Chapter 1 : Ignoramous
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Sometimes when she is alone she likes to pretend she is better off. That she has done the right thing, that he is destructive by nature—a force that is billowing downwards faster than light itself. His entire existence is nothing but an act of revolt against her nature, against her heart.
But deep down she knows.
She has not done the right thing.
In fact, she has ruined all that had been right.
And this is much worse than blaming him. It is taking responsibility for the devastation suppressed by her rational every day, every night.
He is all that she is made of anymore. That had existed before did no longer. She is an insignificant half, unable to grasp on to what life hurls out day to day.
He looked at the woman next to him and closed his eyes. Most nights he would convince himself that he was happy. That leaving her and moving on had been the right decision. After all, it was what she had wanted.
As the moonlight fell on his wife’s hair it almost looked pearly white. He painfully looked away, wishing he would not think as he did. That when he looked into her eyes he would not imagine them bluer and rounder.
When he had first met her only weeks after Victoire, his first thoughts were that they looked alike. In some ways they did. Therefore, he was drawn to her like a drug. He craved her, and for a while she was enough.
But not forever.
She gets up morning after morning and has to remind herself. She looks to her left and feels for his body, but the other side of the bed is cold. All that is there are sheets and pillows.
The memories rage through her with bitter regret. She breaths slowly, sometimes holding it in so long that she becomes dizzy. But try as she might, she can never hold in the air forever. Eventually it comes billowing out.
She curls up under the covers and pretends he is here. He is stroking her hair and telling her everything is back to the way it was. She tries to ignore the endless silence, but it is so loud. It screams in her ears—it haunts her.
No one seems to understand. She puts on a brave face and embraces the world, yet it is all fake. No one can see that she is dying underneath the makeup and pearls. The photographers tell her she looks better than ever, but she feels worse and worse every day.
Perhaps the compliments were towards her figure. She had stopped eating when Teddy left. Food no longer appealed to her.
Nothing appealed to her except sleep.
At least there she could see him.
Lydia has one hand on her stomach and the other in the frying pan as she makes their breakfast. He stares at his half empty coffee mug with dead eyes. She is talking, but he is not listening. He found it hard to pay attention anymore.
Victoire’s voice had been like chiming bells. He is intrigued by every word she said. She has never just filled silence for the sake of doing it. Her words held meaning. They joined together to plant beautiful ideas in his head.
Lydia is angry when she sees he is not paying attention. He cannot blame her, lately he never did. Every day it has gotten harder and harder to pretend. The fakeness pounded in his skull, pushing its way out to the open. He has almost given up protesting altogether. He has become sadistic by nature, not caring about her feelings.
He had supposed that with the baby he would make things work. But it has only seemed to make him more miserable. He has come to dread the day it will come into the world. He hates himself for not wanting to care for something so innocent. He should want to care for it. He should want to be a father--something he himself never had.
She storms out of the kitchen leaving the stove on. He knows he should get up and shut it off. He should go talk to her in their bedroom and then make love to her. He should enjoy it too. But instead he fills up his coffee mug and sits back down.
There is no fixing broken.
When he had first left she really was happy. For the first time in a long time she was free. She was no longer Victoire Weasley and Teddy Lupin, she was just Victoire. An independent young woman with a career just taking off. Her face was everywhere—in the prophet—on billboards. She was an icon.
Yet as the enjoyment wore off so did her resentment. She began to miss him giving her a hard time. She missed him drunkenly trying to sneak into bed without her noticing at four in the morning. She missed telling him he needed to grow up because they were no longer school children.
But most of all, she missed him screaming back at her.
Everyone has always given into what she wanted. Perhaps it is her beauty. Maybe it is her calm disposition. In truth, she can't be sure. Teddy is the only one who doesn’t. It is what initially had drawn her to him. He didn’t seem to care that she was beautiful back then. He taught her what no meant. He taught her how to argue. How to regret and how to want.
He taught her how to hate.
