Hello my lovelies!
As I was working on Requiem and chatting with another writer about our favorite characters, pairings etc. Luna Lovegood came up and I thought back to this little oneshot I started on ages ago. I decided to pick it up again and it just flowed. Big thanks to nyxblack for helping get my creative juices flowing again.
I am noticing that I really like to write about the after effects of the war. And this is a perspective that I feel we don't get to see that often.
This is cannon compliant, and a more subdued view of Luna than we often see in fanfiction.
Hugs and Kisses,
zsarah
Prompt: The rook after the war
She stood in what used to be a lush orchard and looked on the wreckage of what had once been her childhood home. But now the trees were burnt, the ground was cursed, and most of the house lying in rubble around the foundation. The ward stones had crumbled to dust and the protective magic that had slowly been decaying since the death of her mother was now gone. A pit formed in her stomach; standing within the property-line and not being able to feel the remnants of her mother's work was like losing her all over again. Her father had left the country rather than face her and her friends, and now at 17 she had the duty to do what she could for the seat of her family.
In her own youthful musings she had thought the Rook was an apt place for Lovegoods to live. It was fitting for those that saw beyond the black, white, and grey of conventionality to live in a house that resembled the most clear cut of all chess pieces. The simplicity of the of the outside hid the colorful soul of her family inside. The two dimensional chess piece housing people who saw the world in its technicolor uncertainty, was both the most cliche and unexpected story of them all.
It was her family's gift from magic, knowing that which was beyond knowing. Having the uncertainty of the knowable as clear as certainty of the unknowable. It made the world simple, the probabilities stretched out in front of her. Human emotions and motivations as easily summed up as the behavior patterns of an animal. Easily seen and understood, but not easily spoken of or explained.
With all the metaphor and comparison it made them a difficult and obscure lot. Lovegoods had always been a small clan, and their peculiarities kept their circle close, forging strong ties to the few they called friends and allies. They were an absurd and obscure lot, and it took a special sort to care enough to get to know what lay behind the facade of insanity.
It took sixteen years and a war for her to find a handful of people who saw a glimpse of her truth. And it took the same for her, a Lovegood to see that hard lines of reality do exist beyond that which one like her could see. Her friends were what was holding her together now, and she could see the ties that held them together helping them to heal as well. The threads binding them together only pulled tighter and woven thicker, forged in the fires of war and pain.
She had hoped to immortalize that friendship on her walls and ceiling. Having felt the storm brewing long before it crashed down, she knew the exact probability of all of her friends coming out alive. She could predict and accept the unlikelihood of them all surviving, but she never once fathomed that her land, legacy, and family history would be a casualty of war.
It had been but a month since the final battle, and everyone was still reeling from the waves and aftershocks of grief. Her friends; the one she had taken the time to immortalize, were now so different from those images she had painted. Those images destroyed like the people they used to be. They were each changed and scarred, and each of them were coping in different ways.
Neville, the face of the young resistance at Hogwarts, had previously reminded her of rich soil; warm and soft and life giving, teaming with untapped power and potential. His face now showed the scars his soul wore hidden. When she had first met him, his potential and possibilities were innumerable. Now there was a great gorge, a canyon worn down by the rivers of war. There was only one way for him to go now, time would soften him, and his soil would turn rich again, but until that river reached the end of its turns, he would remain as he was, hard, bitter, unidirectional, and stoic.
Ginny, she was their fire and she was very nearly quenched. She had carried the same warmth as her mother, but during the war she burned so bright that there was almost nothing left to feed her flame. She was so fragile now, with the loss of her brother and the loss of her friends that a small breeze would whisk her away like breath to a candle flame. Only time again would allow them to feed into her what she had lost and hopefully she would once again be their fire.
Ron and Harry were always two sides of the same coin. On the surface two very different young men, sharing in so many similarities and so many differences they at first seemed random. But they truly were equals in measure, what one had the other lacked, and what they shared gave them their strength. They were always brave young men, but now duty and honor weighed heavily on their shoulders and they were off finishing the war they had entered into together. They were seeking danger, finding the last death eaters, and bringing justice like the roaring lions they were.
Hermione was their compass, keeping their path straight when others would wish to wander. She was spinning now, directionless, burying herself in fixing people and the world. It would take until the gaping wounds in their society had healed themselves some for her to start to heal herself. The eldest of their group was a testament to what one could survive and come out stronger. She was cracked, and that she stood next to Luna at the house where she was betrayed showed that clearly on her face. But the unfiltered and logical slate that had been her friend was left reeling in the chaos that war and prejudice bred.
The two women stood looking over the place where one weak man had been willing to sentence three teenagers to death for the love of his daughter. Only one wall of her home remained, towering over them, dark and looming. Hermione raised her wand and Luna felt the magic pulse from her friend. She watched out of the corners of her eyes as the wrackspurts fled from their minds and they focused on the task at hand.
The one remaining wall stabilized and as Luna worked her own magic, the rubble was slowly sorted into piles to later be used in the reconstruction of her home. The charms weft through the air, driving away the dark atmosphere and fixing what was physically broken in such a tangible manner that Luna found herself wishing that the scars on her own soul could be woven back together so easily. But as she looked at her friend next to her yet again, she knew that just because it wasn't as quick as the wave of a wand, healing for herself come.