A/N - So I wrote something. This sort of appeared when I was in need of a distraction, from RL stuff and my Teddy/Lily, so I'm really not sure how well it went.
This is dedicated to a darling friend of mine, Mad (chasingafterstarlight), because she's really just one of the best friends I have ever made, ever, and I'm seriously grateful to have her in my life. :)
This was also written using the prompts posted by the gorgeous Ella (matt-smiths) in the Song Of The Day Challenge For Pointsthread over on NGF, using March 16th. :)
A huge thanks to Blue (BlueEyes444) for looking over this for me and giving me the confidence to post it too. You're brilliant bb.
I own nothing.
a long time since frozen hearts
that it's a lonely place that you have run to
morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore
and it's a lonely end that you will come to
morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore
- Your Eyes Open, Keane
. . .
She figures that if this is the way true love really ends then she's much better off on her own.
She's got her back pressed up against thei- her front door and her mobile clutched in her fingers and the only thing that feels real anymore is the shrill rings that fill the air around her. Shouldn't the world be ending, all stars begin to supernova, shouldn't everything be coming to a halt? Isn't that what happens when a heart breaks? She asks herself, tears sliding unbidden down her pale cheeks.
Lucy buries her face into her knees and drops the mobile, allowing it to crash to the floor. Still, it rings loud and clear.
3 Missed Calls From: LYSANDER SCAMANDER, the screen flashes at her, but she doesn't even look up.
. . .
Her eyes glance at the reflection of the mirror and she should be horrified and surprised at what she sees, but it's to be expected. The gaunt look of her face, the dark bags under eyes, and the mess that has become of her strawberry-blonde hair – it's all usual, typical in fact. She hates that she has become like everyone else, reduced to just another girl after a bad break-up.
If there is anything that Lucy Weasley hates more than her last name, it is being ordinary. She refuses to even consider that possibility that she is like her family, let alone anyone else. She looks her reflection in their identical cerulean eyes and swears she will not become what she has always condemned.
Lucy Weasley looks into her almost endless reflection and thinks-
WHERE AM I?
. . .
There are marigolds on her doorstep every morning and she hates them. She hates how she begins to anticipate their arrival, appearing out of nowhere at 8:15 AM on the dot, hates the thrill she gets when she realizes again and again that he, Lysander, has not forgotten her. She hates that her hand inches towards her mobile again and again and again, to call him up, to forgive him, to love him again.
One thing stops her every time though, every time she considers forgiving him, every time she even thinks about letting him move back in with her, letting Lysander Scamander come back into her life. They're the wrong flowers. She loves vivid violets and delicate peonies, she likes contrast and contradiction.
Marigold's are her sister's (Her twin's, Lucy's mind corrects against her will) favorite. Gryffindor flowers for a Gryffindor, she would giggle when they were at school and Lucy and her sister (Twin) still spoke and Lucy would sneak into the Gryffindor Dorms and they would have secret sleep-overs in the scarlet and gold emblazoned Common Room.
Molly was and still is cheery and bubbly and happy. Molly loves her family, loves being a Weasley.
Lucy had always resented the attention her family's name brought, how fame had slowly ruined Cousin James – who had once been a very sweet, kind boy, always willing to help Lucy with her chalk drawings and push her on the swing, but turned arrogant and rude, because that was what the other children and the press and the Wizarding World expected of him -, then Cousin Victoire, Cousin Lily, even Roxanne, who had seemed almost untouchable with her soft smiles and effervescent kindness, had been forced to grow a hard shell to ward off people who only wanted to spend time with her because of the reputation her family held. Cousin after cousin after cousin ruined because of their family name.
Lucy had resented everything about it and had practically begged the Sorting Hat into putting her in Slytherin, to take her away from her family and their troubles. And the hat had agreed, because running away from as big a name as Weasley took some great ambition indeed.
And Lysander had ambled up to her, his tie striped with the same green and silver as her own and he'd been like a godsend, a miracle, for the quiet, bitter girl. Her own personal savior, when she'd been all alone with only her sister, who slept in a different dorm and went to different classes, as company.
