Title: Project Quintessence

Author: PageOfWands

Summary: On the heels of her first featured article in the Journal of Magizoology, Luna Lovegood is tapped by the Ministry to join the top-secret Project Quintessence. Her involvement will not only send her into grave danger, but also throw her together with Rolf Scamander, an arrogant Lothario who is her most despised rival. She agrees to set aside their differences to complete their mission, but circumstances beyond her control threaten to jeopardize both the project and the boundaries between her personal life and her professional one.

Length: Rough estimate as of September 14 is fifteen chapters.

Author's Notes: This is a total departure from my last major work, Living Amongst Ghosts. This story is set fifteen years post-DH, and no elements from LAG come into play. It is also quite different from a stylistic standpoint. That having been said, I hope those who enjoyed LAG will give this one a try. Reviews are sweet as chocolate, and just as welcome!


The huge horned owl swooped in at noon exactly, a hefty softbound volume clutched in its fearsome claws. I made a small noise somewhere between gasp and a moan, and the owl changed course in midair, managing to land softly on the table at my elbow. It proffered the journal regally, and I took it.

"Thank you," I whispered, and the delivery animal almost nodded as it took flight.

The cover was a muted scarlet, and in a serious, sans-serif typeface, it proclaimed, "JOURNAL OF MAGIZOOLOGY." Beneath that, smaller, I read "Fall 2013," and beneath that, "In this issue: Luna Lovegood," and my heart leapt. I flipped to the middle section, where a vivid color sketch (which I had done myself, up to and including the charm to make it breathe fire and writhe on the page) stared up at me fiercely. The opposing page held the title of my article: "Green Scales at Skye: A New Crossbreed of Dragon?"

I tried flipping through the journal, but I was too excited to take anything in. So I sat and sipped at a cup of tea. After fifteen years of scouring the British Isles for the discovery that would put me on the map as a magizoologist, I had finally made it. It would only be a short amount of time, I thought, before I could finally afford to go abroad. I loved England, but there were so many creatures to study! I wanted to see the Clabberts of America, the Teboes of Africa, and the exotic species of dragons that were scattered all over the world. This article was my ticket to every country on the map.

A letter arrived from my father only a few minutes after that thought went through my head. I petted his owl on her head before tearing open the envelope.

"Luna, my dearest,

"I couldn't be prouder of you, and I know your mother feels the same way, wherever she is. Your article is the epitome of Ravenclaw brilliance. Next time, I really believe you should explore the multitude of sightings of the Seven-Winged Starhopper. I enclose my notes on the subject.

"All my love,
"Father."

I smiled. Father's ideas never led me to the creature he had mentioned, but oftentimes his conspiracies had a grain of truth in them; the heliopaths that he had famously accused Cornelius Fudge of commanding were not in fact spirits of fire, but merely a previously undiscovered species of winged horse. The helian, as it came to be known, was the vivid color of an orange sunset, and its mane, tail, and wings were a clear sun yellow. From what I'd read, it seemed that helians preferred blisteringly hot climates, and so generally only lived in equatorial deserts. Yet another creature I was dying to see in person.

The first ten or so pages of the journal had been blank, as all peer-reviewed journals of wizardry were when printed. They would fill themselves in with readers' letters when they were received at the British Society of Magizoology Headquarters in Derby. I flipped through the pages now. There was nothing in them --

-- nothing except a single letter, positioned carefully at the head of the letters section. The writer must have received a pre-publication copy of the journal; there was no other explanation for the speed of its appearance. The typeface was rather larger than I would have expected, and I caught my name immediately.

"DEAR SIRS,

"While I shall not dispute that Luna Lovegood is a dedicated and observant naturalist, her conclusions in this case are far too hasty. It is a well-known fact that dragons are fussy breeders, and that a single scale's misalignment will oftentimes render a female mateless. How, then, are we seriously to believe that Hebridean Blacks and Common welsh Greens, two species of dragon that could not be less alike in appearance or temperament, have interbred?

"Is it not more likely that Ms. Lovegood has observed a Hebridean Black in its adolescent phase, when its trademark black scales are mottled, as she has described? As for its 'musical call,' this is certainly a matter open to interpretation. I note that Ms. Lovegood did not enchant her illustration to replicate the roar she supposedly overheard; is this a deliberate omission on her part, so that she may be the only magizoologist whose opinion can be relied upon in this instance?