What had brought them together eventually tore them apart. Their love had been so unbelievably strong—yet at the same time it was very weak.
As time goes on she remembers the night he left clearer and clearer. Her memories work in reverse. Her words haunt her. His tears torture her. She wakes up screaming with no one to hear her.
And all it does is start over again.
As he gets ready Lydia comes up behind him and gestures to the mirror they are both looking in. She reaches up and kisses him softly. She tells him she loves him. He does not lie to her. He tells her he loves her too. What he does not tell her is that it is not in the same way.
He has come to believe that he will never love another the way he loved her. They were the prime example of young and reckless, yet their love was free. But they loved too strongly, too passionately to last as they should have. He misses the feeling of never wanting someone else. He misses holding her when she would cry—when they were taking a picture—when they were sleeping. He misses her face and her smile. He misses her everything.
He often wonders if she misses him too.
And he hates the pang in his stomach when he reminds himself that she doesn’t.
She fixes herself in the mirror. She often pretends that Teddy is watching her. What would he say if he could see her right now? Would he approve of what she had become?
She does not know.
Her big blue eyes stare back at her lifeless. She wishes they were any other color. She wishes she was any other person. She just wants to forget.
Why can’t she move on?
He had moved on. How had he done so? She still felt the pain when she thought of him wedded to another woman. The thought of him sharing a bed with someone else.
On his wedding day her entire family had gone, because they are his family. All of her friends were there, because they are his friends. She had worked. Lately she buries herself in work, quickly becoming one of the most successful models in the business.
Yet success does not buy happiness. Only happiness can buy happiness.
She sighs and grabs her coat. The night is cold, she thinks as she steps out onto her dimly lit porch. She wishes more than anything that she does not have to go.
But Nana Molly is sick, and she has requested all of her grandchildren to be there. Victoire wishes she could avoid them all a little longer. She had purposely missed Christmas, booking shoots out of the country for the entire week. It isn’t that she no longer loves them. She just cannot bear the thought of seeing him again.
He stares at her picture on the cover of Lydia’s Witch Weekly Magazine with lustful eyes. She grins provocatively back at him from it. He remembers this facial expression. He himself had received it for years. She has always challenged him.
It both frustrates and amazes him that one person can be so stubborn.
Over half of their time together they were fighting. She knew how to make him angry. He knew how to make her scream. There are plenty of broken picture frames and broken plates still in a box he refuses to look in from where they shared their tiny apartment for two short years. But through all the rage it was worth it.
The night he first kissed her all those years ago, that was worth it. The night she promised to stay with him after he left school and she was still there, that was worth it. The night he asked her to marry him, that was worth it too.
He is still irreparably in love with a girl more beautiful than life itself.
Lydia bustles into the room. She has tried to look her best. She does look good, she is just not what he wishes to see.
He folds over the magazine and forces a smile onto his face. He wonders if she can see the pain in his eyes. If she does, she ignores it and takes his hand instead. Together they apparate to the Burrow.
She walks up to her grandmother and hugs her. Nana Molly fusses over Victoire’s thin figure, telling her mother that a little weight on her bones would do her some good.
Victoire cannot help but think Nana could do with a little weight as well. Her normally plump figure is lank.
Fleur Weasley eyes her daughter with a worried look. At one time they had been so close. It was her mother that had pushed her to be a model. All her life she was forced to do it, and now that she was Fleur no longer thought of it as a good idea.
She has given up on pleasing her anymore. Her want to make others happy died with her and Teddy’s relationship. She now focuses on herself. It is the only way to ease the hurt.
She sits next to her sister Dominique and Cousin Rose. She barely speaks to them, especially Rose. Because next to her was Scorpius. Every time they would flash each other those secret glances she knew all too well she felt her stomach twist. She yearned for it.
She wishes she is Rose. Rose could have her life—her fame.
She wanted none of it.
Love, which at one time seemed so simple, is all she wants.
