Moon's Daughter

Disclaimer: I don't own anny of the Harry Potter characters except Isadora and the Jones. The original characters are J K rowling's , all hers.

The cows munching on the green grass looked at our tiny red car with such enthusiasm– the same enthusiasm a little kid has when they tell him he'll have carrots for dessert. I sighed and turned to Dad, who was busy humming his favorite song– a song which up until now I cannot describe nor name it. . . . yet it sounds familiar, but faraway.

"Dad. . . Are we there yet?" I asked him, frowning lightly. I was tired and icky and smelly. Dad was in no better conditions himself. That was our seventh day in the car, with nothing but our old clothes and ten bags of potato ships and a couple of three-litter sodas.

"Not yet. . . we're in Kansas though," Dad said, smiling grimly. His voice sounded like an old rusty can, like the one Mom used to put her dead tulips on. She loved tulips, but when they were dead she said she could not bear to see them every morning. So she buried them on a rusty tin can faraway. . . . On the forest next to our yard.

"Tulips are wild things themselves," she used to say. "Wild things, things that no one seems to tame, nor to change, belong in forests and cascades and nature overall." I devoured her words of wisdom like a hungry pig that has not eaten in five days.

"Ok. . ." I sighed and closed my eyes. I tried hard to fall asleep, but instead, memories flush through my head like the water down Mom's favorite cascade. And other things flush too. . . mostly through my nose.

When Mom left, I didn't know what to fell. I, deep inside, felt as if a part of my body was snatched away from me, under fishy circumstances. What fishy circumstances, one might ask.

Well. . . .

First, three days before Mom left our house in Maine, a man with super dark-red hair came to out door. He was dressed in the most peculiar clothes: a swiveling maroon cloak, tight leather pants, and a white shirt that had a puffy and lacy collar and puffy cuffs. I laughed when I opened the door and saw him. The man's eyebrows went up high above, like when my Mom used to listen to my Dad's rants about the neighbor's chickens making a mess on our yard.

Dad came to the door and saw the man. He went as pale as flour, and his eyes slightly popped out of their sockets. I love my Dad's eyes. They're deep green– emerald green, though he hides them under black-tinted glasses. He has this tiny mustache that makes him look funny, but handsome. My dad is handsome.

"Percy. . . what are you doing here?" Dad asked, his lips quivering as he spoke these words. The man looked down to me.

"Is this your daughter?" 'Percy' towered over me by a few feet, but he made me feel like a little child when he looked down at me. He made me feel like I was worth nothing compared to him. Dad noticed how uncomfortable I was, mainly because I kept bitting my lips.

"Honey. . . Go tell Mom the Jones' chickens came to do their business again," Dad barked. I was scared. Dad never ordered me to anything like that. But I did as he told me, hoping this guy was not some debt collector because Dad had a hard time with money in this season.

I skipped across the front yard, and looked back at the man before I opened the front gate. He looked back at me, his eyes deep blue and cold. I got the shivers and ran after Mom.

I found Mom at the Tipsy Hill, which is a few yards from our house. Our house is hidden behind the hill, which isn't that tall, but does tower above Dad for our six feet. Mom was up at the top. Even if I was at the bottom I could still see her yellow hair turn golden because of the sun kissing her wavy, crazy locks. She was sitting, her pale arms hugging her knees, her light-blue dress turning slowly into a deep, rich blue color. It was spring already, and with the beautiful sunsets came some harsh winds. The thin blue dress provided little protection from the cold, so Mom was naturally shivering when I hugged her.

"Sweetheart! What's going on?" Mom had an amazing sharp sense that told her when something was bothering Dad or me. Her eyes, which had been closed, opened alarmingly as she looked at me. I hugged her tight, and wished to forget about the man and Dad's frightened face, and to just loose myself in Mom's silver eyes. . .

"There's some guy. . . Kinda spooky. . . Dad's socks are jumping from fright," I told her, feeling a bit drowsy. Mom picked her arms from her knees and snapped a couple of fingers at me.

"Stay with me sweety. Tell me more. How does the man look like?" Mom's voice, which was always covered in sweetness, patience, and sing-song– sometimes dreamy– had lost all that sweetness and patience and all the other things that made her one-of-a-kind. Instead, she sounded alarmed.

"Well. . . Kinda tall, with dark -red curly hair, and he wears glasses like Dad's, and he has cold blue eyes, and wears the funniest clothes I've ever seen," I told Mom, my heart thumping. This was not good news, clearly, because Mom's dreamy eyes were now like Dad's– popping out of their sockets and dark.

"Funny clothes, you say?" Mom stood up, and dragged me with her as we ran down the hill and back home. I noticed that she was barefooted. But that did not stopped her. She kept on running. She ran and I ran behind her. We arrived in less than a couple of minutes, to find dad sitting on the steps of our front porch, his arms hugging his head which was resting in his lap.

"Harry? Harry, sweetheart, is something wrong?" Mom's voice was worried, like the time we found a stray dog– he had been just run over– and the vet told us he would die (in the end we kept him since he stayed alive, miraculously enough, though he did die a couple of years later from a heart attack).

"They're back. . . They're frickin' back into our lives! He's back Luna, he's back. . . For you and Isadora." Dad's voice sent a creepy feeling down my spine.

Most of all because Mom's name was Willow , not Luna. Not that I knew back then the whole truth, of course.