a/n: i need to work on my writing, so this is…yeah. ;)
dedicated to: ListenAndBelieve, Lissie, because it's her (belated) birthday, and she's a(i)my-zhieing, and a wonderful writer.
also for: limegreenrocks, Maddy-kins, because we infect people with our cold virus together. by the way, love, apologies in advance…
disclaimer: j.k. rowling ©
Drowning
With shaking fingers, she places it carefully into the box, closes the lid with a thud, and locks away her memories.
Dominique Weasley laughs, the sound rising from her chest and reverberating into the air, as Lysander Scamander tickles her mercilessly and tackles her to the ground.
His girlfriend—her cousin, Molly—watches on with distaste, Jane Eyre clutched loosely in her hands.
Dominique doubles over as Lysander's fingers brush her side and glide across her stomach almost inappropriately. He falls over on her, and the pair land in the grass, smiling at each other in that way that best friends do. She can see what's in his eyes—a love for her—but Molly's almost imperceptible cough interrupts their moment and Lysander's eyes light up with something greather and more magical than his love for his best friend.
Dominique breaks away from him, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, and watches Lysander watch Molly.
Molly rolls her eyes, opens up to her page, and begins to read.
She walks towards the door, white and haunting, box held tight against her stomach, the corners digging into her skin.
Molly and Lysander arrive on the doorstep, knocking loudly on the painted door. Dominique is inside with a cup of hot cocoa in one hand and a fashion magazine in the other, heading for the couch when she hears the sound, and promptly places her objects on the coffee table.
She opens the door, surprised. "'Lo, Molly. Hey, Lysander." She grins at them. "What can I do for you two in this ungodly hour?"
Molly eyes her cousin disdainfully, who's wearing gray sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt, but Lysander beams. Dominique's gaze slips downward to their interlaced fingers, and then flicks back up at their sopping faces.
"Hi, Dom, we were wondering if we could stay here for the night. See, we went to a movie and—" Dominique cuts him off.
"Say no more; stay," she ushers them both in and leaves them to make themselves at home (and dry off) as she heads back towards the couch. "You know which room."
They nod, Molly a bit curtly, and the pair traipses into the room and dump their little belongings onto the bed.
Dominique flops onto the couch, opens up the magazine to a random page, and flips through it uninterestedly as Molly and Lysander shuffle back into the living room.
"If you want anything to eat or drink, go right ahead," she directs lazily.
Molly heads into the kitchen to make tea, presumably; that's the only thing she'll drink. Lysander, however, stays in the living room, striding over to the couch that Dominique is currently occupying.
He lifts her legs, sits down and drops her legs onto his lap and Dominique doesn't even glance up, having being used to this already. He speaks.
"How've you been, Dom? We haven't seen you in a while. Since the proposal." The ring on his finger glimmers in the lamplight as if mocking her, mocking her and her inevitable love for her best friend, the one who's to be married to her cousin in two months' time.
"Yes, well." She sips from her cocoa and answers his questioning eyes dismissibely. "I've been busy."
He nods, eyes flickering briefly with want, with need, with this thing she's come to known as love—but he loves Molly more, so stop thinking, Dom.
Molly breezes in from the kitchen clasping two mugs, and almost stops at the sight of them. She takes a seat on the armchair and hands Lysander his cup of steaming tea, and he accepts it without a thought, gazing at her in a way Dominique wished he would gaze at her. She knows he love her, Dom, the one he's familiar with— but when he sees Molly, it's happiness that reaches far beyond Dominique's bounds. It's comparing gold to silver, or an inferno to a flame, and Dominique understands how Vic must've felt when Teddy chose Lily.
Tense silence hangs in the air. Molly clears her throat.
"So, did you get the invitation?" she asks politely, although Dominique knows it's only Lysander that wanted to invite her.
"Yes." She thinks back to when she received the letter, proceeded to rip it to shreds, and throw the pieces out of the window. "It was…pretty."
Molly watches Dominique as if she is actually a threat. With his eyebrows dipping down and his mouth set in a frown, Lysander's eyes flick back and forth at the two of them. The rain patters against the walls and windows; lightning flashes for a brief moment.
They sit, the only noises being the occasional flipping of a shiny page or the sips of tea from Molly and Lysander's mugs.