"I am not attempting to quibble with a woman whom I respect. I simply do not believe that the evidence for a crossbreed is sufficient for publication."

"Yours very truly,
"ROLF SCAMANDER "Lifetime Member, International Fraternity of Magizoologists"

It took all the control I had not to fire off a Howler to the letter-writer straight away. The letter was devious in its multiple layers of insult. It implied that I was unfamiliar with the breeding patterns of dragons, not to mention their appearance before reaching maturity. It accused me of keeping some of my research to myself, when in reality, I simply had not magically recorded the dragons' cry and had not wanted to rely upon my own (possibly incorrect) recollection. And, of course, he had managed to remind everyone that I was the daughter of the publisher of The Quibbler, a magazine uniformly looked down upon by the magizoology community.

Rolf Scamander was, of course, the grandson of the most celebrated magizoologist in all of Great Britain, if not the entirety of Europe. Newton Scamander, author of the seminal work "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," had groomed Rolf for the naturalist trade since childhood, or so the legend went.

In a fit of pique, I went to my shelf of backdated Journals of Magizoology and found one from only three months prior, in which Rolf Scamander had had the featured article. I flipped to the "Contributors" section in the back and found his page-long biography. A black-and-white photograph of the man himself waved and preened from the upper-right corner.

"ROLF ANSELM NEWTON SCAMANDER

"Rolf Scamander, son of Milton Scamander, the former British Ministry of Magic ambassador to Germany, and grandson of Newton Scamander, the famed magizoologist, has been described as 'the finest magizoologist in the field today.' Mr. Scamander graduated from Hogwarts (Prefect, Slytherin House) in 1995 and immediately upon leaving school took a position in New Zealand with the Society for the Preservation of the Antipodean Opaleye. Graduating swiftly from his mentorship to the Associate Director position, he soon left to pursue other, more challenging opportunities: a year-long stint in the Acromantula Observation Post in Borneo, three years heading up the Demiguise Protection Office in Tibet, and two years in the Office for Graphorn Control in Switzerland. In the time between assignments and since then, he has traveled the world, making extensive observations on nearly every species of magical beast to be found on the globe.

"Mr. Scamander is notable for being the youngest-ever contributor to this Journal; his article 'Befriending the Porlock' was accepted for publication in the summer between his fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts, a summer he spent at his grandfather's house in Dorset, studying the Porlock that lived in his family's stable. He joined the International Fraternity of Magizoologists at the tender age of twenty-two, making him the fifth-youngest person ever admitted. He has been recognized by the Wizarding governments of Australia, Germany, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Malaysia, New Zealand, Switzerland, Tibet, and the United Kingdom for his steadfast work in the fields of protecting endangered creatures from magical poaching, and protecting humans from dangerous magical creatures.

"In his spare time, Mr. Scamander enjoys broom racing, and sings with the National Wizards' Choral Society. He is an enthusiastic and generous supporter of the Hogwarts Annual Fund, as well as Quidditch Town, a foundation that funds a Quidditch camp in Yorkshire for impoverished Wizarding children from London. He lives in that great city with his pet Krup, Scoot."

I glared at the photograph. He was, undeniably, one of the most attractive wizards I'd ever laid eyes upon . . . but he was attractive in that dangerous way, when you know the wizard in question is well aware of his effect on the opposite sex. I had no doubt he'd slept his way through half the female staff members at each of his far-flung outposts -- he was just that kind of man, I could tell.

And now, apparently not content with his fame, fortune, and pet Krup, he was maligning my research! I had spent six months living in a cave on the Isle of Skye observing dragons, and I was not about to allow him to shed doubt on my conclusions. I would have to write a rebuttal for the next issue, which the Journal would undoubtedly publish: in-fighting sold copies.

But I wouldn't be writing anything tonight -- Hermione had insisted upon a big dinner celebrating my first featured article, and it would serve as a de facto reunion of our little faction of Dumbledore's Army. I didn't get to see the Granger-Weasleys that often, nor the Potters, nor Neville, so it was a special treat for me.