Oh, she thinks to herself, how was I so ignorant?
He steps into the crowded house with a forced smile on his face. Harry sees them first. He goes over to his godson and pats his shoulder with a broad grin. He then hugs Lydia and gestures towards her stomach. The two of them laugh, but he does not know why.
He does not care to know why, because right there she is.
Her long silvery blonde hair cascades down her back in the most elegant way. As she tucks a strand behind her ear, he notices that her cheeks are sunken in. She is too skinny, although still so beautiful. She wears a black dress like she is mourning someone, but admires it all the same.
She does not see him yet. She is too busy staring at the ground. She looks miserable.
Could she miss him?
No, he tells himself.
He wonders how he ever had let her go.
Her sister screams his name. She is snapped out of her daydreams. Before she realizes what she is doing she looks around and sees him. Their eyes meet.
Instantly they roam all over his body. His hair is still that silly shade of turquoise. His tie is on inside out. His eyes are still mesmerizing.
And something inside begins to hurt.
She cannot bring herself to say hello as she knows she should. She hears Dominique’s high pitched squeals as she expresses how much she misses him. She feels a sense of guilty pride when her sister addresses his wife in a much colder fashion.
Her mother is watching her. She is waiting for a hint of emotion. A betrayal of her guard. But Victoire does not let loose. She instead manages to summon enough words to excuse herself from the table and calmly walk outside in the opposite direction.
She can feel his eyes on her. They bore into her retreating body like bullets. Every step she takes the wounds get bigger.
It goes like this until all that is left is the hurt.
She has been gone for six minutes and forty two seconds. Every few moments he cranes his neck in the direction she went in, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Fleur is eyeing him in a demeaning matter. It is as if she still believes it is his fault. As if it was not Victoire that ultimately ended what they had. They catch gazes. Her eyes say it all.
He gets up from the table and excuses himself to the bathroom. Lydia does not pay any attention to him. She is in a conversation with Aunt Ginny. He cannot bring myself to sit at the table any longer. She is near, he will not waste the precious little time he has to watch her.
Her every move captivates him. He is mesmerized by her form and flow. The way her mouth upturns when she smiles. The way she softly taps her foot when she is confused. He wants to take it all in again.
He halts when he sees her from behind right outside the window. Her shoulders are hunched, but her head is covered by an old umbrella. Her left hand clutches it while her right holds onto the railing for support.
She is shaking.
He is unable to stop himself. He ignores the voices in his head telling him to stay away. Telling him that all she brings is hurt and disappointment. Instead he listens to the rapid thumping in his chest and slowly steps outside next to her.
She does not attempt to hide it when she sees that it is him. Instead she just looks away, continuing her silent tears as if he had not come out at all. She does not seem to mind his presence, but she also does not seem to appreciate it. He takes off his coat slowly and hands it to her.
She holds it for a moment as if unsure what to do.
She gives it back.
She lets the umbrella fall to the ground. The icy raindrops fall on her at a rapid rate. They are sinking into her skin—into her soul.
Why is he being so nice to her?
She steals a glance in his direction to see him staring at her. She shudders, not sure if it is because of the cold or her feelings. She wishes to tell him everything. She wishes that he will come back with her. They can run away together before they have time to think about it.
This time she looks over and does not look away. She tries to stop her tears, but they are uncontrollable now. They stare at each other for eternity. She cannot look away. She is making up for all their lost time. She wants to run her fingers through his hair and kiss him.
Instead she settles for timidly reaching a hand for his cheek. At first she is afraid he will pull away and slap her. It is what she deserves.
But instead he closes his eyes.
In that moment it all makes sense to them.
She lingers there for a moment before she slowly pulls away, still feeling the warmth of his face on her fingers. She backs away into the doorway and out of the rain, leaving him there.
Softly, she whispers.
We were so ignorant.
Just a little something from the inner workings of my angsty teenage brain:) Hope you like!! I'm thinking about making a prequel for this story....thoughts?