…f-a-m-e…

(dying, burning, falling)

A hazy smile stretches her face, and you think that this is heaven.

Her lips meet a boy's (no, not yours, idiot) and you think that this is hell.

She speaks to you like you're a person (and it's all about heaven once more)—but then she forgets your name (we're back to hell, folks). In a pathetic (but nothing can really ever be pathetic with her, you know) attempt to recover the conversation, she calls you Scamander.

Damn, it's all about the last names, isn't it?

(ScamanderScamanderScamander.)

This is the story of your life, and you? You're just (Lorcan) Scamander.

Nothing's there. A haze of blackness and darkness and nothingness surrounds you, and you've sort of stopped trying a long time ago, remember? It's not important anymore. You're not important anymore.

But sometimes, when the bitter loneliness is too much (even for you) you glance up from your pit of despair, and you see them surrounded by a buttery light, one that you will never see. It's your brother, Lysander (Scamander), laughing and talking and pulling off that bad-boy thing he has going on, and there's no Scamander attached to his name, except for when it has to be. He's surrounded by friends (the ones you wished you had) and he's also talking to her (the girl you wished you had).

And then, when this scene becomes too much of a burden, but you don't quite feel like retreating into your dark cloak, you glance to your left, where another butter-enveloped scene awaits your glance: it's your parents, smiling and laughing in their bliss, Luna (Scamander) and Rolf (Scamander), unaware that they're the ones killing you, them and their war-heroes-shit. (He knows he's hit rock bottom, because once upon a time, he never cursed, not even when influenced by Lysander.)

Oh, how you hate the four-letter-word.

(F-A-M-E.)

Don't they notice you dying, burning, falling? They should, they should—you know that for sure. Lysander glances at you sometimes, sure, but he's too wrapped up in his (existent) social life while you're too wrapped up in your (nonexistent) one to ever talk about it, and you won't cry to Mummy and Daddy (oh, but you do, when the moon is up and everyone else is at peace) because, recall this slowly, they're the reason you're dying in the first place.

Them and their war-heroes-shit.

(You want them to notice, so, so much.)

But they don't.

(You cry at night, hoping to wash away the pain.)

But you don't.

(You scream at yourself, telling yourself to stop overreacting.)

But you can't.

(You glare at them, wanting them to go away.)

But you won't let them just yet.

(You stop doing your homework whenever they ask you to even mention the war heroes, hoping that they'll just let you skip it.)

But they don't.

And you're a blistering, burning, bumbling mess of scattered papers that were once so neat and shattered smiles grace your lips and one day, you snap, because you won't stand for being (Lorcan) Scamander anymore.

Will they rescue you in time? Probably not, but you can hope.

In a disarray of bottles and knives and sleepless nights, she finds you.

(No, not her, the one you're hopelessly head-over-heels for—the other one.)

She talks to you, tries to get you to see sense.

(And, you start noticing things.)

You realize that she's like you: (Lucy) Weasley, downtrodden by her perfectlyshining sister and famous parents.

(Perhaps you fall in love.)

She tells you that she wants to help you, make you better, and you agree.

(But, see, you can't undo your mistakes when you've gone so far.)

You die early, much too early, the taste of rain on your lips and her absolutely horrified expression imprinting forever in what's left of your memory.

(You think, haphazardly, that she's pretty, and you know there's more to that thought, but everything shuts down before you can fini—)

. . .