Competition Theme: Long Lost
Pairings: Lucy/Percy. Father/Daughter love. The love they never had.
Genre: Family, Angst.
Authors Note: The challenge took me all day (from this morning to night) to do but I finished it once I got home. I thought it was a good challenge, but I found it difficult with the dialogue (I'm not a dialogue person). Despite this, I vastly enjoyed writing this piece. Hope you like, and please read + review! :)
He comes home an hour late from work, with his horn-rimmed glasses askew, his fiery red hair mussed, and cerulean eyes blazing with a hidden passion. All over he smells like the sweet essence of lavender perfume.
Lucy knows how her mother and older sister pretend that they don't notice, that they don't care. They pointedly ignore the smudge of scarlet lipstick that lay on his collarbone, and how his prim oxford shirt isn't buttoned correctly.
She curls up in the armchair with a worn book in her hands as she hears her father apparate near the front door, and looks up to see the pain flicker through her mothers eyes when her father walks through the door and doesn't even bother to give an excuse - a lie - about why he's late.
And sometimes she hears her mum sobbing about her parents broken marriage, about how he's shagging his secretary who is twenty years younger than herself, and doesn't look her in the eyes anymore.
What happened to her father who used to read her to sleep, who used to bury himself in work, and actually pay attention to his children? She remembers the rare good times where he used to go out in the backyard with her on a sunshine-filled day and play aeroplanes, and horsies, and piggybacks.
And so she decides to confront him, to ask him about why he's estranging himself. She wants to know, even if no-one talks about it.
It's a chilly, winter night and Lucy stays awake for her father - besides breakfast, it's the only time she sees him. She has a blanket wrapped around her in the fashion of a cocoon, an aged book in her hands and a cup of hot chocolate on the table next to her, resting on a coaster.
She waits and waits, reads page after page, checks the time again and again until it finally chimes to signal that it's eleven o'clock.
Her older sister Molly and her mother are already tucked away in bed, and she can hear the faint snoring and mumbling above her in the house. They only live in a house big enough for the four of them with three bedrooms, one bathroom and a cramped kitchen - despite being able to live in better circumstances if they wished.
At three past eleven does her father walk through the door, looking too old for his age and out of order - a very peculiar thing for Mr Percy Weasley. He hangs his coat up, cleans his glasses and then finally turns around to meet the burning glare of his daughter.
"Where were you, Dad?" Lucy asks, not wanting to waste any time to get to the matter.
Percy slides the glasses up the bridge of his nose and blinks at her, before he dodged the question to ask, "What are you doing up, Lucy? It's eleven, you should be in bed."
"So should you. So what were you doing?"
"I had to work overtime. Prime Minister Shacklebolt just gave me a few more files to fill in, along with a couple of documents," Percy answers wearily.
Lucy's voice turns cold and she crosses her arms over her chest. "And he does this every night, I suspect?"
Percy reaches out to put a hand on his daughters shoulders but she jerks away. He sighs, "Don't take that tone. We're at a very difficult spot -"
"What? Is Voldemort planning to make a big, sweeping return?"
"No, but with all these attacks on the children lately, raped and murdered and tortured…" Percy trailed off, running a hand through his hair. "You don't get it."
"I'm fifteen years old, I'm old enough to! Except you still treat me like I'm still a child, a baby for Merlins sake!"
"You are," Percy looks at her with a stern expression. "Until you're seventeen years old, you'll be a child."
"And apparently not your daughter," Lucy mutters, shaking her head.
"That's not true," Percy says, taking a step towards her. "You'll always be my daughter - no matter what."
Lucy looks up, tears now in her eyes. "Since when? I haven't seen you - or spent a day with you - since I was six years old. You don't know me, you don't love me."
"Lucy… that's not true…"
And with an anguished cry, Lucy launches herself at her father and holds him dear. She sobs into his chest, and he runs his hand through her brown locks with tears running down his face. He mutters how he loves her, and how he hasn't been a good father, and she doesn't disagree to one bit of this.
Not one bit.
