Title: A Life in the Spotlight
Word Count: 1452
Pairing: Lucy Weasley Gen!fic
Warnings: Gore, self-loathing, character death, cutting, not my usual stuff, so beware.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: The gene pool wasn't kind to Lucy Weasley; the paparazzi even less so.
Prompt: My own prompt: "The killer is an artist." -- Dexter
Author's Notes: Originally written for the 2011 nextgendarkfest. I'm pretty sure I picked up the Princess Piggy or Porkchop stuff from A Game of Thrones. I've always had a love for Lucy, and it was fun to imagine her far different than I ever have before. Thank you to the mods for running this exchange again and to almond_joyz for betaing.
"The killer is an artist." -- Dexter
Nobody would care about my shortcomings were it not for my family being big damn heroes in the war that everyone still keeps talking about. I mean, it's been years, people, move the fuck on.
Nobody would care what my cousins and I did, report on our mild transgressions in all the wizarding rag mags or, what is worst for me, put cameras in my face, and then mock my pictures.
You see, we all have our press identities; the horrible things they've dubbed us in order to keep the many of us straight. Apparently our names are too challenging for the dim-witted. Too challenging, or not nearly insulting enough. So, to the adoring demonising masses, we've been dubbed with new identities.
Jamie's the arse-wipe who doesn't give a fuck what they say about him. He's also dead handsome, so mostly they talk about how gorgeous and rebellious and incredibly sexy he is. It's hard to be Jamie. And I'm probably a sarcastic, envious bitch for feeling that way, but I have my reasons.
Al's the adorable boyish one that the press adores for a different reason than they adore Jamie. Al's impossible not to love. Even I love Al, and I hate the world. It's like he has a permanent Patronus Charm in his blood or something. He spreads good cheer wherever he goes. He also makes amazing biscuits; he's the only one of us that Nana Molly's shared her secret recipe with, so I especially like Al… and I like his biscuits even more.
Lily's the disappointment, the slag. She happened to wear a skirt that was too short and her goods got their picture taken; one day you don't wear knickers and someone's there to shove a lens up your fanny. I feel bad for Lily, or I would if she wasn't such a skinny little bitch. I mean she get's a hard road to travel from the press, but she looks good in the pictures, so my sympathy only goes so far.
All of Uncle Bill's children are so pretty that all anyone ever focuses on is how beautiful they are. I mean Dominique hates it that no one ever looks past her face to the fact that she has a brain too. Oh, boo hoo, someone's too pretty. Yeah, I'm feeling lots of pity there. Not.
Of course, my sister's the worst. I mean, not for the press. The press loves Molly. She smiles for them and poses and I think sometimes even Floos to tell them where she'll be so they can show up and give her a few more minutes of fame.
But Molly and I couldn't be more different. She has a beautiful body and beautiful smile, lovely curves and perky breasts.
And I wish I could be her.
I have lank, limp hair. Not even the notorious Weasley red; I got mousey-brown, with just enough curl to be frizzy and unmanageable. Thanks for that, Mum. Molly's hair is a lovely red with bouncy curls.
I wear thick glasses, and I am blind as a bat without them; Molly's vision is perfect. I have terrible skin, I'm covered in spots and where the spots aren't, there are freckles to pick up the slack; Molly hasn't a freckle or a spot. Her skin is lovely.
I'm not sure I would have hated my sister so much if the paparazzi hadn't been so cruel. When I was just a little girl (Molly's two years older), I was the "little ugly one" on a nice day; on a not-so-nice day I was things that hurt too much to recall. Mum and Dad did their best to keep the papers away from me, but there's only so much parents can shield their kids from. I saw them and once I saw the first of them, it became an obsession to see them all. No matter how much they hurt me, something made me look at every single one. It was the articles about my family that kept me coming back; I could have cared less what the Malfoys or Shacklebolts of the world were up to. My world was smaller than that. I clipped them all, every single article about every single one of us, and put them into a shoebox in my closet; two shoeboxes when the first filled up.
If I was the press's puppy-to-kick, Molly was their darling. They loved my sister with her bouncing red curls, perfect curves and flawless skin. They loved her with the same vigorousness with which I loathed her. And with every clipping I collected my hate for her grew. The headlines drew my eyes to them like the worst kind of addiction.
Molly Weasley and her Trollish sister at the Witches' Cauldron dancing.
The picture accompanying that one wasn't even me. Just some random fat girl with spectacles.
Molly Weasley and her famous cousin, Lily (Harry Potter's beautiful daughter), attend memorial to commemorate war heroes.
I was there too, not that anyone noticed. Sometimes I couldn't decide if I wanted them to see me or if I wanted them to go away. Addictions don't always make sense, I guess.
Lucy the Porkchop accompanies her family to Ministry Gala. She must weigh eighteen stone.
Al sent some biscuits to make me feel better the day that one came out. I ate every one, and hated myself more with every bite I took.
And the headlines just went on… Maybe some of them were more figments of my imagination than reality, but I knew what they were thinking. I knew what they all were thinking. They only needed to point their cameras at me, and I could tell. And after I clipped the words, I saw their secrets. The letters--they'd rearrange themselves on the parchment, and show me how people really felt.
When I moved into my own flat, my collection of secrets found their way out of the shoeboxes, and with Spell-o-tape I spent hours papering my wall with them. Everywhere I looked, Molly looked back at me…or Al, or Jamie, or Lily. Or worse, there was my face, too plump, too ugly, too spotty, too freckled, too disgusting for words. But there were always words. Cruel, heart-breaking, horrible words… and I soaked them all up and let them swirl around in my head. They festered like an un-lanced boil, and one day I guess that boil grew so large that it couldn't contain any more of my hatred without spewing forth for all of the world to see.
I invited my sister, Molly, over for tea. I think I hated her most, because the same gene pool had favoured her over me. By rights, she should be ugly too. Or I should be pretty. It shouldn't be so off-centred, unbalanced, unfair. She was shocked when she got my owl, I'm sure. I rarely spoke to my sister, and I'd never had her over to my flat. But she replied with an excited affirmation signing her name to the parchment and adding a little heart after it. I took out my Spell-o-tape and added the parchment to my collection on the wall. One more example of things I was excluded from. Only pretty girls could get away with signing their name with hearts.
I bought my own camera to prepare for my sister's visit. If the press could take their pictures, I could take mine. And I clicked my camera over and over and over again.
One photo of my sister's beautiful hair, ripped out at the scalp and scattered about my carpet.
A photo of the gash I put on her face; no longer flawless in its beauty.
A photo of my sister's foot, where I hacked it off at the ankle; her days of dancing were done.
A photo of her beautiful curvy body, naked and prone, and split from throat to pelvis with her entrails lying atop her flat stomach. And there on her creamy white thigh, just below the red pubic hair that I ran my fingers through, I used my knife to carve my name on her skin… and I signed it with a heart.
It was the prettiest I've ever felt.
Now I'm the press's darling. They simply cannot get enough of me. I often wonder if they'll be there for my kiss. It will be my first kiss, sadly, since nobody makes haste to kiss the ugly, fat girl. I hear it will take my breath (and my soul, if I really do have one) away. I have my doubts I'll feel any different; I've been soulless for a very long time.