𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 alexandria stone paints her lips
in hopes that one day they will leave
a stain deeper than the ones upon his skin.
𝐨𝐫
𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 sirius black doesn't know if
he loves fucking her or fuck...
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ALEXANDRIA STONE had once been the timid, kind girl that lived up to the accurate Hufflepuff stereotype. She could remember it vividly—walking into The Great Hall for the very first time with double french braids and freckled cheeks. She had been the epitome of innocent and good.
It was the summer between third and fourth year when that all changed. The girl with blonde waves peddled down the street with a friend group of muggle girls on her fourteenth birthday, a basket full of fresh flowers. They were handpicked for the man she'd come to call "dad."
Little did she know, he'd never get to appreciate the lovely array of wildflowers because as Alexandria turned down her street, she was met with the sight of the dark mark lingering above her home. She could only ignore the burning in her legs as she peddled as fast as her sage green bike would take her.
Bouquet of flowers in hand, she threw the bike to the ground and ran inside.
There he was, Alexander Stone, the man she was named after, the man who'd witnessed her first steps, the dad her father never could or tried to be, and yet he was jealous enough to have him murdered.
Lifeless.
On their living room floor.
All Alexandria could do was drop to her knees in pure agony and cry on her father's shoulder for the last time. That was how her mother found them when she came from her afternoon shift at the local nursing home.
Hours blended into days until Alexandria stood over her father's grave, dressed in black and placing those handpicked wildflowers on the headstone.
