AN: I wrote this during a Not Good Time and it shows. Read with self care and caution, friends.
Somehow the dust is comforting. Like the rubble is already a mausoleum, a boring essay assignment for history students. Nobody has bothered to clean it up. Well, apart from Filch's meager but diligent effort.
And Harry stands alone.
Pewter sunlight shafts through cracked walls. It gives his unkempt hair the look of an old man. All at once, so soft Harry feels it before he sees it, rain drizzles over the wreckage of his old school. A home that stopped being home long before men in black hoods destroyed it.
It's been a month. Funerals attended by the hollow eyes of war stricken mourners. Arrangements made. It has seemed, to Harry, very busy and barren at the same time.
Now there is the strange, stale air of a transient space.
So he stands.
He came early, knowing no one would disturb him. Harry cannot cry like Hermione, does not throw plates like Ron.
So he stands.
The three of them have been living in the Burrow. Taking solace in the only people who truly understand. Only…there is an empty room in Harry's house of grief. One neither Hermione nor Ron seems to have. It leaves him disconnected.
Rain flutters off his soggy sweater cuffs. Then the dripping sound flutes into a plat, plat, plat. Bare feet on stone. Harry glances up.
Luna stands to his left, purple shirt and all. She's in the same clothes as the battle. The day the war ended. Harry shuffles in place at Luna's placid look. His lips fumble over an excuse before he trails off, for he respects her too much to lie.
She looks gaunt but resigned. Calm like the morning rain.
So they stand. Harry and Luna.
"This living business is awfully hard," says Luna.
Harry nods. "I came here, hoping I'd remember how."
How to want to live.
Luna comes closer so that she's at his elbow, as if she heard his words anyway.
"That's easy," says Luna. "It's just like a three step."
At Harry's blank look, her lips twitch, and Harry realizes she's trying to smile.
"You know?" she prods in her breathy voice. "Like a box step?"
Her eyes are bright but in the kind of way that makes one worried, the way of someone terminally ill. Harry frowns. The faint smell of fire still clings to her stained clothes…he realizes she hasn't changed since the battle. At least her hair has been washed, beach sand ripples of gold even in the overcast light.
"I think boxes are my problem," says Harry.
Luna just gazes at broken arches high above.
The lights are dazzling. A hover charm keeps them bobbing in the tent's balmy air. Every few minutes, they shift colors, pastels to match the summer wedding party. Food is stacked taller than blushing groom Ron. He and Hermione have their first dance and then old friends join them on the floor.
Gentle breezes, cooled by evening, play with Harry's hair where he sits at the head table. The rest of the bridal party drags a partner out. Harry claps along. Ron and Hermione waited two years after the Battle to be wed, and Harry's determined to savour it.
They deserve every second.
"Care to help me find some dandelions for the happy couple?"
Harry starts. Luna sways at his side, unperturbed by Harry's alertness. She has a gauzy lavender frock on now. But underneath her ruffled skirts, Harry spots the dirty short trousers she still refuses to part with for long. They've been washed. Certain blood and soot splotches, however, haven't come out.
Harry's heart pangs.
The words catch up with him. "Oh. Sure. I'd love to."
They wander outside. In the open air, music distant, Harry breathes properly. Fireflies loop in lazy shapes around the cool grass at their feet. Luna makes Harry take his shoes off too.
They pluck yellow dandelions in silence. Luna hums, but her voice is scratchy. Harry notices the hungry shadows in the scars along her collarbone but doesn't comment. Harry doesn't enjoy food anymore either. He finds the whole thing odd and hazy: he doesn't have nightmares, like he expected, no anger or depressed mood swings like everyone warns him about.
Instead, he is a failed soufflé. Filled with the same ingredients. But deflated. Airy and unreal at the edges.
"Harry?" comes Luna's soft voice.
Harry visibly shakes himself. He sees a wad of crushes flowers in his trembling grip. "So, why dandelions? I've never heard of presenting a bouquet of dandelions to newlyweds."
"They are one of the most resilient blossoms in the world. They can survive anything."
Harry can't argue with that.
"Besides," she adds, "when they dry out, Ron and Hermione can make a wish on the seeds."
The band slows to a plucked waltz. Luna holds his hands.
"Oh no," says Harry. "I can't dance."
