Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
A/N: This isn't properly British.
Draco and Luna are about halfway up the zigzagging path when the front door abruptly blows open, smoke billowing out all the windows and cracks in the roof. Draco stops mid-step, staring at the rook-shaped house in utter shock. Luna sighs, "Ooh, he must be baking for us. That's nice of him," and tugs Draco along by the hand.
Draco does his best to shake himself down to reality; a feat he's getting good at. He reminds himself that he has to stop reacting to every bout of Lovegood insanity; there aren't enough hours in the day for that. The little steps under the front door are cramped and uncomfortable, and Luna drags Draco inside. She sings immediately, "Hello, Daddy."
"Hello, darling," Xenophilius returns, at once stepping forward to embrace them both at once. Draco stiffly accepts the hug, but his arms stay down at his sides. Luna squeezes his hand—her way of saying 'thank you.' When Xenophilius pulls back, he examines Draco from head to toe, deciding, "So, this is the man that's stolen my little girl?"
Draco inwardly flinches at the phrasing, even though the tone is in cheerful jest. He gets flashes of the manor, of Luna through the bars. Luna squeezes his hand again—a reminder that things are all right. She's perceptive in her insanity and always there for him when he needs her, even though he wasn't there for her back then. He wasn't with her then. But he still... still...
Luna takes him to the table, a crooked, wooden, round thing in the center of the room. The chairs around it don't go together, but Draco takes one silently anyway. He tries not to stare too long at the spiraled staircase or the array off odd-looking books. He keeps his fingers intertwined with Luna's under the table—he'll need her strength to get through this.
Xenophilius serves them a plate stacked high with what appears to be toast, despite the polkadots. He hands out smaller, mismatched plates and cutlery and places a number of jars on the table, all containing unidentified liquids. Then he takes a seat in front of them, happily serving himself several pieces of toast.
Draco waits for Luna to serve him—he assumes she'll know what he likes out of this. He has no idea what any of it is. She finds him a blue-polkadot-ed slice and spreads a pink solution on it, before taking her own green piece. Draco cuts his carefully into evenly shaped pieces, waiting for Luna to eat first so he knows it isn't poison. Although, if it was, she'd probably have pre-ingested the antidote. And he really wouldn't want her to die from his cowardice. Perhaps he should eat first. He stares at his plate while he decides, and then Xenophilius breaks the silence by asking, while Draco lifts a piece to his mouth, "So, how are you two doing? Everything working out?" Luna nods, already chewing on a bite. Draco's tastes strangely like coffee cake. "Tell me everything. How're your conversations? How does your home look? How's your sex life?" Draco abruptly chokes on his food.
"Very good, lovely, and wonderful," Luna fills in, patting Draco intermittently on the back. "We have very interesting debates; I'd love to share one with you sometime. And I've just painted the dining room to look like Bora Bora as I imagine a locust would see it. And the sex is simply divine—Draco's been very kind to accommodate my bondage fetish. He even let me tie him up over the coffee table yesterday—it was quite fun."
Draco takes a large sip of the water Xenophilius floats over, although his cheeks are red more from his girlfriend's words than choking. While he gathers himself, Xenophilius comments, "Perfect. It's a terrible thing to have a boring lover. Would you like to take the chest upstairs? The one I told you about last summer? I'm afraid I haven't used it much since your mother passed."
Luna tilts her head at Draco, watching him dreamily. He covers his face with his hands, utterly ashamed. He's sure whatever's in the chest he's fine with—he's perfectly happy to strip Luna down, chain her up, and fuck her over every service her insane mind decides it wants, but that's not at all information he wants to share with her father, of all people. Luna reaches over to brush Draco's bangs out of his face lovingly, wondering, "Would you be interested in puppy play?"
Draco resists the urge to glower at her and instead tries to look pleading. They'll discuss this later. She tilts her head further; he rolls his eyes and nods curtly, trying not to look across the table. He tries to also explain with his eyes that he'd prefer her to be the puppy. He's sure she'll break him down and get a collar on him eventually, but for now, he'd prefer to be the one leading her around on a leash. He tries to get that image out of his mind—he shouldn't be thinking about this. They're at dinner, for goodness' sakes. He shifts awkwardly in his chair, coughs once, and says stiffly, "We'd be grateful to receive your generous gift." He uses his best diplomat voice.
Xenophilius laughs jovially, insisting, "This one's a keeper!"
"I know," Luna beams. Her hand trails under the table to squeeze his thigh—he holds it specifically so it won't go any further.
When Xenophilius excuses himself to go 'change the pumpkins over,' whatever that means, Draco leans over to whisper in Luna's ear, "If you're a good girl for the rest of dinner, I'll happily fuck you in the flowerbed outside the moment we leave. ...But if you insist on remaining so naughty, you'll be sent to the couch with your chastity belt on, so I suggest you cut it out."
As Xenophilius returns, Draco pulls away, and Luna's grey eyes glint in delight. She takes her hand back to her plate, asking innocently, "How've you been, Daddy? The garden looks wonderful."