Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Call him crazy, but he likes her.
Of Ice Queens and Falling in Love
The first time Lorcan sees her, he is smashed beyond belief and getting drunker. He thinks he's pretty cool, chugging straight from the bottle of firewhisky, trying to impress the girls who have been eyeing him blatantly all night (because at six foot two, with golden hair and a killer smile, he's quite a catch among the female population of Hogwarts). She is not impressed, however, not if the way she glares derisively at the bottle then at him, back and forth, is an indication—but who the fuck is she to judge? He doesn't even know her, has certainly never seen her before... has he?
"Have you seen my sister?" she asks, her voice like ice. He wants to shiver just hearing it.
"Love," he begins, and she frowns at the familiarity. He can't help rolling his eyes; he could never stand the cold ones, and this broad seems worse than most. "Fine, lady," he amends with a sneer, "I have no fucking clue who your sister even is, let alone where she is. Sorry to disappoint."
The girl opens her mouth, no doubt intending to bite his head off, just as Molly Weasley comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. Now here's a girl he can handle: fire, passion, and so, so easy to score with. So what if she's sleeping with his twin and Merlin knows how many other guys in addition to him. Lorcan's not giving her commitment, so why should he expect her to give it to him? Hell, he'd be pissed if she did give it, because he doesn't want commitment. At all.
"I've been looking everywhere for you, darling," she whispers drunkenly into his ear. "I want you so—" She breaks off suddenly and stiffens when she catches sight of the girl (what is she still doing there?), whose disgust has only magnified with time.
At first, he thinks Molly is jealous, which is completely out of character. But then, assuaging his fears, "Molly," the girl says with a long-suffering sigh, "you promised. You said you wouldn't drink any more."
That makes Lorcan laugh. Molly not drink? Now there's an oxymoron if he's ever heard one. She practically inhales the stuff, as if it's water instead of alcohol. There's no way she'd ever give it up.
"C'mon, Lucy, lighten up," Molly says, laughing.
Lucy? Where has he heard that name before? Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. Oh, fuck, Lucy.
Because he's suddenly realized that this is Molly's sister standing before him. But, bloody hell, it's not his fault that he didn't recognize her right away. He never hung out much with her when they were little, and she looks nothing at all like a Weasley, with her dark hair, cold blue eyes, and sharp features. He thinks she could be pretty if she didn't so obviously have a stick up her arse, but no way would she ever be the beauty that her red-headed, reckless, wild sister is.
"Yeah, love, lighten up," he says, making a genuine effort to be nice now that he knows her relation to Molly. He doesn't realize that this is exactly the wrong track to take with her. "Have some firewhiskey. It makes everything better, yeah?"
Lucy looks at him—just looks at him, cool and disapproving and entirely unamused—and even in his drunken state it's enough to have him squirming in place. Finally, after what seems like an hour, she takes the drink he's still numbly holding outstretched in his hand and calmly pours it over his hand.
"I told you no to call me 'love,' you arse."
And call him crazy, but suddenly he likes her.
It's a week later when he sees her again—well, no, it's a day later when he sees her again, but it's a week later before he actually has a conversation with her. They're in the Owlry, she having just sent a letter, he on his way to send one of his own, and they do that thing in the doorway that people always do. That one where he moves left and she does the same, then they both move right, and it goes on and on for an embarrassingly long time until he finally bursts out laughing.
"Clearly, fate is trying to bring us together, yeah?" he jokes. She just looks at him like he's a moron.
"What do you want, Scamander?" she asks, her tone of voice screaming her disinterest.
"Just trying to be friendly, lo—Lucy," he quickly corrects at the last second, because he does not want a repeat of their last meeting.
He wonders if she can read his mind, because for a second he could swear a flash of humor passes through her eyes, but it's so brief he might very well have imagined it. She's back to ice queen mode by the time she speaks again. "Well," she says briskly, "you've tried and I've rebuffed the attempt, so let's just leave it at that, shall we?"
It amazes him that this creature came from the same gene pool as Molly.
"Merlin, okay, no need to be a bitch about it. I was just making conversation, not trying to ask you to marry me."
"But I am a bitch, haven't you heard?" she says this in such a carefully indifferent tone, it's obvious that it bothers her. That kind of forced neutrality can only come with practice, and would she practice acting neutral if she wasn't hurt by the name, even if just the littlest bit? He doesn't think so.