"You did just find at the Yule Ball." She makes a "frame" with their arms. "See? There you go. Back two three, side two three…"
And suddenly they are dancing, a sloppy, awful thing with wobbly lines and Harry thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He smiles, a real one that crinkles his eyes.
It turns into a hiccup. A buildup of something woolen in his chest, crawling up his throat.
You're so stupid, Harry berates himself. Can't even experience joy without it peaking into agony and grief and unseeing eyes and the lights of battle fire and…
"The secret I have found," Luna whispers, drawing Harry close, "is to take the dance one step at a time."
Harry buries his eyes in her shoulder, rocked with shudders, and cups his friend's head when a wet patch blossoms just above his heart. Still they keep dancing. Keep the tired three-step.
Then Luna pulls away, hand in Harry's.
They stand until the stars come out and the moon is high. Everyone has offered Harry boxes—auror offices, new houses, a dorm room, classrooms to teach in, therapist's offices, waiting areas, train compartments. He's turned them all down.
Luna closes her eyes.
"Yeah," says Harry. "It's open here."
Harry links his arms and they go inside. Ron and Hermione meet them with open arms. Then Luna hands Hermione the dandelion bouquet, tied with a wide blue ribbon.
It is suddenly Hermione who's crying. Luna pats her back while Hermione chokes out, "You're all here."
"Yes we are," says Luna.
"Alive and—here! Thank you!"
Neville joins the huddle and Harry opens the door to that secret room in his heart, just a little. Luna turns her weary, assured eyes on Harry. She squeezes his hand and his heart pangs again.
He buys a square house. Well, the modest bungalow on the outskirts of town is really more of a rectangle, but Harry's just glad it's not the five floor mansion the Ministry threatened to buy him.
Harry and Ginny marry not a year after Ron and Hermione. It is a small, private affair that suits everyone. Their life is quiet. He comes to treasure the sound of Ginny humming while getting dressed. The burble of a tea kettle. He doesn't miss her pensive glances, though. The sniffles on days he can't sleep or won't get out of bed.
Harry wonders if this is supposed to be the happy ending. The blissful future everyone imagined after the war. Harry doesn't feel happy. He doesn't feel anything. The numb, the wall paste flavour coating his tongue is nice but lonely. Even with Ginny. Harry realizes she hasn't seen inside that room either.
It is five months after they've settled that Harry comes up behind his wife and kisses her on the cheek with a noisy 'shmack.' She turns from her bacon on the stove.
"Honey?"
"I'm going to work today!" Harry announces.
"A job?" Relief floods Ginny's eyes. "Where?"
Harry just winks.
"Well," says Ginny, handing him a sandwich from the fridge, "I hope you have a wonderful first day."
Harry puts the BLT in his jacket pocket and walks down his street. At the dead end roundabout is a dark, lush forest, one of the main reasons he'd chosen this house. It looks grumpy and reminds him of Snape.
Harry doesn't have to work a day in his life if he doesn't wish to. His parents' vault and Sirius' estate—an enormous sum—have been left solely to Harry. But he needs to escape rectangles for a while.
So he walks.
He meanders over logs and through mossy overhangs. He stretches out on his back to stare up at birds with oily wings. An airplane purrs, slicing through meringue clouds overhead.
A scream jolts him from sleep.
Harry darts up and swivels in a frantic circle. After several tripping heartbeats, he recognizes that the scream was his own. He wishes he could remember what he's been dreaming.
The sky is dusky. He wanders home and collapses into bed beside Ginny, fully clothed. She's asleep and red wisps make angel wings on her cheek. Nauseous, Harry closes his eyes and waits for the sun to come up.
The third day of this, a pair of bare fall in step with him. Harry says nothing while they turn off for the forest. The ache in his bones promises rain but the sky beams sunshine.
So they walk.
Luna still hasn't changed. For a moment, gazing at her clothes, Harry's back on the battlefield.
He sighs.
They collect acorns and beautiful rocks. At lunch, he tears the mushed BLT sandwich in half. Luna munches while dipping her toes in a puddle full of tadpoles. Then, together they hop over fallen trees and giant white boulders.
Luna puts a blue rock in Harry's palm and closes his fingers over it. He tucks it in his trouser pocket with a faint smile. Luna takes two acorns and then she's gone.