"Did you come by car, then?" Dominique asks when Lysander pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and places them on the coffee table, along with a wallet and a pack of Drooble's gum.
"Uh-huh." Molly sends a sharp look over to Lysander. "We should be leaving, actually. It's fine. We can get home."
Dominique protests. "No, you can't go! It's storming outside, and besides, you aren't dry yet."
Molly mutters something under her breath, waving her wand, and the pair is suddenly dry and rain-free. She holds her palms up and out, like, any more excuses? and Dominique shakes her head and waves them off.
They go to collect their things, Lysander stopping to give her a one-armed hug and a sad little smile, filled with emotions he can never act on, and with a hasty goodbye they walk out the door.
Dominique stands at the doorway as the flecks of water hit her clothes, her hair, her face, but she sets her gaze firmly on the pair. He opens the door for Molly and she leans up to peck him on the lips, and then he, swinging his keys, walks around the car. He opens the door for Molly and she leans up to peck him on the lips, and then he, swinging his keys, walks around the car. He waves to Dominique; she waves back—he slams the door shut, the headlights turn on, and then the lights disappear into the black, dreary night.
With a sigh, she heads back inside to change her clothes.
Slowly, she turns the doorknob and makes her way up the stairs, each step creaking and straining under her feet. The box still in her hands, her fingers dig into the cardboard, and she continues to walk.
Dominique falls asleep that night, restless, listening to the sounds of thunder and watching the flashes of lightning—for some reason, she'd always sort of loved storms. She loved the way the wind would feel as it lifted your hair into what looked sort of like a halo, or when the rain would drip against your skin and wash away your sins, and when the thunder was so loud you couldn't even hear your own thoughts.
The way the rain would keep falling and the thunder would keep booming, and the wind would keep slashing—she liked the consistency. And when the storm was over and the sun came out, and the rainbows came out—she was more alone than ever.
She reaches the top step, and carries the box toward the other miscellaneous objects.
Finally, she is able to fall asleep, and clenched in her hand is the pack of Drooble's gum and a rumpled picture of he&her, both of which he left behind (by accident or on purpose or on purpose, she doesn't know).
The sounds of the thunderstorm start to decrease as night bleeds into day, and then the sun shines through the clouds and sets its light upon everything.
She wakes up with a start, the sun's rays leaking through her window and she wishes for the safety of the thunderstorm—the reassurance.
She stands up and pulls her hair into a messy ponytail. Yawning and stretching, she lazily makes her way to the kitchen to make herself a cup of bitter coffee.
Ten minutes later, she's slouched on the couch, skimming through the Daily Prophet.
Something catches her eye.
Letting out a shaky breath, she bends down and lowers the box to the floor.
She peruses the article once, twice, three times, before her hands clench the paper until it rips and her breathing turns shallow.
She stares at the paper, the black ink words blurring before her and she blinks. Words swim in her gaze and she clutches the corner of the kitchen counter—it's all she can do not to collapse.
She is in denial. It's not possible, no, it can't be true run through her mind, and she begins to see spots in her vision—it's like someone has just stolen her soul and a bit of her heart to go along with it.
Someone's just ripped her heart out with their bare hands and now she's bleeding, bleeding—her vision is still hazy as someone knocks on the door—she, with short breaths and fingers reaching for something to grab ahold of and rip apart, is somehow able to get to the door with her fragmented heart and broken soul. Torn pieces of the Prophet are clenched tightly in her hand, eyes wide with terror and crazed with fear (and insanity), but she doesn't cry.
Dominique doesn't cry as the door opens, and a tear-stained, battered Molly Weasley (II) comes flying into her arms.
Then she drops down beside it, fingers scraping for the opening. She finds it and pries it open.
"I just came back from the—the Muggle police," Molly says shakily as a fresh round of tears begins. It's the first time in years Dominique's seen her without her sneer of indifference, but the circumstances couldn't be any worse.
She feels surprisingly numb. She opens her mouth but no words form in her throat; instead, a strangled, gargling noise rises up like bile in her throat.
Trembling, and watching Molly in front of her with tears cascading down her face, looking like they'll never end, Dominique stands there and feels her knees wobble dangerously and the metaphorical hole in her chest digs itself deeper.
There's emptiness so prominent, so painful she can't describe and her mind isn't capable of rational thought.