She's a little bit like still water, he suddenly realizes. At first glance, it seems calm, cold, and unruffled. But underneath the surface, there's stuff going on. There has to be, because don't people always say that still water runs deep? He has no idea what lies beneath the surface of Lucy Weasley's cold façade, but he's determined to find out. And when Lorcan Scamander decides to do something, nothing can get in his way.
He often wonders if he's made a mistake about her, because she firmly rejects all of his attempts at friendship. Indeed, it's gotten so bad that the mere sight of him heading her way has her bolting off in the opposite direction, because—as she one day explains when he finally tracks her down—she "just does not have the time or the energy to deal with him right now."
And then, one day, just as he decides to give up—he's competitive and overly curious, but fuck him if she's worth it—everything changes.
He is hanging out with Molly, Roxanne, and (of course) his twin brother, Lysander, when Lucy suddenly appears in front of her sister. He's never seen her look like this before, so… unkempt. Usually she looks so neat and tidy, like the overachiever she is not (whereas Molly, who actually is an overachiever, appears to be the furthest thing from it; irony much?). Now, however, her face is flushed with fury and her eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed.
"I need to talk to you," she says to Molly, her voice the iciest he's ever heard it. "Now. Alone."
Anyone else would have leapt to obey Lucy right then—Merlin knows he was itching to do so, and she hadn't even been talking to him—but Molly acts like nothing is wrong. There was a clear command in what Lucy said, and Molly is just stubborn enough to ignore it on principle, despite all the warning signs that scream, "Go with her! Now! Before she snaps and kills us all!"
"Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of them," Molly replies, leaning back on her elbows lazily, entirely at her ease. When Lucy doesn't say anything, Molly laughs scornfully. She's become a changed person these past few weeks, harder in some way, meaner than she used to be. "What, still obsessed with appearances, sister dearest?"
Lucy scowls. "Fine, you want it to front of them, you'll get it in front of them." She paces a few steps, banishing away the last few traces of self-consciousness, steeling herself for what is about to happen. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she suddenly demands.
Molly raises an eyebrow. "You'll have to be more specific than that, I'm afraid."
"Roger Davies," Lucy all but hisses out. "Is that specific enough for you?" Molly has the grace to look embarrassed. "Molly, how could you?"
"Well, it's not entirely my fault, you know? He pursued me, not the other way around, and, well, who was I to refuse? Besides," Molly adds, tossing her mane of hair over her shoulder, "you never even really liked him."
"How would you know?" Lucy demands. "Have you ever asked me how I feel about him or taken in interest in our relationship?"
"I don't have to. I know you, and you're not capable of loving a boy. It's not 'practical.'"
Lorcan realizes what Lucy's going to do about a second before it actually happens. A sharp slap! sounds out as Lucy's hand makes contact with Molly's face. "You just can't stand to see me happy, that's what I think. You've always had to have everything, so you couldn't bear the idea that I had found love while you were stuck with the cheap, meaningless relationships that come with casual sex."
Molly gives her a nasty smile. "Yeah, well, clearly you never had love, either. If you had, Roger would never have been willing to sleep with me. You were a fool, really, to think you did."
Those are harsh things to say to one's sister, and they've clearly hit a nerve in Lucy. Still, she retains enough presence of mind to get in the last word. "Well, at least I still have my dignity." She didn't have to say "unlike you"; they both knew it was intended, and that it was true.
And it bothers him-that what she said was true-because he lives just as wild of a life as Molly. If she doesn't have any dignity, then neither does he. Seeing the way Lucy proudly stormed off, though, he sure as hell wants some.
Knowing that she actually does care deep down, he renews his efforts with regards to Lucy, looking for her everywhere that he goes. It's not until three days later that he finally finds her, studying alone in one of the many hidden niches in the library (the same one he himself prefers, isn't that funny).
"I'm sorry," he tells her, referring to the whole Molly incident, because he doesn't really know what else to say. He's not good at comforting people.
She looks at him in polite confusion, holding a finger inside of her book to keep track of her place on the page. "For?" she asks blankly, and he wonders for a moment if he's stepped into an alternate universe. It's as if the whole thing never happened.
Merlin, it was hard to deal with her at times.
"You know what for," he says, hoping she won't keep up the pretense any longer. It freaks him out how easily she's able to act like nothing's wrong when something really is.
Thankfully, she doesn't try to deny it again, but her reaction is just as bad: "I don't want your pity." Because the thing is, Lorcan does pity her. Not for the Molly thing—well, not only for that, at least—but for her complete mistrust of any friendly overture whatsoever. It must be hard to be so alone all the time.