It's only as Harry walks home alone that he realizes neither of them said a word all day.
"Good day?" asks Ginny at supper.
Harry hides a goofy smile in his shepherd's pie. "The best."
The next day, the acorns dangle from hooks in Luna's ears. Harry sees the imprint of a grate on Luna's cheek and she's sleepy eyed.
"You quit your reporter job," says Harry.
"You're lying to your wife," says Luna.
Harry bites his lip as they step onto pine needles. "I'm not lying. Technically, this dancing is hard work."
Luna rumbles in her throat. "I moved out of my father's."
Harry raises a brow.
"It wasn't his fault. Nor was it mine," she explains.
Harry nods. He understands that. The way he feels isn't Ginny's fault either.
"Where are you living now?" he asks.
Luna is silent for the duration of their blackberry picking. They fill two paper bags to overflowing.
"It's different every day, I suppose," says Luna.
They haven't spoken for hours and her voice startles Harry. He remembers his earlier question and sits back to better see his friend. Her battle clothes are threadbare, with new stains now that she's homeless. Her battle never ended.
"I can't take them off for more than a day or two," says Luna, though she's not looking at Harry. "I feel like if I do, it will all be over."
"Luna," says Harry. Then he stops. He can't say it either:
Luna, it is over.
Luna lifts her eyes to afternoon sun through the leaves. "Some species of farwinkles change their wing colour to match those of a member of the clan who has died. They stay that colour for the rest of their lives."
Harry slips his hand into hers. Together they gaze upwards. If Harry squints just so, he can see narggles and farwinkles between the willow trees.
"Goodnight, Harry."
Harry waves her off. "Goodnight, Luna. Hope you find somewhere warm to rest your head."
On his way home, Harry takes a detour to the local department store. His face falls. Everything here comes from a box. Everything is displayed in a box.
Discouraged, he trudges back outside and finally it decides to rain. Turning a corner, Harry sees a tiny tween wrestling with her rack of—now wet—patchwork sweaters and butterfly pants. The stitches are mismatched, colourful.
Harry stops to help her pack up. "Did you make these?"
The little girl nods. "I been sellin' 'em to pay for sewing camp."
Harry lights up. "I'll take five."
"What?" She drops the display table. "Are you 'avin me on?"
Harry presents a crisp fold of bills.
The little girl claps. "That's spiffin' grand tha' is! Take the whole lot!"
A laugh threatens to bubble up Harry's nose. She reminds him at once of Fred.
The next day is Saturday. It surprises Harry to remember weekends still exist, along with the trifling matter of days having names.
So Harry has to wait until Monday. The familiar route squares his shoulders and gets his heart pumping.
So focused, he nearly steps on a green sleeping bag poking out a pile of oak leaves.
"Luna?"
The girl stands and stretches. She is much more rested.
"Good day, Harry Potter." She glances between the trees. "Or should I say good afternoon?"
Harry smiles and holds out the blocky coloured garments. Luna blinks at them. Her eyes seem cloudy but entirely in the present with him.
"Come on," Harry whispers. "You're not leaving them behind. It's just like waking up from a bad dream."
Luna strokes the finely knitted sweater. Harry simply holds it out and waits. Then Luna's fingers tangle in it and she brings it to her nose.
"They smell like someone else."
"Soon they'll smell like you," says Harry.
Luna pushes them away. "Exactly."
Harry feels like he's been slapped. He holds the whole bag out again. Without another word, Luna grabs a sweater, trousers, and one of the many undershirts Harry bought on the weekend. She goes behind the eight foot high boulder.
"It's just another step," Harry soothes.
For a time there is nothing but the muffled shift of clothes on skin. Then the hustle quiets. Harry's throat catches.
"Luna?"
She inches into view. The sweater sleeves are too long and the denim trouser cuffs are two different lengths but Harry thinks Luna has never looked more like herself. Luna shivers. When she moves to cover her face with her hands, Harry pulls her into a loose hug.
"Their wings are gone," she says.
"I know," Harry replies and suddenly he's shivering too. "They're gone."
"Wh…what colour are we now?" quavers Luna into Harry's neck.
He swallows harshly. His fingers bunch in the dragonfly decal on the back of her sweater. "I don't know."