DISCLAIMER: I'm not Just Kidding when I say I'm not J.K.(R.)
(Neville doesn't know that pneumonia is only resultant from bacteria and viruses, just FYI.)
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Reading
Luna's pneumonia kept her in bed for a whole two weeks. This was fine by Neville, who was rather relieved to have an idea where she was at all times.
Still, of course, I'm probably at fault for her being sick at all--if she hadn't gone out in the cold, if I had brought her in sooner, she would probably not be ill now.
In any case, feeling responsible for her illness, he took extra care to make it up to her in a million small ways. Since she had not the appetite for anything more than bread, water, and broth, he made certain to provide it--fresh airy French baguettes still warm from the bakery, the clearest distillation of Aguamenti, and he even pilfered his grandmum's recipe for vegetable herb broth.
Luna protested these ministrations, but only at first, and only enough to be modest. She was never ungrateful.
He spent much time at the Lovegood household during Luna's invalid state, paying her such services as he thought would render her more happy or comfortable. Of course, being the ethereal sort of person that she was, they were all things she would not have contrived on her own, and indeed would never have occurred to her. Therefore, each of his ministrations was all the more precious in her sight; where she would have not acknowledged an awareness for her own welfare, he concerned himself with it. She saw the value of every little thing he did, not in the way that most people would; every trivial gift was evidence of his heart on a platter, prostrate for her, and she treated it as such. Never did a service go without a sincere 'thank you', and Neville felt that he was being truly helpful to her, and therefore was more satisfied with himself and less inclined to collect Rotespurts.
However, for all his anxiousness to fulfill her every probable or improbable need, her favorite thing to do was simply sitting next to him on her bed and listen to him read aloud. He invariably sat at her right, gingerly settled on top of the bedclothes while she was tucked in, and leaned against the headboard when his back got stiff. If an artist had tweaked their ages around, they might have been the perfect models for a painting of an older brother reading to his little sister, or that of a young man reading to his aging grandmother.
He wasn't particularly dramatic, or particularly fluent at reading, but Luna seemed to not mind. She just listened, clasping his free hand in her own, mutely resting her bonny blonde head on his shoulder. On rare occasions, usually during the saddest part of the story, she would have a severe fit of coughing that racked her fragile, thin frame, and it would only go away after Neville smothered her in an all-ensconcing embrace. When she was particularly quiet, and he paused to see if she had fallen asleep, her eyes opened to beg him to continue. She never fell fully asleep until he stopped reading.
To his immense dissatisfaction, Neville did have work in the day, and he had to be at Sprout's greenhouses from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. The winter was one of the most taxing times for magical gardeners, full of extra little details to protect the plants that were out-of-doors from the snow, and to keep the more active ones indoors from getting too bored.
However, the work, while mundane, was not as grueling as pruning, raking, and weeding, and Neville managed to have the energy to read to Luna for at least four hours once he got home.
Home. By which, he didn't actually mean his place of residence. No, at this point, he very much considered Luna's side to be his home. Was he a bit pathetic? Perhaps. Was he unhappy with the situation? Not at all, except insofar as he hadn't bloody proposed to her yet!
In the late afternoon of a Wednesday, taking a brief respite in the midst of reading aloud to his darling, he leaned his head against hers and watched the snowflakes fall outside. Luna's eyes were closed, and she might have been asleep had not her thin lips been pursed.
It was during this comfortable lull that Orpheus touched him, and Neville was therefore inspired.
"Go on," wished Luna, barely moving her lips in her ill fatigue.
"I'm rather bored of this, actually," Neville said, closing the book. "I'd like to read something else."
In particularly, he had his heart set on The Romance of Tristan and Iseult, which he knew was somewhere on the bookshelves downstairs. It was a story that he had grown up with, it being one of his grandmother's favorites, and there was one particular part of which he was thinking.
"Whatever you like," Luna replied drowsily, lifting her head and blinking her eyes open.
With a murmured Accio, Neville called the book in question, and it landed in his lap.
"What is it?" asked Luna, pawing at the cover, and Neville showed her. "I've never read this," she stated, then closed her eyes and settled her head on his shoulder again. "Do begin."
Briefly, Neville skimmed the pages. The part he wanted was near the middle. Soon he found it.
"The Ford," he began, and waited to see if Luna would notice that he was not starting at the beginning. She did not stir, and he saw that his half-formed plan would be perfect. A hand that trembled in excitement laid its hand on his trouser-pocket, and he felt the velvet box, safe and secure.
He skipped a page or two into the chapter, and began to read aloud.
Towards midnight Tristan crossed the Heath of Sand, and found the writ, and bore it sealed to Ogrin; and the hermit read the letter; "How Mark consented by the counsel of his barons to take back Iseult, but not to keep Tristan for his liege. Rather let him cross the sea, when, on the third day hence, at the Ford of Chances, he had given back the Queen into King Mark's hands." Then Tristan said to the Queen:
"O, my God! I must lose you, friend! But it must be, since I can thus spare you what you suffer for my sake. But when we part for ever I will give you a pledge of mine to keep, and from whatever unknown land I reach I will send some messenger, and he will bring back word of you, and at your call I will come from far away."
Iseult said, sighing:
"Tristan, leave me your dog, Hodain, and every time I see him I will remember you, and will be less sad. And, friend, I have here a ring of green jasper. Take it for the love of me, and put it on your finger; then if anyone come saying he is from you, I will not trust him at all till he show me this ring, but once I have seen it, there is no power or royal ban that can prevent me from doing what you bid—wisdom or folly."
"Friend," he said, "here give I you Hodain."
"Friend," she replied, "take you this ring in reward."
His breathing was coming altogether too quickly, and his heart was pounding. Sensing the change in his demeanor, Luna's head rose from its resting-place and tilted slightly, so that she could look into his eyes.
Shaking more than he felt he ought, Neville thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out the blue velvet box. His fingers felt like they were disjointed from his body, however, and as soon as he had it in his hand, he dropped it on the floor.
"Bugger."
Flushing profusely, he leaned over the side of the bed and snatched the box up again, unsure whether to shove it back in his pocket and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, or if he should go ahead and give it to her.
A small Mona-Lisa smile played upon her lips, however, and it was all the encouragement he needed.
"You...you will marry me, won't you?" he pleaded, taking both her hands in his and pressing the box into them.
Her eyes were dancing, and he detected the slightest amount of moisture along their lower rims.
"Sweetheart, of course."
And they kissed each other on the lips.
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Love and blessings,
A. A.
