The Manor lies sleeping but conscious, basking in the late morning sunshine.

Humans cannot hear its purr, be they wizards or Muggles. They can feel it, though; their limited senses perceive it as quiet contentment.

The House Elves can hear it as clearly as the voice of their Master commanding them to iron an invisible crease out of his semi-formal morning robes, or the breeze rustling softly in the curtains. The House Elves have the ability – unbeknownst to their Master – to talk to the Manor in a language mysterious to anybody but them.

This is why the Manor knows that, soon, there will be guests.

The highly polished parquet floors creak slightly as the Manor stretches contentedly, like a cat – the House Elves are excited, and they have just brought the latest news: more rooms are to be opened and aired and prepared for unexpected, early guests. Wizards and witches who will be spending days at the Manor, and nights.

The Manor senses the House Elves' eagerness, their anxiety, their loyalty. Then, an unusual note in the buzz of anticipation, a silvery note of... glee?

The Manor thrives on its occupants' emotions. The more sentient beings it holds between its walls, the stronger it grows. An expectant tremor runs through its walls and down to the foundations.

In the breakfast parlour, on a small rosewood table bristling with ornaments, a porcelain figurine of Cupid loses its precarious, tiptoe balance and topples a group of three miniature bronze statuettes – a nymph, a satyr and a stern-looking Charon – before it succumbs to gravity and falls backwards, taking with it a tiny, clay Hathor and a Baby Heracles wrangling a snake.

oooo

In her office overlooking the quiet end of Diagon Alley, Luna Lovegood was sitting at her desk, frowning at a scroll of parchment. She wasn't usually given to frowning or worrying; bad moods, anxiety and a plethora of other, negative emotions were, after all, a result of Nargle infestation and thus easily dealt with.

The figures her accountants had sent her an hour ago, though, were unpleasantly… real. Neatly written in Jasper Swizzle's cramped, pedantic hand, they showed that The Quibbler's popularity was steadily decreasing. It had been the wizarding world's favourite magazine in the years after the war, due to its uncompromising stance even during the darkest times, and because it fearlessly criticized Kingsley Shacklebolt's half-hearted reform efforts in the wake of Voldemort's downfall.

Later on, when Rolf Scamander had joined the staff as chief editor and sometimes-contributor, The Quibbler had begun to focus less on politics and more on the mysteries of magical flora and fauna – Rolf's breath-taking photos had contributed a great deal to the magazine's popularity. Last summer, though, Rolf had decided that spending nine months out of twelve at a desk wasn't his cup of tea at all.

Luna sighed. Maybe she ought to have been a little less understanding of her boyfriend-cum-chief-editor and insisted that he simply invert the outdoors-to-indoors ratio. Instead, she'd instantly agreed to his plans of extensive travelling and taken over most of his editing duties. She'd also hired a few freelance collaborators, among them Neville Longbottom, now a renowned magical botanist and Herbologist. Still, the numbers were steadily declining. Something had to be done. There had to be some unique and fascinating topic that was bound to draw people's attention... Nobody seemed to be interested in politics these days, and the latest sighting of a Chthonic Bludderwantz, vividly described by A Shropshire Lad*, hadn't turned out to be quite the scoop she'd expected. Maybe she ought to have asked the boy's name...

Idly playing with her Butterbeer cork necklace, Luna gazed at the shop front right across the street; while one part of her brain was busy wondering whether the necklace would retain its protective properties if she Transfigured the corks into, say, pearls, another was contemplating the question whether Severus Snape, owner of the shop, would continue working there – he was, after all, probably not going to need the income from Prince Potioneer, seeing as he'd become Narcissa Black's husband in a few...

Luna's hand twitched with a powerful spasm of inspiration, and corks went flying in all directions, merrily bouncing off walls and furniture.

oooo

Tongue peeking out of the left corner of his mouth and eyes half-closed in concentration, Neville Longbottom spelled the picture of the Plant of The Month (a Catfish Bruttavista, the apple of his eye and latest addition to his greenhouses – most people thought it was hideous, but Neville was entranced by its bizarre charm) to insert itself right into the centre of the text he'd just written. Another millimetre and maybe one more fraction...