Of course, he can't actually tell her this, so instead he says, "Good, because I don't pity you."
"Glad to hear it."
And that should've been the end of it. She clearly thought it was, because she's already turned back to the book in front of her, her eyes moving quickly across the page. She seems lost to the world, absorbed in whatever she's reading; he should really leave her to it.
Except, in the end, he can't. He doesn't know what makes him do it, but instead of leaving the library, he's asking her, "What class is that for?" as he slides into the seat across from her. When she doesn't say anything, he adds, "I'm not going to leave until you answer my question."
Lucy sighs deeply, but refuses to look up from her book. "It's not for any class."
It bothers him that she won't make eye contact with him, enough that it makes him do something that he knows for a fact is rude. He reaches out impulsively and snatches her book right from her delicate little hands. Tropical Plants and their Medicinal Uses, he reads, then looks at her with a raised eyebrow.
She purses her lips in annoyance. "Give it back."
It's not a request, but—taking a leaf from Molly's book—Lorcan ignores her. "Fun book, yeah? Nice light reading." And, when she doesn't laugh (why isn't she laughing? Obviously it's just a joke), "You want to be a Healer? Or are your just an overachiever?"
Silence again. Then, just when he thinks that she isn't going to answer, she grudgingly admits, "I like Herbology, okay?"
He grins. "You do?"
"No, I'm lying," she snaps, sarcastic. "Of course I do. What's so wrong with that?"
"I wasn't trying to be snarky about it," he quickly assures her. "I just have a hard time imagining you getting down in the dirt to study plants. You're always so… tidy." That's the understatement of the year. She's obsessive about having every little strand of hair in place, as if she can make up for the fact that she consistently gets E grades—above average, certainly, but nothing truly spectacular—by at least looking the part of the perfect student.
She shrugs a shoulder, the only reply he gets.
"Me, I'm a fan of Potions. Horror of all horrors, yeah? But there you are. Hey," he says suddenly, determined to win a smile off of her, "I've just had the best idea. Let's go into business together. You can pick some plants, which I can then use to make some potions, which we can then sell to make ourselves rich. Sounds perfect, yeah?"
"It's a bit early to be thinking of that." But, for the first time, he sees an undeniable trace of amusement from her; he knows for a fact that it was there this time—and, as far as he's concerned, that knowledge beats the hell out of a smile.
It's a subtle change; he doesn't even notice it happening at first. It's like one day he wakes up, and suddenly Lucy is walking towards him when she sees him in the hallways instead of running away. And then, soon enough, she's not just walking, but hurrying towards him, as if she's afraid that if she doesn't hurry, she'll lose him in the crowds.
And, of course, because he's a fucking idiot, he misconstrues the meaning behind her haste and messes everything up. "Want to go out with me?" he asks, and he swears he can actually hear their friendship shatter into a million tiny pieces once the words leave his mouth. He wants desperately to shove them back in again.
Lucy, for her part, looks away, but not before he sees her face close up, become expressionless. "Lorcan," she says. Just that. Just "Lorcan." But in that one word, he hears her answer, and it's surprisingly painful.
"Oh." For once, he is shutting down, too. "Okay."
"It's…" she begins, then trails off uncertainly, fussing with the hem of her shirt. "It's not that I don't want to say yes," she says carefully, still not making eye contact, "but you're not ready for a relationship, and I refuse to be one of your… sluts." She imbues the last word with all of the scorn she is capable of.
It's not the explanation he expects, and he wants to tell her that she's wrong, that of course he's ready for a relationship, why the fuck did she think he asked her, but… well, just how many girls has he slept with in the past month? In the past week, even? He stopped that fling with Molly ages ago, but he only gave up the other girls two days ago, when he first decided to ask Lucy Weasley out.
Fuck it all, she's right. He's not ready.
"Okay," he tells her again, "I understand." And he does, but even so, it still hurts. Maybe it's just that his pride is bruised, because he's never been rejected before and he certainly didn't go into this conversation think he would be now. Maybe. But Lorcan has the unpleasant feeling that it's something more, which makes this all so much worse.
Because he can't stand to be away from her for too long (really, really can't stand it), they quickly become friends again. He does need some time to lick his wounds, but in the end, he cares about her too much to hold a grudge—especially since, as far as he can tell, the girl has very few friends, none of whom are very close to her.