I was a hopeless cook, so I brought a bottle of wine to Hermione and Ron's house in Devon. I Apparated to a spot a few houses down, in a little ramshackle shed that stood apparently abandoned on the corner -- a deliberately placed Apparition spot. Any closer to the house, and I would have Splinched. What with Hermione's job in the Wizengamot and Ron's career as an Auror, not to mention our actions in bringing down Voldemort, there was all too much chance that a rogue wizard or witch would attempt to attack their family. Hermione had been working hard since the day they'd bought the house to keep its location unknown to the larger public and protected by the most complex, esoteric enchantments. Since she was, after all, Hermione Granger-Weasley, she was by and large extremely successful at it.

I walked confidently in the direction of their abode, in spite of the nagging sensation I had that I was walking in quite the wrong direction. As soon as I set foot on the flagstones that led to their front door, a clamor of barking could be heard emanating from the general area of the first floor. Red eyes stared at me from underneath the front porch. When I reached the front door, the knocker Transfigured itself into a likeness of Godric Gryffindor, which glared at me silently.

"I swear by my wand, I mean no harm to any person under this roof." I took out my wand and touched it to the knocker. "Should I be lying, may my wrongdoing be turned upon me." I shivered slightly as the spell took hold; the oath I'd just taken was not just words, but a magical vow that would, if Hermione's magic held, come true.

Finally the door swung open, and a light ringing sound accompanied my entrance. There were, of course, no dogs inside the house; Hermione never would have allowed them, preferring as she did the company of cats and children. "Oh!" came Hermione's voice from the kitchen, and she rushed in a few moments later, calling behind her, "Ron! RON! Company!"

"Hello, Hermione," I said, smiling. "I like the new security measures. The Directional Confundus is particularly effective."

She laughed. "Would you believe it's even fooled me a few times? I come home from work at the end of a long day, I start walking towards my house, I start feeling like I'm wrong, and I turn around and head the other way! Once I even had to have Ron come and walk me home, I was so tired. Well, let's not stay in the foyer! There are refreshments in the den."

"Where are the kids?" Rose, who was about seven, and Hugo, about five, were nowhere in sight. Rose was in many ways her mother in miniature, but Hugo was a surprisingly shy, thoughtful little boy who was an absolute pleasure to look after.

"In bed." When she noticed my confusion, Hermione blushed. "I . . . dosed them. I'm not proud, mind you, but this is to be an adult dinner party, and I can't have the kids up and needing me or Ron. So I gave them a teensy bit of Sleeping Draught, and they'll be out till early tomorrow morning."

"Goodness me, that's one of those parenting tips the Ministry doesn't let on about," I said, sitting in an overstuffed armchair and taking a few crackers from a perfectly placed platter.

"There are a lot of things no one talks about till you actually have children," Hermione explained.

"Did you tell her about the Sleeping Potion?" interjected Ron, who had apparently finished in the kitchen. "That's nothing. Tell Luna about using Silencing Charms on them in the grocery store when they were little."

His wife flushed. "You try taking two preschoolers shopping!"

"No thank you, dear," Ron said, taking a seat by Hermione and slinging an arm around her shoulders. "Daddy doesn't do shopping trips. Daddy does daily routine instead." He turned to me. "That was the tradeoff -- I never have to take them shopping for clothes or food or anything, but I have to get them ready for school every morning and pick them up every afternoon from aftercare."

"Sounds fair," I offered. Sometimes I marveled at the fact that the two of them were actually parents. In many ways, they were still the kids they'd been at Hogwarts.

"As long as Hermione helps them with homework, it'll work for me," Ron agreed. "Honestly, the things they learn in Muggle school! Just the other day Rose came home chattering about sign-a-doors."

"DINOSAURS," Hermione corrected through clenched teeth. "And it wouldn't hurt you to learn a little something about non-magical history."

Ron grinned at me. "We've still got it, eh, Luna?"

I couldn't help but grin back. There had been a time, long, long ago, when I'd thought Ron Granger-Weasley (well, just Weasley, in those days) was rather fetching. Briefly, I'd entertained the notion of dating him myself. But it had taken me only a couple months to realize that he belonged to Hermione, utterly, and that nothing would ever change that.

"What about you?" he continued. "Seeing anyone?"

"No," I said shortly. My last relationship, with a Spanish wizard who had also been studying dragons, had ended rather spectacularly when he had proclaimed his undying affection for me. I had not reciprocated, so he began walking towards an enclosure that contianed an injured Hebridean Black. It took seven witches and wizards to restrain him from entering the pen.

Hermione, immune to the hint of my tone of voice, soldiered bravely onward. "There's a very handsome young attorney who just started doing prosecution for MLE. I think he was a Ravenclaw as well! Would you like his address? You could send him an owl."

