How does that go again, absence makes you—fonder? Wonder? Warmer?
Fonder, perhaps. Especially since it's your first time back in ten years, and for a party too. You like parties; they're the perfect time to make dresses. You practically float up the stairs to the entrance.
"You made it!" your friend says, as you walk through the enormous wooden doors of the Great Hall. He hugs you, and you reciprocate eagerly. You twirl for him, and the butterflies creeping up from the hemline of your clothes flap their silk wings. It took you all day to get this right.
"I charmed my robes to fit the theme," you tell him. Once the words come out, though, you regret them—shouldn't you have asked how he is, first? He is used to this from you, though, because he admires your handiwork.
You try to make up for your blunder. "D'you need any help?" you ask, watching him conjure pinpricks of light for the ceiling. Because he is now a professor, he is expected to be here, although you have a sneaking suspicion he'd rather be at home, too.
"No, thanks. Minerva will have my head if she sees the guests putting up the trimmings."
You want to ask him if it's odd, calling your former Head of House by her first name, but think the better of it. Personally, you can't imagine saying 'Filius' instead of 'Professor Flitwick;' then again, you're not the one teaching here.
"Whose idea was this, anyway?" you say. Neither Headmistress McGonagall nor your friend strikes you as the kind who would spearhead a reunion.
"Lavender and Parvati's," he says, and you share a knowing look. "They'll be here soon, and I doubt that they'll take kindly to how sparse the place looks," he adds worriedly.
"In that case," you chirp, "you need all the help you can get."
Loony, they called you then, and you can't say you hated it. At least you're someone, which is worse than being forgotten. You like being Loony, anyway. Means you're interesting.
It is night time, and your friend is busy welcoming people into the hall, so you find yourself something to do. You move to the refreshments table. Several others were standing near it, and you give them a small smile. A few of them say hello, but nobody strikes a conversation with you.
Apparently, absence makes you fodder, too—you overhear several women talking about him. Not that it's news; he's always been talked about. Today people are speculating if he'll turn up. Not for the first time, you wonder how it must be like for your entire life to be routinely cut open, or for bones of your past to be exhumed like it's nothing.
There was a nebulous sadness to him when you were first introduced. You weren't sure if you should point it out, because people always seem embarrassed when you point things out to them. Grief and longing always seemed to simmer in him, even during moments of triumph. You know this because you watched closely. Even when he didn't know you.
You thought you understood a little when you learned that he too can see thestrals. You thought you understood even more when he tried to prevent you from going to the Ministry. He was protecting you from the Death Eaters. His friends, you correct yourself. Protecting his friends.
You imagined that he missed his parents like you do your mother. He missed them, and didn't want to lose anyone else. But you realized that one can't really miss something they never had, which brought you back to the start.
It has always been your pet project, trying to figure him out. You've yet to succeed.
Your friend, the love-struck fool, is swooning over Hannah Abbott.
"Did she drink Veela blood? It gives you otherworldly beauty for one night," you say, as you both watch her glide across the room. "You should talk to her soon," you try again. He nervously downs his gillyweed and doesn't reply.
"How was your trip?" he says, and you shrug.
"I almost lost my Magizoology license," you murmur into your goblet. He exclaims and asks you why, and you tell him about the superior who got angry because you insisted that Lace-of-Frost, if prepared correctly, attracts Umgubular Slashkilters.
Is this how one grows up? Is it all about making your childhood small? You ask your friend about his work, and you marvel at how similar you are. You've both been diminished.
And then he walks in, and you feel faint.
It's in the past, you tell yourself, as he tries to make his way unnoticed. His untidy mop of jet-black hair bobs along the edges of the room. Your friend sees what you're looking at.
"Well, he looks the same," he says with a wry smile. "You look at him the same, too," he added softly.
"I mean nothing by looking," you murmur. Your friend nods, but it's like he doubts you.
Everything comes with a price, you remind yourself. Your friend, bolstered by your encouragement, is trying to charm Hannah into dancing with him. Unfortunately for you, the price is your solitude.
The whispers you overhear tell you that his presence has been noted, and your heart flip-flops when you learn that he came here alone. Actually, he's with his best friends, but they're each other's dates.
It was infatuation, you remind yourself.
He's obviously distracted, and you try not to just walk over and say hello. It used to be that way, but it's different now. He's married. You amuse yourself by looking for your old professors in the crowd. There are a few—the headmistress, who looks unchanged; your Head of House, to whom you've already said hello; and your Arithmancy professor. You even spot Filch, the caretaker, skulking behind some pillars.
"Hello, Luna," you hear someone say, and you turn to face Hermione Granger. She had a smile on her face. "How are you?"
"Hello, Hermione. I'm fine," you tell her. "You're very pregnant. It makes you radiant, I think," you add, and she chuckles, patting her distended belly absently.
"Our second one. Ron's hoping for a boy, you know, since we already have Rose."
You make a sound of approval. "What will you name the baby?"
"We decided on Hugo, if it's a boy. Holly if it's a girl."