Lucy doesn't like to think about maybes, or lost chances, but she wonders with a self-deprecating edge whether she would have been able to keep him if she had been a little more like her sister. She puts the newest flowers in a vase by the kitchen and wonders if he knows that his honey-sweet gesture stings like a poison dagger to the heart.
. . .
He walks through her front door like he's the bloody Queen and he owns the place. For a second, she's absolutely sure he's Lysander, come to get his stuff from thei- HER apartment. But, it may have only been weeks, but she's been in love with Lysander for years. This isn't Lysander, because his hair is parted to the left and his eyes are a shade too dark and his name is Lorcan, not Lysander, and he never cheated on her with her twin (she's too tired of trying to deny it now), because they were never dating.
Now, he's standing in front of her, a knowing look in his navy blue eyes, and she's rather tempted to throw his 'royal' arse out of her apartment, but she can't even make herself rise from the couch, let alone go for her wand.
"Lucy, what are you doing to yourself," he demands and he's way too pretentious, but at least he cares, right?
Lucy sighs. "What does it look like, Lorcan? I'm sitting."
She is sitting, sitting on an old couch Lysander bought from a muggle flea market and staring at the telly though Lorcan's blocking the view. If there were a view, that is, as the television is off and she's been staring at a black screen for the past three hours.
He looks around, obviously noting the empty boxes of Chinese takeaway and Pizza Hut boxes and empty soda cans. He takes in the empty tissue boxes, the dishes piled up in the sink, and the sense of utter despair in the room. He takes in the marigold's, fresh and bright, in their place by the kitchen and he sighs.
"You know exactly what I mean, Lucy."
She hates him, she decides, still looking at the telly, because really, at this point, seeing his face that resembles Lysander's so much is not the best idea right now. She hates how dramatic this whole thing sounds, she hates that he's even here. She hates Lysander for doing this to her and Lorcan for coming here and being a reminder that she hadn't been good enough and she hates her twin sister a little bit, for being good enough when she hadn't been.
She hates how stereotypical this is, straight out of a book even, her life in shambles and his confrontation.
"Go away, Lorcan," she mumbles, He doesn't move an inch and she doesn't know what she expected him to do or say next, but she certainly didn't expect him to kiss her.
She didn't expect him, Lorcan Scamander, another Gryffindor among Gryffindors, to kiss her, Lucy Weasley, the girl who was once a star, but was now as run of the mill as the rest. She didn't expect him to, so she guesses that makes him pretty unusual, to have done something she wasn't expecting like that, to send a shock to her senses, to wake her up.
He presses his lips to her mouth like he's looking for something and when he pulls away; his eyes are as searching as the kiss he just gave her.
She springs from the couch like a coiled viper ready to strike. She tackles him to the ground in a single leap, twisting and tumbling on her matted carpet floor like a pair of thrashing eels, but they're not kissing. She's got his wand in her hands when he finally gives up, held sharply at his neck and he's looking up at her with the kind of defiance she's always wished she possessed herself.
"What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing." She hisses at him, accentuating every word with a small jab with his wand. It fits easily in her palm and she can feel her magic pulsating through it, obviously recognizing her as it's new master and she thinks that should symbolize something, but it doesn't, He's still staring up at her, defiance written plainly in his every feature. Even the way his eyebrows knit together at her words is full of insolence and outrage at what she is doing.
"Kissing you. Well, not at the moment, really, and it was only one kiss, but I can fix that if you'd let me up, and where did you learn to fight like that, anyways, and…," He keeps talking and she keeps staring down at him. She's sitting on his chest with a wand to his throat and he's rambling on like this is a completely normal conversation, and she figures, maybe all Gryffindors aren't the same after all. Finally, the stream of words stop issuing from his mouth and they're just staring at each other.
She gets up from on top of him without a word, sitting back down on the couch instead and watches him warily as he sits up and straightens the wrinkles that have formed in his clothing after their short tussle.
"What do you want, Lorcan," she sighs.
"I'm here to pick up Lysander's things, since you won't ret-," he tries to answer, struggling slightly to get to his feet.
"I didn't ask you what you were here for," she interrupts. "I asked what it was that you wanted."