"No, but thanks, Hermione. I think I need to be single for a while. I've always felt I'd know it if the right wizard came along, but I'm starting to think my standards are too high, or maybe that I'm holding all these men at arm's length, you know?"

Hermione, who had never dated anyone but her husband, nodded gravely. Mercifully, I was saved from further conversation on the subject by the selfsame ringing noise that had accompanied my entrance.

"That'll be Harry and Ginny," Ron said, extricating his arm from his wife's shoulders. "D'you like that ringing noise, Luna? Apparently it's a Muggle custom. Hermione invented a spell to do it without electricity."

"Very clever," I said, which it was. Before I'd finished speaking, Ginny had blown into the den, Harry following behind her at a more reasonable pace.

"Hello!" she cried, and I leapt to my feet to embrace her. She had been my first real friend at Hogwarts, and my entree into Dumbledore's Army and her circle of friends and family. I would never forget that.

"I brought photos of the children," she said. "Since tonight is adults-only, we dropped them off at Mum's. I'm sure they'd love to see you, Luna, but it's nice not to have to be Mummy for a night."

I doubt the Potter children even remembered me -- they saw me a few times a year at most -- but it was sweet of her to say so.

"Congratulations on the article, Luna," Harry said seriously. "That's quite an accomplishment."

"Cheers, Harry," I said. "Maybe I'll finally be able to leave this island!"

He looked puzzled. "Whyever would you want to?" He was, in that respect, the consummate British wizard: he would go abroad on holiday, perhaps, but his heart was lodged firmly in England -- Godric's Hollow, to be precise, the town in which he lived with his wife and three children.

The bell sounded again -- Neville -- and Hermione got up to meet him. Soon the six of us were chatting away comfortably in the den. When the talk turned to the children, Neville and I drew back a little and had a private conversation.

"Journal of Magizoology -- that's a huge get, Luna. Well done you." Neville, besides being the only other singleton in this little group, was also the only other one of us in academia. He often understood me better than any of the others. Thankfully, after about half a decade of none-too-subtle attempts to hook us up, Hermione had come to understand that we were content just being friends, and I treasured his presence at these gatherings.

"I'd feel better if Rolf bloody Scamander hadn't written in to knock my legs out from under me," I muttered.

He whistled. "Newt's son?"

"Grandson," I corrected. "A real heavyweight."

"Then you ought to feel even more proud of yourself," he offered. "Look, the big names only write in when you've really broken ground, and they almost never have anything nice to say."

"He wasn't just unkind, Nev! He said my evidence was insufficient for publication!"

He stared at me for a moment. "Really got under his skin, did you?"

I spluttered, attempting to rejoin, but Hermione broke in there, having just remembered that Rose had requested an introduction to Herbology, and did Neville have time for it before Hogwarts went back into session?

With the others engaged in conversation, I was left alone for a few moments to my thoughts. I was not the same witch I'd been at Hogwarts. Luna at age eleven would've been absolutely oblivious to criticism -- it hadn't been part of my life with my father, and I'd never really known any peers till I'd gotten to Hogwarts.

By age fourteen or so, I'd figured out when other people were being unkind to me, but I'd let it roll off my back. It wasn't hard -- I truly hadn't cared about their opinions. I didn't identify with the girls in my dormitory in the slightest; it was almost as if we lived on separate planets. They didn't understand me, nor I them.

When I entered the field of magizoology, though, it was as if some wall inside me cracked. I had something in common with these people, namely a deep-seated love of the world around me, and I could finally relate to my peers. I was no longer the oddball girl who floated through the corridors; I was a respected member of an elite community of smart, dedicated professionals.

That was at least part of the reason why Scamander's letter had hit me so hard. I'd become accustomed to a certain amount of professional courtesy, and he'd completely violated that trust.

No, I wasn't the same dreamy girl who'd gone through Hogwarts. Dreamy naturalists generally got injured or killed within a year or two, something I'd learned quickly. I had never really regretted the loss of my teenage persona . . . but I would've given a lot to care as little about Scamander's attack as I had about the girls who'd tripped me in the Great Hall or the boys who put toad guts on my chair in Potions.

For better or worse, I cared what Rolf Scamander thought of me. If I ever met him, I thought, I'd certainly give him a piece of my mind.