a/n: part two's here, yay. i really just don't know what this is; leave r-e-v-i-e-w-s, ah luffles them. yeah, that's it, on with the story.

disclaimer: j.k. rowling ©

Dropping the stale gum back into the box, she shivers and closes her eyes, and memorizes the contents.

Molly doesn't talk to her after that. Instead, she spends more time at bars and clubs than ever before, and Dominique is slightly relieved. She can look through his objects and rage and dry heave all she wants, and Molly won't be there to watch her with her bloodshot eyes.

Dominique still doesn't cry. She just upchucks the food she had for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, and yells at the objects and sinks into her bed, sunken eyes staring at the ceiling.

Death is something she's never experienced before, obviously. She's never had to worry about her family and her friends suddenly being gone; she's never had to worry about dealing with this sort of excruciating pain.

Sure, she's imagined it. Everyone has, right? Imagined what it would be like without her parents, or her brother, or her annoying-as-hell sister. Imagined the consequences, what she'd have to do, wondered how she would take action. Yeah, she's imagined it.

But not Lysander. Never Lysander. She never thought the pain would be this intense, this palpable. This…emotional. She hadn't prepared herself for this—Lysander was always forever in her mind, wasn't he?

She sets her lukewarm coffee mug on the table, the heel of her hand pressing into the edge of it, the pain making her feel the tiniest bit better.

She lifts her hand off the table, staring at the red mark on her hand.

Without thinking, she brings her other hand down onto her arm and stares as she claws at the flesh there. Her long fingernails leave red lines running this way and that as she runs the finger down her arm, pressing hard. The line looks white, stark white as she presses down, but when she let's go it's an angry, flushed red and the numbing pain feels morbidly fantastic.

Her gaze burns into her arm and leaves white lines after the red fades and the hurt dissipates into nothingness.

She looks almost demented, with the dark rings circling her eyes and the pale, sunken skin and the limp, tangled ringlets. She looks at herself in the mirror and fails to see the once-vibrant girl she was.

She hovers over the box, illuminated memories flashing through her mind. She rubs at her forehead warily and his young face appears mercilessly in her mind—and for the first time in years, her thoughts are golden.

She's more weakened by this than anything else. She remembers a time when she used to feel invincible, immortal, like nothing could ever stop this constantly running train—but now she's just a sad girl – so, so sad – with a shattered glass heart and hell, it feels like she's going insane.

She lets out a shaky breath and her fingers roam gently on her face, tugging at the loose skin, at the face that looks like it's aged a good ten years.

Molly is out tonight, just like she is every night. It's past the sixth month mark and is steadily approaching the seventh, and Dominique still hasn't cried or left the building. Instead she cooks Ramen that Louis gets for her and eats with wooden chopsticks, and sits trembling, every day.

She's fallen into routine. Every morning she will wake up to a sunny day and she will make herself a cup of bitter coffee. (She refuses to use the sugar – he used to sugar, and he only.) She'll take an hour long shower, attempting to drown herself in the droplets of crystalline water and when she fails, she will dry herself off and shuffle into the living room.

The living room is cluttered with his belongings and his paperwork, and everything in there is his, his, his. She spends every day rifling through a section, and when she gets through them all, she starts over again.

Muggle doctors diagnose her as having post-traumatic stress disorder, her brother tells her. She doesn't think so. This, what she has, is depression. As she sifts through candy wrappers and old photographs and school essays, she takes swig after swig of whiskey—it's become her new favourite drink. Her hand clenches around the neck of the bottle and doesn't let go, not once, sloshing whiskey onto old papers. She doesn't care and just lifts the bottle time and time again to her chapped lips, and feels the burning sensation of the liquor in her throat, feels the fire burning fiercer every time she drinks more.

Today is an ordinary day. She wakes up, goes through her daily routine and time passes much faster with the help of alcohol. The hour hand on the clock approaches nine PM, around the time Molly gets home to clean up a bit—and then go out some more.

Dominique's hands clench around the papers she's holding as she sits silently, waiting for her cousin's arrival. The door opens quietly and the sound of shuffling feet is heard.

And then there are whispers. Dominique hears two voices, not one, but two, and promptly drops the papers onto her lap. She presses her palm to her mouth and shudders.

"C'mon," Molly whispers, slurring, and Dominique listens as the boots thump across the ground, "my room's right down the hall."

"Alright," a man's voice replies agreeable, sounding just as slurred as Molly does, and Dominique swears to herself – she recognises that voice.

It's Lorcan. Goddammit, it's Lorcan – and he's just as smashed as Molly is, if not more. And if Dominique doesn't stop this, there are sure to be tears of regret in the morning.

She stands up suddenly, the papers rustling and falling to the ground. Swallowing, she heads into the main hallway, where Molly and Lorcan are drunkenly making their way up the stairs.

"Molly!" Dominique calls shrilly, noticing the slight crack in her voice. Molly turns around, grinning at her cousin dazedly.

"Dommy! How ya doin'? Wanna join me and L-L-Lorcan?" she loops an arm through Lorcan's as he waves at Dominique enthusiastically. "We're gonna have fun in my room." The drunken girl smiles and winks, swaying on the spot.

"Molly, I really don't think that's a good idea..." she warns, voice growing steadily stronger.