They stare at each other for what seems like the millionth moment of utter silence and contemplation that day before he speaks up a little uncertainly.
"I dunno…," he mumbles.
She nods; She had been expecting that. She berates herself for wanting something different, for wanting someone to want her again.
"I've been expecting someone to show up for a while. There's only three boxes, they're in the corner, over there," she points in the direction of the boxes, suddenly exhausted, and sinks back into the couch. Her eyes become unseeing again as she stares and stares at the blank television screen.
She barely hears the quiet shutting of her front door when she realizes she still has his wand, her thin hands clutching at it so tightly, it's a wonder it hasn't snapped in half.
. . .
He doesn't come for it like she expects him to, and she adds that to the short list of THINGS LORCAN HAS DONE THAT SURPRISE ME. The list starts with a kiss and ends with a miss and there isn't anything more tragic than that, she thinks.
His visit rejuvenates her, however. She throws away the Marigolds every morning, cleans up the flat, buys some groceries, and paints again. She knows the only reason she hasn't been thrown out of her flat by now, after two months of basically never leaving it, is that her mother and father have more than likely heard the news of Lysander's betrayal from her sister and took care of the rent for the next six months.
In fact, she takes a chance and asks her landlord and is proved wrong, because they had in fact paid it for the next nine months instead of six.
She paints picture after picture then, of the same thing, of the same face – his face. Only with his hair parted to the left and his eyes more like indigo than sky blue. She paints his face on canvas and it's all wrong, because her heart should be aching for Lysander, Lysander, the boy who she'd been in love with since third year, but instead she misses Lorcan, Lorcan, and twirls his wand over and over in her hands and. Paints.
. . .
It's Molly who comes next through her flat door, except this time, Lucy opens the door for her twin herself. It's not on purpose, she still doesn't want to see anyone (except, maybe, Lorcan, but he's the exception, everyone else is the rule), she opens the door to get the mornings flowers that have still not stopped arriving after at least three months. She opens the door to find her older-by-three-minutes sister standing on her doorstep, the marigolds in her hands, and a look of deep regret in her eyes.
She's still staring in shock at where her sister had been, when Molly pushes past her into the flat.
When she finally regains her senses, she tries to pull herself back together. You can do this, she tries to tell herself, but her heart and mind are in sudden agreement, after ages of battling it out (-, like a broken record on repeat), No, no you cannot.
When she finally turns around, Molly is standing in the entrance way, in the small space between her kitchen and her setting room, staring at the dead flowers in the vase on the side table, and comparing them to the lively Marigolds in her hands.
"Go away, Molly," Lucy tries in the best bored tone she can muster. It comes out a little too forced and makes her sound more pathetic than apathetic.
"Lucy," she begins quietly, and Lucy fakes a gasp, because Molly Fucking Weasley is whispering? "We have to ta-"
"Talk? No, no we don't. If you leave right now, we don't have to talk about anything," Lucy interrupts (she seems to be doing that a lot lately – Latent Gryffindor genes?), crossing back over to the front door and opening it in invitation for Molly to get her perfect red ringlets and gold-scarlet striped sweater and marigolds the hell out of her flat, because all of a sudden (and not for the first time), Lucy really hates Gryffindor colors, and it seems like Molly practically exudes them.
Molly glares at her sister for the first time in nine years, like she had glared at Lucy when they were younger and Lucy didn't cry at Cousin Fred's funeral. Molly glares at her sister and nothing's changed since then, not really. Lucy is still bitter, still angry at her family, still feels that the world has wronged her. Lucy is still as in love as she was that day, when the rain fell upon the earth and she thought it might never stop.
She had only been a fourth year when Fred had committed suicide, but she had still been in love with Lysander, keeping her gaze on the back of his head as he stared at the man speaking on the podium, even though she knew for a fact he wasn't listening to anything he said. She knew he was thinking of Fred's dedication to his grades, his shy smiles, he was thinking of Fred's delight at becoming a prefect, Fred shrugging at offers to join pick-up Quidditch games. She knew Lysander was thinking of the why, not the what of her cousin's death, just like her.
