Hidden Deceptions and Loony Lies
I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I receiving a profit from this.
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It is often surprising on how easily the human nature can be deceived. You would think they would receive such lies with incredulity, but I know from experience that this is not true. People have looked at me condescendingly, as though I am not worthy to have their leftovers. Just because I'm different. Just because I cover my misgivings and fears with farfetched statements and apparent beliefs. I must concede that it is not difficult to find things to comment on, as my father publishes such falsities in that tabloid of his.
People at school—it's hard to explain sometimes. I have no friends, or I didn't have any until this year. I wear weird things, I speak dreamily. I am not normal. So they mock my name. Loony Lovegood. Do they think I'm deaf? Yes, I'd like to let you know that I do hear you describe me to first years—"Don't mind her, that's Loony Lovegood, she's a bit addled in the head." I could go with the clichéd confrontation. I could yell and snap and ask if they honestly believe that I do not hurt from such allegations. But, really, what's the point? They do it for a reaction they will not get out of me. I will remain indifferent. It's nothing compared to the shit I've been through.
Oh, I'm sorry. Were you not expecting such a profanity to escape my mouth? Should I have substituted the expletive for something neutral like 'stuff' or 'crud'? Tough. I'm a Ravenclaw and prefer to use the word that best suits the sentence.
Or, I can bet you're thinking right now, I'm lying again. I've lived a beautiful, perfect little life living in a big house by Ottery St. Catchpole. After all, I am known for my farfetched claims. I've seen the eye-rolling and the giggling. I know that I could qualify as a pathological liar, almost. They're not lies, exactly, just stories that I know are not accurate. They're cover-ups so people don't try to pry into things I wish to keep private. Very rarely do I divulge information from my childhood to peers. Very rarely. I don't feel the need to get into gory detail.
I've told all this background information now, but I haven't yet made much sense through all the cynicism. Well, why don't we start with the basics—my family. My father can be described as someone who lived the best years of his life at school. He was Gryffindor's star beater, a school prefect, popular. He married the prettiest, smartest girl of his year. Was immortalized in his yearbook. Then everything declined into a hellhole.
I was conceived in the height of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror. Born amidst fear and trepidation. My parents' last child, only child I had believed until I was eight. I know, as you do, of the atrocities Death Eaters would commit under the command of their master. I just never applied it to my own life, my parents. They never told me of things; I read them in books. My aunts had come one spring day and brought up a neglected topic. My mother was in her room, 'sick' as I was told. My aunts talked about it in my presence. "Just so sad," one had said, "Such a tragedy."
My interest was piqued. "What?"
One looked over, surprised at the interruption. "Oh, just what happened to your poor sister."
"Sister?"
"You don't know?"
"Surely she does!"
"It doesn't sound like it!"
"Her parents must've told her!"
"What sister?" I demanded. They looked uncomfortable.
"Maybe we're not the right people to tell her this."
"She has to know!"
"Then you tell her!"
"Fine, then. Luna, sweetheart, you had an older sister."
"Did not!"
"Yes, you did."
"Then where is she?" An uneasy look was exchanged.
"You-Know-Who killed her."
"MABEL!"
"What?"
"SHE'S EIGHT! COULDN'T YOU BE A LITTLE MORE DISCREET?"
"What did you want me to say?"
She turned to me. "Luna, honey, You-Know-Who did something to your sister and she went to sleep and will never wake up." And that was that. Later I learned that my sister had been killed in a raid not far from here, along with two other children—one was an obscure family I hadn't heard of, the other was the third Weasley son. I imagine that Ginny and Ronald don't know; they've never mentioned it.
This apparently threw my mother into a depression she never fully healed from. I learned as I grew up not to disturb my mother when she was feeling 'under the weather'. I did, however, listen to her sobs and hysterical lamenting outside her door. She had once been beautiful, but as the years progressed she withered and wrinkled, her eyes sad and dull. The bouts of isolation grew longer before they erupted violently. When I was nine, one Saturday afternoon, I found her door open—a rare occurrence. Against my better judgment, I walked in. She was propped against her headboard in a puddle of blood that had spilled out of her splashed wrists. That's all I remember. After that I find a gaping hole in my memory, even though my father said I was found screaming in her doorway.
And know we've reached another part in my life—my father. A raging alcoholic—completely addicted to firewhisky. He dropped into the habit when my mother refused to speak with him. Every evening I find him collapsed in an easy chair, reeking of alcohol and completely oblivious. He's only ever sober for work. A plus for his friends who come over unexpectedly. Just wait until he's dead to the world and come find Luna. Lure her out with threats, blackmail. Take her to a room. Turn the lights off. "This will feel good, Luna. Real good." Their hands roughly touching me where I don't want to be touched. Things progressed further until I was a shivering, naked lump under the covers. They'd redo their pants. Leave without caring about what they'd done…
You've heard of me. You didn't pay much notice. Now will you remember? Now will you think? Under every lie, every story, every damn response, I am a different person. I'm wounded, vengeful. You wanna talk behind my back? Go ahead, I'm used to it. I've seen worse. I've lived worse.
Changes your whole point of view, doesn't it?
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End
A/n: Reviews are appreciated.