Title: Amaranth (4/4)

Pairing: Gryffindor!Roxy/Lily

Author: Cassie (our dancing days)

Notes: Finally, we come to the last piece in this collection - our piece de resistance, if you will! I used the prompts tears; forgive me; and the quote you see below. Ella and I have absolutely loved this, and we sincerely hope you enjoy!

"It's always easier to say goodbye when you know it's just a prelude to hello." - Maureen Johnson.

i.

Angel, who do you think you're fooling?

Some of these idiots buy the little-girl act, but they're not all stupid, darling, and they're gonna catch on real quick unless you get the hell out of here and ground yourself in the process. Even in all that Gryffindor glory, you're still clinging to the cliff face, hoping not to fall.

The trick is to know when you've been beaten.

Did you think she would save you?

"We can't-" she mouths against your lips and you roll your eyes. Roxy is all hesitation and family pride, caught between a rock and a hard place, and sometimes it's refreshing. Sometimes it's just dull. Her amaranth lips form more words but you don't catch them. Her groan is strangled and you laugh. Forgive me.

"What? A cat got your tongue?"

And so you push your tongue inside the cavern of her mouth and pretend she's not a cave for you to hide away.

ii.

She looks so defeated and you feel so alive - your skin tingles and glows with the promise of a fight. You were born to defy, Lily dearest.

"Am I not good enough for you?" you screech at her, but there is a smirk on your lips and fire in your fingertips and you want to hook your claws into her and bring her back to shore. She does not belong in the waves of her solitude; she does not deserve to drown in your flames.

Roxy does not answer.

Her sketchbook lies open on the table and it is all you - but it is you in amaranth and you with horns and Hell has never looked so pretty, you are sure. Forgive me, Roxy.

The next page is a note - sketched inside a little blue envelope. It says goodbye.

She opens her mouth again, but no words come out; her tongue battles against her brain and she screams. She screams injustice and she screams fire. It is firewood and matches and you don't have the energy needed to set her alight. Her tears aren't enough to let you hold her.

"I'm done," you whisper. She doesn't blink. Please, dear god, forgive me.

"Did you hear me, you fucking freak? I'm done! I can't - I don't - I don't love you anymore and would you just look at me?" You have doused her inferno with poison; she won't burn again.

iii.

You think what you really need is someone to whisper sweet nothings into your ear; you want someone to tell you how their breath catches in their throat every time they see you, how the breeze moves your hair when you walk, how pretty you look when you break a promise -

But then again, Roxy draws you pictures of angels' wings, and she shows you what your smile looks like on those mornings when you can't breathe. She draws what tears look like in your eyes and she rubs them out.

She draws you and you fly.

And now you sit atop the Astronomy tower, cigarette in hand, and you wish that the smoke would suffocate you into living. You are not worth her pain. Forgiveforgiveforgive-

Even in all your Gryffindor glory, you are still a disappointment. Your airy mother still can't see past the track marks on your skin and convictions on your tongue, and your father can't see past the amaranth of your hair and how naming his children Lily and James was tempting fate.

(In some ways, you love him more than her.)

You. Are. Not. Natural.

And most of all, you are not hers.

iv.

Sweetheart, I think you let her drown under the weight on her shoulders. And somehow, you let her think she wasn't worth every earthquake, every burn, every gasp for air, every goddamned tear.

But she is the amaranth blood running through your veins and you don't want to spill a drop.

Every half-decent relationship starts like smoking: it starts off like poison, but you are draw to it, because you are intrigued. You begin to tolerate it, then, even like it. Suddenly you crave it and it makes up your whole being - every scar on your tarnished lungs, every scattered beat of your heart that draws oxygen in from your tattered throat, and you think -

This is love.

So forgive me.

Maybe your kisses will not be formed of half-breaths and the gloss on her lips; maybe she will never say that she loves you and maybe she will never say anything at all. But she looks at you, wide eyes with unshed tears, and she mouths the words. Forgive you.

You mouth back, hello.

She will never whisper sweet nothings, or tell you pretty poems about the oceans in your eyes, but you know what? She'll draw you a halo, darling.