But, now, it seems, she's in love with Lorcan, and after only one kiss and a handful of conversations, and is the heart really so fickle?, she asks herself.
She looks at Molly and sees Lysander instead. Sees Lysander kissing Molly, moaning her name, Lysander with someone else, her sister, of all people, Lysander betraying her, after years of promises and kisses and what Lucy had thought was love. Lucy looks at Molly and sees Lysander instead and realizes, she's probably not going to be able to forgive her sister, not yet.
Because, even though they had been a secret, even though Lucy&Lysander had been something they hadn't told anyone else, she, Molly, should have known.
Because, Molly was and is her twin sister, no matter how much Lucy tries to deny it, and Molly had been there when Lucy had cried over Lysander's first girlfriend and when Lucy had complained about every girl friend that came after.
Because Molly was and is her twin sister, and that's just something, Lucy supposes, twin sisters are supposed to know.
Lucy looks at Molly and decides that, Yes, the heart really is that fickle.
"Lucy, please, I had no idea you and Lysander were an item, you have to believe me!" Molly pleads with her sister, her eyebrows still furrowed.
"Did you really have no idea," Lucy bites back, with a bitter taste in her mouth and for a second, she's sure she's bitten her tongue or something, but the only acidic thing she can taste is the words spewing from her lips, "Could you really have not known, Molly? That I was in love with Lysander?"
Lucy is suddenly furious at her sister, and stalks over to her, making Molly press back against the hallway wall. "How could you not have known," Lucy hisses like the viper she grew up to be, "How?"
If Lucy is a viper, coiled and ready to strike at the moment's weakness, Molly is a lion; Molly is courage and vivacity and pushing limits, so Molly pushes against her sister, making her stumble, making her almost fall.
"Because, I was in love with him too," she screams back, her face as red as her hair. "I loved him for as long as you did and more!"
Then there is silence, only the sound of Molly catching her breath after her sudden explosion is left in the flat. Lucy looks at her sister and still sees Lysander. She closes her eyes and she sees Lorcan. She can't choose mind over matter or heart over head or anything, because she's so bloody unsure, because their faces are all mixing together in her mind and it's -
WHERE DO I FIT IN WITH THIS-
WHERE DO I-
WHERE-
WHERE AM I?
She stumbles in her confusion and falls to her knees, with tears she doesn't remember crying streaming down her face and it's all just too much this time.
. . .
(Here's the real secret: She doesn't even know who she is anymore, because she had set out not be defined by her family and ended up defined by the boy she was in love with and the house she had been sorted in. And then she grew up and left school and her green and silver striped tie behind and then the boy she loved betrayed her and she fell in love with someone else and now she doesn't really know what's going on around her.
The secret is that as much as she tries to deny it, she's just another girl who wanted a happy-ever-after, but got lost along the way.)
. . .
Lorcan strides into her flat, like he bloody owns the place (Typical), shakes his head at the mess of canvases lying around the floor and tables (Expected), and gives Molly a one-armed hug (Predictable).
Then he steps in front of her view of TV and for a second, she thinks he might kiss her again, with that probing mouth and those inquisitive eyes. He just shakes his shaggy blonde hair out of his face and sticks a hand out and she remembers why she's in love with him, after years of only thinking of him as Lysander's brother, just another Gryffindor, ordinary. It's because he's usual and conventional and boring, but sometimes, he surprises her and really, sometimes that's all you really need.
"My wand, please," he asks, his voice so soft, she has to strain to hear him.
She pulls it from under a couch cushion and hands it to him, still relishing in the easy feel of its weight in her palm. She hadn't known what it meant then, but she does now.
His wand is her wand now, like her heart is his now, and she's too tired of denial to even try and contradict the obvious facts. Her sister slips out of the room without her noticing and they are left alone. Staring.
"Do you know," she asks suddenly, her face turning up to look at him, pushing a lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. "What you want now?"
He looks at her with eyes that are a shade too dark and turns his head that has messy blonde hair that's parted the wrong way and bends down very slowly.
The only thing he says before their lips come together in a mad rush of sparks and HERE, HERE, SHE IS HERE WITH HIM-
"Yes."
. . .
Fin.
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Always,
Summer