So, as her best friend by default, Lorcan's the one left to take care of her when she gets sick, even if she won't admit she needs the help. He's never seen her look worse. Her face is deathly pale; her hair, which she always so diligently keeps under control, is in a state of shocking disarray; and every few minutes, she lets out a feeble little moan.
He should be disgusted by her appearance or at the very least not attracted, but… fuck him, she's beautiful.
"Lucy, you've got to eat something," he coaxes, holding out a piece of bread filched from the kitchens. He ignores the horrified looks of the other girls in the dormitory (do they really think it was that hard to sneak in? All it took was a little levitation spell performed by Ly and voila, here he was).
She holds a hand to her mouth at the sight of a food and shakes her head in protest, apparently sick at the mere thought of eating.
"Okay," he says, quickly hiding the bread from her sight, "no food. Is there anything else you need or want me to do?"
"Make me better," she answers in a weak impression of her imperious voice. "I don't want to be sick. I hate it."
"I know, love," he tells her. And he does. Lucy hates being anything other than perfectly presentable; it would be killing her for him to see her like this—yet it would be even worse if he didn't see her, if he had stayed away.
"'Love' again?" Lorcan opens his mouth to apologize, but Lucy interrupts, "No, don't worry, I don't mind it so much anymore."
"It's not too familiar?" he teases.
"Oh, stop it." She gives him a weak smile. "If anyone has a right to be familiar with me, it's you." Impulsively, she reaches out and grabs his hand, giving it as big of a squeeze as she is capable of at the moment.
Funny, really, the way he feels an echoing squeeze in his heart at the gesture. It occurs to him later, as he's holding back her hair while she vomits yet again, that he's fallen in love with her, this prim, reserved—at times even cold—slip of a girl.
Which, you know, fuck.
He's lying on his back, looking at the clouds, when Lucy comes over. She gives Lysander a look—the kind that used to scare Lorcan to death, but now just make him laugh—and then it's just the two of them.
"Hey, there, gorgeous," he says, smiling warmly.
She rolls her eyes at the greeting, but she's can't entirely fight back the smile crossing her face. She's still cold as ice with everyone else, but she can never keep up the act long around him—not anymore. "Hi."
"Join me?" He pats the ground next to him and she obligingly lies down.
She stares at the sky for a few moments, then turns her head towards him curiously. "What were you two doing just now?"
"Looking at the clouds." He doesn't elaborate further, because he's not about to admit to her that the shapes he and Ly were looking for were… well, parts of the female anatomy, to put it politely.
"Oh," she replies, which of course means boring in Lucy-speak. She chooses to play with the grass around her instead, staining the tips of her fingers green. Even knowing her love of Herbology, it amazes him how easily she settles down among the grass and muddy earth, careless of the havoc it wreaks on her hair and clothes.
He wants to kiss her right then, to mess up her careful attire even further, but he can't risk the rejection again—not now, when he's actually in love with her instead of just in strong like.
"A sickle for your thoughts?" she offers, and he snaps back to reality.
"A sickle?" he repeats, falling back to jokes to hide his true thoughts. "Are you trying to shortchange me, love? They're worth at least a galleon, yeah?"
"I don't have a galleon on me, sorry." But her lips twitch, and he knows right away that she's lying.
"My arse you don't. You're just trying to wittle me down, claiming not to have a galleon on you, but I'm not going to be tricked so easily, darling."
Silence, then, "Maybe I am," she concedes. "But, how about we have an exchange of a different sort? I'll share what on my mind, if you share what's on yours—and I'll even agree to go first. Is that fair? Acceptable?" She holds out her hand to shake on it, and he laughs at her formality in making the agreement.
"Okay, you've got yourself a deal," he says, taking the outstretched hand in his own. He has to remind himself to let go when the time comes. "Spill."
"I love you." She says it so calmly, in such a manner-of-fact way, that it takes him a minute to process it. Only she could be so neutral in admitting she's in love. Yet, he knows her well know to know that her reserve is just a cover, a way of hiding her nerves; he knows that underneath it all she is panicking about how he'll react.
It's this knowledge that keeps him from saying something flippant, like, "Who doesn't?" or "Good to know." That's not what she needs to hear right now. What she needs to hear, what he does in fact say, is "I love you, too." And it's the right thing to say, because it makes her entire face light up happily. He's never seen such a beautiful sight, and it's that which suddenly has him drawing her closer, cradling her face in his hands. Then he's kissing her, his hands moving to wrap firmly around her waist, his mind so lost to the world that he can't see or even think about anything other than her anymore.