White Walls
So this is where the Nargles and Wrackspurts led her . . .
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
This was a figment of my imagination. I found this idea quite appealing to write sometime - appearantly that time was now.
She sits there – staring fixatedly at the wall and wonders where she is. It was white - pure white - as fluffy as a hare's fur. She was forced into this . . . box of a room, and into a jumpsuit. All she remembers was having a pleasant chat with a muggle in a café just a bit off London.
. . . . . .
She stood in a park in the dead of winter watching the surroundings. She eyed the mistletoe, and then muttered to herself, "Nargles infiltration."
"Fancying a cup of tea, I suppose?" asked a nice-looking man about her age, and was looking at her with interest. He shook her out of her reverie.
"Sure." she said with a little nod, grabbing her bag and following him to a café.
The building was pleasant, yes, with the snow falling lightly on the scenery – the little smoke puffs of the chimney and where the grass would have been, was a sheet of snow. How she loved the winter.
He ordered a cup of tea for the both of them. They talked about the weather, music, and she found out he was training to become a professor at a university around here.
"Nargles got to you, yes?" she asks in her distant voice and took a sip of her tea. He laughed at that and smiled at her.
"Nargles? I've never heard of such things!" he said in a mocking voice. Luna frowned.
"It's not nice to mock people. Nargles are known to infest mistletoes and cause mischief. There was mistletoe back in the park – maybe they got to you." she said in a serious tone – well, as serious as her voice could go. He laughed another booming laugh.
"Luna – you said your name was – I believe there are no such things. There must be proof," he says, now pointing his finger at her, "and evidence to confirm the existence of this so called 'Nargle'." he said with a flourish, clearly pleased with himself. The wrinkles on her face got deeper.
"Hm. Perhaps you have a bigger infestation of wrackspurts? They make your mind all fuzzy." she says, in her own way of retorting. "And it's not polite to point at people, Henry."
"You're mad! Are you trying to scare me?" he said – but this time a hint of fear crossing his face, "I know what you are; a witch!" He was standing up at this point – pointing his finger in her face, "Witch!"
The other customers looked in horror – while others watched with an amused look on their faces. The manager took notice and got involved.
"You lot! Scatter! I don't need disruptions in my café!" the manager said, before promptly pushing them out into the building.
Henry the Muggle took out a mobile tellyphone of his and made a call. Luna then wished she took Muggle Studies – she always wanted to know how those worked.
Then she walked on the sidewalk – thinking of nargles and wrackspurts; a bit childish for her age of twenty-one – admiring the snowy landscape.
There was then a sound of a siren and she later found herself here in a white boxed-up room.
. . . . . .
She was shaken out of her reverie as one of the guards led her to the door.
"Somebody's here to talk to you." said the guard, holding her with the littlest amount of skin of his fingers as possible.
Luna felt a bit happy that someone would talk to her, yes, but who could it be?
She found herself flopped down on a chair and face to face with Neville Longbottom; her former friend.
"Hello, Nev. How are things?" she said with her airy sort of voice – one that indicates that one is not fully here. He looked up at her.
"Luna! You're locked up in a muggle mental institution! And you're wondering how I am like I'm over for Sunday Tea!" he said with a bit of hysteria in his voice.
She knew this of course, that Neville might have had a bit of a crush on her, yes, but she never knew he would have worried himself too much about her. She was fine, but the rest of the world didn't think that.
"Nev, I am completely fine – a bit mad, yes, but I'm fine. I really like my new room, too! It's as white as the snow outside, a hare, a tiny sliver of silver like my eyes!" she told him, trying a bit too much to be reassuring.
They talked and talked, but a couple hours later the guard told Neville that visitors hours were over. She placed a sloppy kiss on his forehead, and then said, "See you tomorrow!"
Then she was back in her little, white room – with the walls staring right back her. Her thoughts were back to nargles and wrackspurts, blibbering humdingers and crumpled-horned snorkacks into a long, peaceful sleep.
It was discovered today that Luna Lovegood, 21, passed away last night in a muggle mental institution, (where they put crazy, delusional people in), due to post-traumatic shock . . . .
I killed off Luna! Sorry, I found the idea good inside my head. How come when you think of something, it doesn't always seem as you planned?
Again, I am a very messed up person, yes? Review on your own free will.