Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Warning: Dark.

You're twenty and one day, you take the scissors to your hair. And you cut and cut and cut and lock after lock of blonde hair falls to the floor and after you're done, you look in the mirror and don't recognize the hallowed eyed woman who stares back.

And you smile because that's fine.

You haven't really recognized her for a while now anyway.

O.

Sixteen and a cigarette dangles from your red painted lips.

You inhale the bitter smoke and smile at your cousin's boyfriend.

(He can't take his eyes of you.)

o.

Twenty-three and this time there's been a little too much vodka and dancing and Lily is barely resisting saying something as she holds your hair back as you throw up.

"Just say it," you groan as you rinse your mouth out with sharp peppermint mouthwash.

She leans against the wall, eyes shadowed, position tense.

For a moment, you wonder if she actually is, and when she opens her mouth, she doesn't fail you. "What the hell are you doing?"

You raise an eyebrow at her, daring her to continue that train of thought.

She does.

"You're being very self-destructive and I'm afraid if you continue down the path you're going, nobody will be able to save you." She says this flatly.

"Like I need saving," you snarl in return and you don't, don't, don't.

O.

"What are you doing to yourself?" your sister demands as you stumble from the broom closet.

Seventeen this time and your skirt is rumpled and your hair is everywhere and you smell of peppermint and a musky male scent that defiantly does not belong to you.

"I don't know what you mean," you say lazily as your lip curls into a sneer. "And if you'll excuse me, little sister, I have class to get to."

You pretend you don't see the hurt that flashes in her eyes or hear when she calls to you, "You're going down a dark and dangerous path, Molls."

o.

You're twenty-four, and you wake up in bed to a stranger with blonde curls and oh, dark mark, this stranger is unmistakably female.

But when she nestles up to, her bare skin warm against yours, you decide maybe you don't care.

To bad she'll be gone in the morning.

O.

"Is this some sort of rebellion?" James snarls and you smirk, run your hair through your hair, slowly run your tongue over your lip, sweat clinging to your skin.

It's the summer of your eighteenth birthday.

"Whatever do you mean, Jamie?" you purr and you give a delightful laugh as he stares at you in disgust before turning away with a final, "Merlin, Molly. When did you become such a bitch?"

You smile.

(Don't show weakness. They'll break you if you do.)

o.

"We're worried about you, Molly," Albus offers meekly, looking anywhere but you.

"I'm twenty-two," you point out, lips twisting up in a wary smirk. "I don't need someone worried about me."

Albus shifts his weight, studies his feet with renewed interest before blurting out, "It's what family does."

You frown, voice dripping of golden poison as you say, "Go crawl back in whatever hole you came from, Albus. I could care less."

It is then that your cousin looks at you, and instead of anger like you were expecting (hoping), there's sympathy in his emerald eyes. "I pity you, cousin. I really do."

He leaves and you're left alone and you throw your glass to the ground, smiling at the satisfying sound of glass breaking. You don't need pity.

O.

You're twenty-one and. "You're terrified," Lucy points out and you stubbornly shake your head as you inhale the bitter smoke of your cigarette.

"I'm not," you insist and it's not the first nor will it be the last.

You're not, you're not, you're not.

(But yeah, yeah, you are.)

"It's okay to be," Lucy continues like you haven't said anything. "If I were in your position, I would be scared to."

"But I'm not," you snap, crossing your arms definitively over your chest. "Possible jail time is nothing to be scared over."

Lucy gives you a knowing look, smiling a little. "You may pretend otherwise but the fact is I am your sister and I know you better then you know yourself."

You look away silently, hiding the small upwards tilt of your lips.

o.

"What the hell did you do?" Dominique storms into your room, an angry whirlwind of long legs and blonde hair.

You're at nineteen now and you're young and wild and out-of-control. "Whatever do you mean, cousin of mine?" you taunt and you smirk as a flash of anger lights up her brown eyes.

"Don't play innocent with me, Molly," she snaps and you look at her, and she looks at you and the silence is suffocating.

After a moment you drawl, "I honestly don't know what you mean, Domi."

"Oh, so the fact you took my very wasted girlfriend to bed has escaped your mind?" She is quiet and there's a look of coldness in her eyes that you have never seen before and you'll never admit it, but kinda like it.

"Oh, that?" You wave your hand dismissively. "It was just one night. Don't go get your knickers in a knot, Dominique." You pause. "She was quite fun though."

It is silent and when you chance a look at her, there is hate in her expression. "I hate you, Molly. I really do." She leaves you and you're left alone and you force a smile and this wasn't what you wanted, it really wasn't.

O.

At twenty-five, you're tired, so very tired and you don't care anymore, you really don't.

(But you haven't cared for a long time. Not really.)

You sink to the floor, rest your head against your bed, and what's the point of anything anymore?

"Molly?" It's Lucy. Your sweet, loyal sister who no matter what you do, say, will always be there for you. "Are you okay?"

And it's such a stupid question (you're not okay. Far from okay.) that it makes you laugh, makes you give a strangled sob.

"No, I'm not," you admit, the confession falling from your lips without any prompting and you lean your head on her shoulder.

For a moment, she runs a hand through your hair, mumbling meaningless words of comfort before she says, "But you will be."

And you believe her.