Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Just the plotline and OCs.
A/N: I know this isn't an update for Pup and Fawn but it sort of works as a side-story, sort of like Cry. This can also be a stand alone one-shot. Read and Review people.
Muggle Girls, Paper and Tears
When she was growing up Ally Black had wondered what rooms would say if they could talk. They would certainly have interesting tales to tell and so many memories in their depths.
Muggle girls plastered on the wall, bikini-clad in styles gone by, from years ago. Pictures frozen in time, living in a world gone so long ago. Each part of the walls covered in something to prove yourself different from the rest, red and gold instead of green and silver. Light instead of dark. Countless ink stains upon the wall from the years of anguish of sitting at home listening to them all spout abuse. The claw marks across the floor, each telling a story lost in time from before. Harley motorcycles, pictures of family away from home. Posters depicting the scenes from childhood into teenage rebellion. The picture perfect family of Purebloods, two aristocratic sons each proud and haughty. Parents scowling at the camera, each poised but never truthful in facial expressions.
Then as the years go on the room starts to change, new people move in, new perspectives are seen, nothing permanent is ever attached. Daily Prophet's litter the floor. Each showing part of a childhood lost so many years ago. Black in Azkaban. Potters' betrayer caught. McKinnon fire claims lives. Unspeakable death. Where is Harry Potter? Black still at large?
Bits of spare parchment scattered all around. Each as useless as the last. Nothing of importance just memories with no direction. Messy, two year-old writing gives away to the untidy scrawl of childhood days, replaced by the elegance of the aristocratic young ladies. Innocent changes to jaded. Writing styles etch themselves into the room, each part tells a different story of her youth. From days of anger, bright red angry splotches of paint. From days of despair spent crying into the sheets. For the days she spent wondering would she ever stop feeling so broken inside. The beating of the fists against the walls, the crying into the sheets at night, the anger and the pain. The sorrow and the gains.
The years slip by, the young boy of the past, storms into the room in the dead of night one summer. Packs the trunk hurriedly, chucking things in willy-nilly, not realty caring what he packs away, bits of his childhood flashing away. Years of torture left behind, the stains of ink and blood across the walls and floors, the wardrobe used to bear the brunt of pain as you brace yourself for the beatings yet to come. As the trunk is pulled across the floor and the young man leaves the home, the room sighs in sadness for the youth lost and the innocence taken.
The next few years are mundane to say the least, just the old hag calling for the sons she lost so long ago. The room can't pretend to care, 'cause she deserves everything that she gets, she treated them without respect and they left her alone to die alone. Then a sudden change comes upon the home, it is no longer just a house, it has voices of the innocent again, she is a breath of fresh air and brings harmony when she's there.
She'd turn up whenever she felt like it. Three a.m. with an arm full of candy, 12 p.m. with tears of anger or pain running down her face. 5 p.m. long legs exposed and creamy skin, short skirts and tight blouses and stiletto heels. Red locks, emerald eyes. The eyes filled with despair and pain, the eyes that betrayed the hurt within. The eyes older beyond the years should be. Eyes that touched you like so few before. Eyes different to the countless generations of grey-eyed Blacks' before.
Despair of being left alone. Pain of having to see them waste away in front of her eyes. Horror at having to be strong even when broken inside. Strength to pretend to be whole. Hope that it would get better. All characterised with the pearly tears that fall all on the paper across the room witnessed by the scantily clad, bikinied Muggle girls.
Human features and emotions. Blacks' never cried, but she did. Muggle Girls in bikinis set him apart from those before him. Daily Prophet's connecting the two with memories both generations shared. His daughter crying something no Black was supposed to do, but it made her human and see the truth beyond the lies fabricated in this room for years upon years.
The room should be defined by the Muggle girls, paper and the tears.