"All right, just a bit more to – bugger! Buggering buggeration and..." He glared at the owl that had swooped in through the window and upset the papers on his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that his carefully researched and lovingly written article on the Bruttavista had floated right into a box of fertilizer he hadn't had the foresight to close, and was now slowly disintegrating, giving off a gentle aroma of rotten eggs.

Shoulders slumping, he loosened his death grip on his wand. "I suppose it's just one of those days," he muttered.

The owl hooted softly.

"And you're one of Luna's," he addressed the bird. "I bet she's reminding me that the article you just destroyed is due tomorrow, and now I've got to rewrite it. Which is all your fault, well mostly, and I really shouldn't be giving you a treat."

The owl clicked its beak and nearly slashed Neville's finger in its eagerness to snatch up the treat. It managed to give him an almost apologetic look as it held out its right foot.

"All right, all right." Neville stroked its back. "I'm not holding it against you."

Thus reassured, the bird took off, while Neville was already busy detangling Luna's quirky Protection Spells. You had to know her well, or dismantling them would take hours. As things were, he was done in a mere five minutes, spared a smile for the envelope Luna had fashioned from an inside-out milk carton (to protect the contents from the prying eyes of Invisible Blinkbusters, a particularly horrid and dangerous magical species engineered by the Unspeakables on Rufus Scrimgeour's behest – Blinkbusters could penetrate almost any substance but would infallibly be repelled by even a microscopic amount of lactose), and pulled out the message.

His eyes grew wider as he read the missive, until they bulged not unlike Luna's.

Still shaking his head, Neville grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from the bowl sitting on the mantelpiece, lit the fire in the grate with a flick of his wand and called, "The Quibbler, Luna Lovegood's office!"

The only partly rhetorical inquiry as to whether she'd finally done it and gone completely round the bend died on his lips when he saw her expression of eager happiness. It almost seemed to give a golden tinge to the green flames. Neville sighed to himself. It was, quite obviously, just one of those days.

"It's one of my better ideas, don't you think?" Luna asked by way of greeting.

Neville dropped to his knees, swore silently when his right kneecap encountered the end of the poker, and counted to ten. Then he counted to twenty, took a deep breath and said, "Better isn't exactly the word I had in mind."

oooo

"For someone who's repeatedly been called the brightest witch of her age," Hermione Granger muttered to herself, "I'm acting like a complete and utter idiot."

The cover of last week's issue of Witch Weekly was peeking out from under the slim case file Law Enforcement had sent up an hour ago. "Because," Hermione continued, addressing the potted plant on her desk, "I honestly don't want or need to learn all about the upcoming wedding."

Unsurprisingly the plant, the name of which she kept forgetting even though Neville had told her at least ten times, didn't offer any kind of response, unless you counted another mauve-coloured bloom slowly unfolding. Maybe it did mean to contribute to the conversation. "If," Hermione said, stroking the newly-unfurled petals with her forefinger, "I hadn't kicked him out, there wouldn't be any pictures of him and that stuck-up bitch. So it all seems to be my fault, again. Just as it always is."

She really ought to read through the case file; the first Wizengamot hearing had been scheduled for the early afternoon, and although she was by no means a stranger to cases of domestic violence, it wouldn't do for prosecution to appear in court unprepared. With a sigh, Hermione took a sip of cold coffee, made a face and prepared herself for the feeling of bored disgust that always overcame her when she had to deal with similar cases.

Fifteen minutes later she was still gazing at the smiling face of Narcissa Black, formerly Malfoy, and thinking very uncharitable thoughts indeed, as the blonde turned to gaze up adoringly at her soon-to-be husband's face.

"Because," Hermione told the plant, which luckily didn't remark on the non sequitur, as that would've considerably shortened its life expectation, "I don't think that marriage is going to last much longer than a Fortescue sundae at noon in the Kalahari. Not a bad comparison, actually, because the resulting mess probably won't look much different."

She briefly considered hexing the picture but decided against it – pissed-off though she was at the tangible proof that Severus Snape was actually able and, worse, willing to settle down with a woman provided she wasn't Hermione Granger, she felt that firing a Bat-Bogey Hex at a two-dimensional image might be incompatible with the level of maturity she flattered herself to have achieved, even though there was no other witness than the plant.