Molly frowns at her. "Why not? Sex is fun. Don't be such a party pooper, Dommy!" With that, she and Lorcan charge for her door, giggling, and lock the door behind them.

A part of Dominique tells her she should just leave them alone and let them pay for the consequences, but this is Molly and Lorcan and if it were anyone else, she wouldn't care.

But Lysander would. She allows herself to think of his feelings, the ones who really matter, and reluctantly, she points her wand at the door, and mumbles,

"Alohamora."

Something pricks at the back of her eyes. Furiously, she thinks of something else. She can't, not now.

And there they are, sprawled on the bed, thankfully not doing anything. Instead, Molly is openly crying, and Lorcan is too, and they both shake with silent sobs. They sit there, side by side, tears leaking out of their eyes, Molly staring down at her lap as tears drip from her nose, and Lorcan, eyes closed, hand in Molly's wet one.

Dominique stands there and watches as they cry, watches as the visible pain on their faces worsen, watches as Molly whispers something along the lines of I can't, I can't, and then Dominique crosses the room, and pulls them into a hug.

The tears wash away her icy exterior, her unfeeling facade, and for one night, it's like she cares.

She sits, kneeling, eyes pricking again.

"I- I don't-" Molly wakes up beside Lorcan the next morning as Dominique carries in breakfast. Molly's voice cracks. "What are you do - ing?"

"Making you breakfast," says Dominique steadily, balancing the plates and utensils on her hip and other hand grasping the handle of the pan. "I mean, the bacon and toast are kind of burnt but I s'pose you could just scrape that off - and we're out of pumpkin juice so here's some orange juice instead."

Placing the plates on a stunned Molly's lap, she spoons hot food onto the two plates and busies herself, avoiding Molly's bloodshot eyes.

"Oh, and drink this," Dominique pushes a glass of suspicious-looking liquid in Molly's hands, and places one on the bedside table for Lorcan. "It's hangover potion," she explains as Molly blinks at it.

Dominique, attempting to smile, trudges out of the room and once she's out of earshot, lets out a sigh.

She's choosing to busy herself and take care of Molly and Lorcan so she doesn't have to deal with the pain herself – alone.

No, she's never particularly liked Molly, or really cared about her, and Lorcan's just Lysander's twin to her – but they're there, so she can try.

She slumps against the refrigerator, feeling the cool caress of the metal against her back as she clutches a dishrag.

"Lysander," she says finally, fingers finding their way to clutch her necklace, the one he gave her. "I wish you were here. I really, really wish you were here."

She presses the necklace to her chest, feeling her eyes flutter shut.

"I do too," Molly's weak voice brings her out of her reverie, the now-sober girl coming to sit beside her.

"Yeah," Lorcan unsticks his throat, almost crying again, "I miss him too."

And that's all they have to say – and suddenly they're spending the day in one another's presence, retelling stories and reminiscing and almost-but-not-quite laughing.

Dominique thinks they've made progress, finding her voice, and launches into a story of her own. Molly and Lorcan stare, riveted.

It's an incredibly strange feeling, she muses, vision blurring slightly as she looks down at the box.

Within days, they've progressed to something close to friendship. Molly stops going to clubs every night, Lorcan stays over more often than not, and Dominique, Dominique leaves the pile of belongings and papers gather dust in the living room.

The trio prefers to just drink cups of tea or hot cocoa and telling stories and old tales of their years at Hogwarts. It might not be entirely comfortable, but these are the people who, along with her, have been scarred the most. The rest of the family appears to have truly gotten over it, going on with their regular lives - even Uncle Rolf and Aunt Luna have gotten past the grief and denial, just accepting it - and Dominique thinks she'll /never/ be able to do that.

"Remember in Seventh Year, when you and Ly and I pranked Lorc here, and told him NEWT scores had come out and his were all P's?" Molly smiles affectionately at Lorcan, her blue-diamond eyes glittering.

Dominique grins at them, seeing Lorcan's hand cover Molly's as he shrugs sheepishly.

"I was gullible back then," he gives Molly a crooked smile and quirks an eyebrow at Dominique.

She laughs openly, short fringe brushing into her eyes. "Still are, Lorcan. Still are."

"Hey!" he protests, lips curved up in a sweet smile. "No, I'm not!"

Molly rolls her eyes, smirking as her copper red curls bounce as she giggles. "I'm sorry to inform you, Lorc, but you really are."

He opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out. They watch each other for a couple of moments amusedly, and then they all burst into laughter. And Dominique feels the pain in her chest lessen, and his laugh reverberates along with theirs.

She blinks.

One day, almost a year later, she finds Molly and Lorcan sitting together by the cherry tree outside, her legs sprawled across his lap. Molly lies down, her back against the grass, blue-diamond eyes shining and letting out an open laugh. Lorcan laughs alongside her, his back pressed into the bark of the cherry tree, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on the strip of flesh between her shorts and t-shirt.

Dominique smiles, and knows they will be okay. Molly and Lorcan – they'll be okay, together.

She isn't too sure about herself.

The single tear slides down the length of her nose and splashes onto the box with a sense of despondency.

Serenely she sighs, forcing a sad smile on her face and whispering a couple of words to the wind.

(She grows old, and never once considers falling out of love.)

a/n: well, i finally, finally finished. thank god. i had to post something - it's July 15th.

the end of an era. please don't favourite without reviewing.