Talk centers on baby names for a while, but that topic runs its course. Your eyes find and follow him as he makes his way out of the room, his head bent and eyebrows furrowed with worry. Hermione sees what you're looking at and she sighs.
"Harry's a bit frazzled," she says. You ask why.
"With Ginny completing back-to-back seasons with the Harpies, and two boys running around at home, he just has his hands full. Ron's mum helps out sometimes, but she can't be there every day. Poor Harry…Ron swears he grimaces every time he sees a broomstick at work."
Infatuation, you tell yourself feebly.
You decide that a walk on the grounds is what you need to clear your mind. You've yet to take three steps out of the castle when you bump into someone.
"Sorry—Mr. Filch," you say, surprised. He scowls and keeps walking, muttering incoherently under his breath. Apparently, you're going the same way, so you keep quiet and walk a few paces behind him.
"Don't you have a party to attend, Lovegood?" he growls. You notice that he's wearing dress robes too; natty, but dress robes all the same. He's also clutching something in one fist.
"I prefer it out here, it's quiet," you say.
"I hate silence," he retorts.
"What's that in your hand, Mr. Filch?"
"What's it to you?"
You don't reply. The evening is turning out far less enjoyable than you thought it would. You are already thinking of a way to tell your date that you're leaving when the old caretaker stops in his tracks. He turns around and opens his hand to show a crumpled, faded old photograph. You peer at it.
It's of a young woman, on a train station platform. She has sharp features and a really long neck. You think that she'd be pretty, if it weren't for her pursed lips, or her frown. She is patting down her coat like she's missing something in her pockets. You're not sure, though, because the picture is not moving like it should—it's stuck on that one scene.
"Who is she?" you ask Filch. He shrugs. After a while, he speaks, his voice fraught with misery.
"I don't know, but I almost did."
It's amazing how you could spend years knowing someone without really seeing them.
"This was when I was young, at a Muggle station called Clapham Junction. I saw her standing there in the crowd," he says. "She's upset because I snapped this without her permission. She was looking for a ring, and to make up for what I did, I helped her find it. She was so thankful she insisted on tea."
"And then?" you prompt softly. You're not sure if his eyes are naturally watery, or if he's about to cry.
"When we were done, she went back to her hotel. Said her fiancée will be waiting."
An unfamiliar emotion is welling up inside you, and you struggle to define it. The caretaker's stringy hair falls down the side of his face, and his features are obscured. You only see the purple veins threading across his wrinkled face. He is kneading his rheumatic hand, and the photograph falls on his lap. You stare at the woman, frozen in a moment of distress.
You take out your wand and remove one of the butterflies on your robes. It folds and unfolds its wings slowly. You take the caretaker's hand and put it in his palm, hug him, and walk away.
Your heart is pounding your chest like a fist as you walk to the lake's edge. The water is rippling, and the moon's tattered reflection is dancing on the surface. He has his back to you, his dark red robes billowing in the breeze.
"Hello, Harry," you say. Your own voice sounds distant to you, like it was brought by the wind. He turns and, after a heartbeat, beams at you.
"Luna!" he cries out. "How are you? I thought you were on an expedition?"
"I'm alright. Here with Neville. My trip ended a week ago." You keep your eyes on his brilliant green ones. He looks the same. More weary, but same.
"Well, I'm glad you're here," he says, smiling. Your heart breaks through your bones, through your skin, and turns into a thousand butterflies. You feel your lips pull up at the sides.
"So you're still working for the Ministry of Goblin Hunters," you say. You are amused at how he struggles against his laughter. You both sit on dry grass and catch up on each other's lives. At one point, you lean your head on his shoulder, and not a peep comes from him about it.
In a book you picked up in London, on your way home from the expedition, you came across something called multiple histories. You couldn't understand much of the Muggle terms, but it appeared to be their explanation for how time travel might work. One thing stood out for you—that at every decision you need to make, your life splits into an infinite number of futures, one as real as the other. Interesting, you thought. Such a long-winded explanation for something as simple as time travel.
But right now, you start to think.
In one future, you stay at the lake until the last guests leave. Your friend comes looking for you and he finds you two standing side by side, just talking. They chat for a while and you all go your separate ways.
In another, you leave him by the lake after a while. You find your friend dancing with Hannah, signal him that you're leaving, and exit the castle with a smile on your face.
You choose the third.
You think of Ginny Weasley, who introduced herself on the first day of classes by hexing a boy who was teasing you. Ginny, who convinced you to join the DA. Of her boys, spitting images of their father, but with their mother's spirit. Of how happy their home must be during holidays, what with cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, gifts, and warm food. Him and Ginny seeing their children grow up and get married. Them growing old together. You think of these as you speak your next words.
"Kiss me," you tell him.
Written for the Points and Prompts Competition. (prompts: day, Hermione Granger, Hogwarts castle, "I saw her standing there in the crowd," Broomstick, Harry/Luna, Kiss Me, Fight or Flight, second person, and Petunia/Argus)
Written for the Disney Movie Plotline Competition. (prompt: Lady and the Tramp – write about someone changing/learning something unexpected)
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