do anything, because he'd taken you back to the little eleven year-old who'd sat on the stool in the Great Hall and you wore her hair wavy again and the beads were back and so were the earrings. You'd changed everything for him and he'd thrown you aside for other girls like you throw aside the Daily Prophet for the Quibbler.

And so you left Hogwarts with average marks for your examinations - a slight disappointment to those who'd expected you to do as well as Albus - and went straight into playing Quidditch as one of the most ferocious Beaters in Holyhead Harpies history. Everything people had ever said about women being a little too fragile to play as Beaters was hastily taken back as they watched you soar through the air and smash Bludgers towards people, more often than not aiming for the face.

And then he walked back through your door, a door with photographs and certificates and letters from people of substance pinned to it. A door that bore a sheen of your salty tears and a crack in the bottom from you slamming it violently one too many times. And he told you that he would have wanted anyone more than you, in an ice-cold tone.

And, even when you begged him to stay, he said he'd never come back and walked out of your door and your life. Walked out forever.

And you abandoned all façade of some bitch who could never be hurt and cried for him. You ruined letters, wet numerous shoulders and decorated the carpets with your tears.

And now it's three years later and you're still shedding tears over him, running over and over again through the words What if? The tears stream down your face, because you lost something you can never replace, didn't you, darling. And on the Quidditch filed, you imagine his face on the Bludgers you hit with increasing ferocity.

But he can't leave well enough alone. He's a famous musician now, he's sold over a million records. Ladies love him, but he's still single. The magazines say he's still hurting over some girl, years ago. And he comes back.

He takes it all back, but you're that ice-princess, and you won't let him take you so easily. You won't fall for a guy who hurt you so much again. But then he meets your eyes and says those three little words and you can't help it, you just fall into his welcoming arms.

Because life fucking sucks enough without losing him too.

And he keeps you in his arms and promises never to let go. When he kisses you, you think that maybe - just maybe - life won't suck any more. He can fix it for you.

And, forever more, you will be Lily Luna Potter and Lorcan Arcturus Scamander. Together, because your lives would really suck without each other.

For Song Of The Day over on the Next Gen Fanatics forum :)

No favourites without a review, please and thank you :)