She got up and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. Back at her desk, she resolutely shoved the magazine under a stack of papers. "And anyway, if hexing were to actually happen, it would be directed at Severus and his snobbish fiancée. Not that I'm going to do anything of the kind," she added virtuously, giving the plant a sideways glance, "but I feel bloody well entitled to imagine it. It's called mental hygiene and supposed to be very healthy, you know? Come in," she called, when a knock on her office door interrupted the somewhat one-sided conversation. "Oh, hullo Neville! What brings you here?"

Why, she mused ruefully while Neville enclosed her in one of his best-friend bear hugs, couldn't she fall for this lovely guy? He was straight, he was good-looking in a reassuring kind of way, he was kind and clever, and funny to boot, and he… Well yes, there was that. He wasn't her type in the least, nor was she his – they'd actually discussed the topic at length after a drunken one-night stand following her break-up with Ron.

"I've got a favour to ask," Neville said after accepting a cup of coffee and settling himself in the chair facing hers. "And I want you to promise, or make that solemnly swear, that you'll hear me out and, more importantly, that you're not going to hex me."

Hermione took a sip of coffee and grimaced – it had gone cold again. It always did. "You know I wouldn't hex you."

"Not under normal circumstances, no. But considering what I'm going to tell you, I wouldn't be so sure."

"You do seem rather worried." Hermione leaned forward, the better to scrutinize her friend's face. "You haven't done anything illegal, have you? Not that I wouldn't try to help you, but favours…" She shrugged. "Professional ethics and all that, you know."

"I haven't done anything yet," Neville replied ominously. "But… I just talked to Luna. She's quite worried, you see – sales have been dropping rather dramatically."

"And you mean to cast the Imperius Curse on people so they'll buy her rag – oh, sorry!" Hermione gave his forearm a mortified pat. "Always putting my foot in it, aren't I? I completely forgot that you're working for her now, and-"

"Not working for her, strictly speaking," Neville interrupted her. "It's just freelance, and I'm not contributing any, let's say, esoteric stuff. But you're right about more people needing to buy The Quibbler, and me playing a part."

"Come again?"

"You were insinuating that I was going to get people to buy that, erm, rag, by casting an Unforgiveable."

"I was joking, Neville. Usually you're able to appreciate… Wait a minute. Don't tell me you're actually going to-"

"Now don't be silly. I promised to help, but I'm absolutely sure it's not illegal as such, no."

"Well that's a relief. Still, you seem to think I'm not going to like it."

Carefully putting down his cup, Neville shook his head. "Wrong. I'm sure you're going to hate it. So, do you promise you won't hex me?"

Hermione rolled her eyes but held out her hand nevertheless. "I promise." Neville's calloused, firm grip briefly enveloped her fingers. "I hope you're sufficiently reassured. Now shoot."

oooo

"You promised!" Neville said.

Eerily reminded of the eleven-year-old whom she'd Petrified, Hermione wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or cry. "I'm sorry, Neville. Really, really mortified, not to mention terminally embarrassed. But" – she winked at him briefly before looking back at the menu – "look at the bright side. You were a frog for, what, two minutes tops, and now I'm buying you lunch at the Crooked Wand. If you look at it this way, you can't say fairer than that, can you?"

"Considering that I'm going to have some of that 1994 Brunello, probably not. Look," he said, nodding his thanks to the waiter who handed them their aperitifs, "I know that Snape is a touchy subject."

She snorted. "Understatement of the century. Like saying that Voldemort had a bit of an attitude problem."

"Okay. Okay, so it's an extremely touchy and dangerous subject. But please try to see it from my point of view – you being so secretive about it doesn't exactly make it easy to understand what makes it so dangerous. Besides, I was in Guatemala at the time you broke up, and all I know is hearsay. You clamp shut like an oyster every time the topic comes up, and it's not as if I could ask him. Or would want to," he added, cringing slightly at the mere thought.

"It's not rocket science, Neville," Hermione snapped. "We had an affair, I got too close, he ran for the hills. End of story."

"Uh-huh. So what you're really saying is, you loved him, and you think he loved you back, but not enough to make it permanent. And now he's getting married to Narcissa Malfoy."

"Something like that, yes," she said wryly. "To tell you the truth, I don't think I'm over him. Not that I tried very hard, mind you, because I thought…" She downed her Campari Soda in one go and glared at Neville.