"We were getting married in two months," Molly spits out, sobbing, and Dominique knows she's not saying this to spite her, but because the memory of an impossible wedding—a nearly impossible happiness—is so far out of Molly's reach now. "I loved him. I loved him."
Dominique wonders why she's using the past tense—doesn't she love him still?—and tremors rocking through her body, she sits down on a stool and buries her head in her hands, wishing for darkness.
She gazes down at the contents of the box. Sometimes, when the pain is more prominent, she screams at him, throws her head back to the sky, and asks him why he had to leave her.
Those are the Dark Days.
Molly falls asleep on the couch—Dominique wonders how she is able to—and their family calls, either crying or voice cracking or saying nothing at all. The only things Dominique says are "Yes", "No", and "Bye", and when the calls are over and the memories keep coming back, regurgitating back at her—all their moments—she has to lie down for a bit and downs a glass of whiskey.
The fact that he's really, truly gone doesn't really hit her.
She spends her time drinking and dulling the pain eating away at her, and molly stays with her, crying and staring at her ring longingly.
They avoid each other and the apartment is silent at all times, Dominique always locked up in her room, refusing to let a tear flow, and digging out all the things he left behind.
The days are sunny and she wonders how they can be so bright when everything is so wrong, and after a month or so, when her family starts to get a little better, she curses them and their almost acceptance.
Because she, she will never truly accept his—his predicament, and he'll never be forgotten, and she'll never move on—and she'll spend the rest of her life dwelling on the mistakes she made and if I had insisted they stay this wouldn't have happened and just drinking herself into a stupor. She doesn't become reckless and wild like Molly does; she stays at home and refuses to take a step outside, even when her parents nag and her sister insists and her cousins beg.
Molly takes off her ring one night, approximately two weeks after the three month mark, and Dominique just stares as Molly slips the ring off, places it on the table with a clink, and heads out to a club. Twenty minutes later, though, she's back and crying again, smearing her makeup, but Dominique doesn't bother her and lets her sit there and just cry.
That night, she drinks even more to drown out the sobs.
After all these years, there's still a pain in her chest, a ripping of her soul, her heart, as she picks up and old, old pack of Drooble's gum and the corner of her mouth almost twitches.
It's the four month mark and Molly is as wild as ever. She still cries, in the middle of the night, when she thinks Dominique can't hear her, but to Dom, it's not enough.
It's pathetic, but Dominique sort of hates Molly. Molly is supposed to be in more pain. Molly is supposed to cry all day, all night, and become this lifeless, worthless human being. Molly is supposed to not be able to live with herself—to choke on her words and feel like she's suffocating, and to condemn anyone else for acceptance of his death, to never forgive herself- or him- for dying. She's supposed to be the one in constant pain, and the one that has this huge, gaping hole and the one that can't ever stop loving him.
Dominique hates Molly because she's who Molly is supposed to be, minus all the tears, and why does it seem like she's the one who cares most?
She constantly blames herself, just sits there and thinks of what she shoulda-coulda-woulda done, and these thoughts poison her like the whiskey poisons her.
The sun keeps shining, and not a thundercloud dares to appear.
She rifles through the photos and old candy wrappers and guitar picks, and many other miscellaneous objects—and drills them into her mind (and heart) so she'll never, ever, ever forget, and hopes they'll leave an indelible mark on her—even though all they do is cause more agony, more sorrow.
She picks up a photograph of him with an arm around her, and an arm around Molly. She stares at the laughing trio, and this was before Molly&Lysander's get-together so Molly's smile is less strained.
"I remember that," Molly's voice comes up behind her, whispering almost inaudibly. Tears start budding in her eyes again and Dominique looks away uncomfortable.
After a couple of moments of sniffling, Molly clears her throat as quietly as she can.
"I'm…okay," she mumbles, and adds as she looks at the picture again, "I remember that. It was fun."
Dominique doesn't reply, the fact that Molly is trying should make her hope, but instead, all she feels is resentment and a need to be alone. Molly stands there another moment, eyes shining again, before shuffling to her room without another word. Dominique hears the music get turned up loud, and she knows Molly will be going out again.
She stares at the picture, scrutinizing, before promptly tearing the picture in half. One half shows Dominique and Lysander, with his arm around her, and the other shows Molly and a stray arm hanging over her shoulder.
And she almost cries with relief.
a/n: readers—if there are any—part two will come soon…ish. probably.