The second part to my little gift fic for birdsofshore. This part is from a different PoV, and owes its existence to the squees birdsofshore made when she read Part One. And really, this is the part with the mini-spoilers for Sleeping Dragon. The poems were written quickly: I hope they're ok.
Thanks again to Evilgiraffe82 for the speedy pre-read. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
The Redemption of Gregory Goyle - Part Two
Luna had long sought comfort in the stories her father told her. It was easier to look for Wrackspurts than to acknowledge that sometimes people's minds were stretched and stressed until they broke. It was easier, too, to ponder on the presence of nargles rather than dwell on the cruelty people would display to someone even a little bit different.
In the second year of medical school though, Luna had been struck by a powerful epiphany, while reading an textbook about the workings of the mind. Seeing it all laid out in a flowing set of theories, like a map, she realised this was a journey she wanted to go on. There were so many mysteries, so much fragility to help shore up; so many questions left to ask.
Luna found herself falling into the world of the mind, and she loved it. She pushed and delved but always felt there was more to discover. She found that she had lost her need to see her father's creatures, and was never entirely sure if she believed in them or not.
One day, she had enjoyed a cosy meal with Harry and Draco, and was curled up on the settee in their beautiful, if formal drawing room, smiling to herself at the straight lines around her, so evocative of Draco's elegant sense of aesthetics; it brought to mind his neat script and careful word choices. They had both disappeared to fetch more wine – a feeble excuse for a quick kiss in the corridor, she was sure – when her eyes fell on the slim volume lying on the coffee table, its cover a murky blue-grey, simple white print spelling out the words 'Falling from the cliff' and the initials 'G.G.' She picked it up and began to read through.
By the time a slightly ruffled looking Draco and Harry returned (she hoped that all they had been doing was kissing, but didn't let her mind dwell on it for too long), Luna was immersed in the strange, sad poems of the book. They used simple words but were filled with the joys of the tiniest of moments, the sadness of a life.
"Oh, I see you've found Greg's poems," said Draco. Luna stared at him.
"Greg?" she asked, her voice faint.
"Greg," repeated Draco. "Big man, quiet—"
"Former minion," added Harry, which earned him an elbow in the ribs. "You can borrow it, if you want."
"Greg," said Luna, as she brushed the book with her hand.
A few months later, she bumped into Greg, quite literally, at Pansy and Blaise's home. She found herself shy around him, which was so unlike her that it in of itself rendered her speechless. She watched him, quietly, as he sat in a corner and talked a little to a few of his friends. How had she not noticed the way his eyes swept across the room before? Suddenly, she saw how they rested for a fraction of a second on every tiny detail, before moving on.
That night, when she got home, slightly tipsy and flushed with the joy of having been with friends, she opened up the book of poems again, dipping in at random. The book's spine was well creased now, the odd splatter of coffee and wine marking the pages. She fell asleep with the book open on her chest.
Luna didn't really have the time to dwell on her private thoughts when she had so much to do at work. There were so many people with fractured corners to their minds, after the war, and some would pop up years later. Eventually, she managed to gain access to Azkaban, and was both fascinated and troubled by her interviews with the former Death Eaters. When she met Mr Goyle, senior, his son's words kept travelling around her head. She couldn't stop them, even if she wanted to.
Waves rise and fall
Memories come and go
Pain fades
Emptiness remains
It made her shudder, more than anything else she saw or heard. One man's imaginings about his father. It was rare for anyone to have access to the prisoners in Azkaban, and she resolved to find Greg and tell him how his father was. If he wanted to know.
They met in a slightly shabby cafe, after one of her shifts at St Mungo's. She was tired, but nothing would have kept her from this meeting. He seemed... reserved, and she didn't know what to say when confronted by his silence. She drew on all her skills, learned through years as a Mind Healer, and calmed and cleared her mind. Gently, oh so gently, she explained that she was writing a study on the effects of incarceration on the mind. Greg paled, but nodded for her to continue. She told him that she had seen his father, and they sat without talking, his eyes closed, as he steeled himself to hear what she had to say. She told him of his father, a barely-there shadow of his former self, but one who was still able to hold a conversation, no matter how slow or haltingly. She described his copy of Greg's book, worn and well read; she kept quiet as Greg's shoulders heaved and his hands covered a suddenly wet face.
Afterwards she did not know if she had done the right thing, and she agonised about the pain she had caused, the old wounds reopened.
The next time they met was at Harry and Draco's. She was preoccupied with Draco's still-partial memories, but reassured to see the two men as in love as ever. They were rebuilding their lives, and the pain in Harry's eyes had lessened. Draco had the strangest air about him: half man, half startled seventeen-year old.
Luna shivered when she realised that Greg's observant eye was fixed on her. And then she went to talk to him, and the time passed so swiftly that before she knew it, the evening was over and she hadn't talked to anyone else. He invited her to a poetry reading, and she said yes, still reluctant to reveal that she had read all his poems, that the words lulled her to sleep at night.
In the midst of a row of chairs, at the back of Flourish and Blotts, Luna closed her eyes and let the words wash through her.
Flames flicker, Death
Lick past
The store of generations;
Reduced to wood
Fuel
Fire
Ashes
She heard the words in her head at the same time as he spoke them: she knew the words, she knew the story. She wished she knew the man. He cleared his throat, and she opened her eyes to see his gaze on her, for a moment.
"This is something new. New in lots of ways - it's not quite what I've written before," he said, before closing his eyes and sitting back. When he began to recite the poem, his voice was so quiet that a concentrated hush fell over the small audience.
The pink shell curls Green globes swing Moon-bright you shine As paths form And the hand as it moves The stars swing by
Waiting to hear
Secrets whispered on the air
The world on a chain
Earth arisen
With eyes clear
and mind dancing
A map of thoughts
Spun from words, and sighs
The silk flying
In wisps in the wind
As I watch and listen
And wait.
As soon as he started talking, Luna found the breath frozen on her lips as her body ceased to move, until her hand rose to her ear, and the tiny green cabbages hanging from fine sliver chains.
That night, she marvelled that she hadn't done this sooner, as Greg whispered poetry into her skin. He had so many words, all saved for her, and he told her them all on a flow of passion that never really slowed, no matter how many years it lasted.