"That he'd see the error of his ways, eventually, and come back to you," Neville finished quietly. "Darling, I'm sorry, I honestly had no idea-"

"It's not the end of the world." It was a lie, of course, and Neville didn't look as if he believed it. "Anyway, let's abandon the topic of my abysmal relationship skills – I don't quite understand how Luna got it into her head that I could help you with this. Nobody even knows where the event – oh shit, I can say it, I know I can." She gestured to the waiter for another drink. "As I was saying, nobody knows where Severus' wedding is going to take place."

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"Oh." It was hard to feign indifference, but she was doing her level best.

"It's at Malfoy Manor."

God alone knew – and was probably shaking his head in disapproval – what she would have turned Neville into this time, had not the waiter shown up with their starters. His slightly ironic "If I may, Madam?" as he cautiously manoeuvred the plate past her trembling wand hand was enough to prevent her committing the atrocious gaffe of hexing her guest in a public place.

It was certainly not enough, though, to calm her down. "Impossible!" she hissed at Neville, who was looking more than a little clueless. "There's no way Luna knows…" She fell silent abruptly and bit her lip.

"Well she does, although I have no idea whom she had to bribe in order to find out…" Neville cocked his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "I don't think we're talking about the same thing here, darling. What is it Luna can't possibly know?"

Congratulations, Granger, she thought. Subtle as always, Granger. And now you're also blushing – great job. Now he knows there's something else, and he won't rest…

"Actually," Neville said slowly, "I've been wondering why Luna told me to enlist your help – as far as I'm aware, you'd rather eat slugs than ask Snape for an invitation, let alone two, and the same probably goes for Narcissa. I could've asked Draco, of course, but he still starts swearing if one as much as mentions your name in his presence – that fine he had to pay for the flying Ferrari isn't forgotten, obviously. So that leaves-"

"All right," Hermione said. "I'm going to say this just once, and I don't want to discuss it. Lucius and I had a… a thing. I don't know how Luna got wind of it, but that's obviously the reason why she thinks I might get him to sneak me into the event. Us, I mean."

"A… thing?" Neville said after he'd finished coughing up the wine he'd inhaled. "A thing? You and Lucius Malfoy had a thing? When?"

"About a year ago," Hermione said reluctantly.

"A year – Merlin on a broomstick, darling, you really do like your rebound sex, don't you? That was just after you and Snape broke up, right?"

She nodded, a little stiffly. "It may have been, yes."

"So?"

"So what? Look, Neville, it was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and I said I don't want to discuss it, remember?"

"There's no way we're not going to discuss it, darling. Were you drunk?"

"Of course I was drunk. Drunk, unhappy, miserable, and bloody well humiliated, if you must know. The breakup had been so bad, and I felt… I just needed to reassure myself that somebody, anybody really, still thought I was desirable."

"As far as I know," Neville ventured cautiously, once she had calmed down a bit, "Lucius Malfoy doesn't exactly sleep around, contrary to popular opinion. So you used him and dumped him? Now that must've gone down extremely well."

"Believe it or not, I didn't care much about Lucius' feelings. I wanted a really good fuck, I got a phenomenal fuck, and that's it. Flowers and jewels didn't change that, either."

"He sent you flowers?"

"God, Neville, you're such a bleeding heart!"

"And jewels?"

"Yes, he fucking sent me jewels, and flowers, and I sent them back. I told you, it was a one-off."

"But phenomenal."

She felt her lips curl in spite of her. "Yes, well, it sort of was."

"Was it as good for him as it was for you?"

"Neville, I warn you…"

"Well that's extremely reassuring. So he'll probably be eager to give you that invitation, won't he?"

She left the tiny green frog in his glass of 1994 Brunello for a full fifteen minutes before she finally took pity on the intoxicated amphibian.

oooo

*A Shropshire Lad is a cycle of sixty-three poems by the English poet Alfred Edward Housman (26 March 1859 – 30 April 1936). Some of the better-known poems in the book are "To an Athlete Dying Young", "Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now" and "When I Was One-and-Twenty". The collection was published in 1896. The Chthonic Bludderwantz has absolutely nothing to do with Housman's poetry; mention of A Shropshire Lad as Luna's source is due only to Major Writer's Silliness (the silliness is major, not the writer)