A figure cloaked in brown walked down the muddy road. His boots made suckling noises in the mud as he stepped in it. There was quite a lot of mud these days, what with spring finally coming and melting the snow. His feet were practically submerged in the watery mess beneath him, and it showed through by the cold numbness of his feet.
Lightning streaked across the sky, a photograph of the entire world taken by the heavens. For a moment he was blinded by the piercing light. Then, quick as before, it flashed out of existence.
The man raised a hand to his head and matted down his hair. His arm shook as he patted his own head.
There was a weight in his pocket, but he pointedly ignored it, trying to block out all the whispers his own imagination was feeding him. Now was not a good time for an open ear.
Something on four legs passed in front of him. He resisted the urge to swear as he got a glimpse of what it was.
"Stupid cats," muttered the man as he cupped his hands around his mouth, breathing on them so that they would warm up.
A loud banging sound brought his attention to the entrance of a tavern to his right. It was called The Motley Crew's Grave and with a name like that it said all that needed to be said about its patrons. Two men, their faces the unidentifiable mask of those too jaded by the world to care anymore, were lying on the cobblestones before it. Their voices were raised in song, a sound so dissonant and painful to hear that musical teachers would refuse to even be in the same room with them. Their arms raised in the air and beating their own chests, they sang the night away.
All the little angels rise up, rise up, rise up, all the little angels rise up high!
The man shook his head, stuffing his hand in his pocket and clutching the object there so hard his hand nearly bled from the strain.
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up, how do they rise up so high?
If anyone were watching they would have noticed him noticeably speed up. No one was though, because this was a night only a complete fool would stand outside on purpose.
They rise heads up, heads up, heads up! They rise heads up so high!
"Soddin' drunks..." he said, doing his best to avoid shutting them up with a Silencio, "Can't even tell when a guy doesn't want to hear them."
Some vaguely sensible part of him knew that it was not the cat's or the drunks fault he was so on edge. That part was currently on vacation, so all the cynical and admittedly more touchy thoughts were being openly expressed via his mouth.
Taking a glance at his watch, he noticed that it was only early evening. 'Good,' he thought, 'that means Aberforth won't have kicked everyone out just yet. Hopefully, she'll still be there.'
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up...
Only a couple more feet left. The roar of the rain was drowning out the men's voices, and he could not be more grateful. It would not do him any good to go around remembering those times. No one wanted to go back there.
...except perhaps those men back there.
'And you too.'
The man jerked uncomfortably. No, he did not! There was too much going on back then, there were too many things to do and never enough time to do them all, there were too many funerals, too many faces flickering out of existence.
Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. It was shining a dull light, which on a night like this might as well have meant fireworks. After taking a few steps towards it he could make out a shape and several others around it, none of them as splendid as the the original piece.
As he got closer he finally noticed that it was behind a screen of glass. Looking further inside he found that he was looking directly into Hogsmeade's local bookshop. The inside was brightly lit, with only the occasional shadow passing in the glare of the lamps. His eyes watered as he gazed inside, feeling them burn uncomfortably. His eyesight had gotten worse over the years, and this was tantamount to looking at the sun directly.
He did not let the pain dissuade him though. There, on display for the entire world to see, was a book embalmed with gold and lined with silver. As soon as he saw it he immediately recognized it for what it was. How could he not, after relying on its contents during those months when he was a fugitive?
The Tales of Beedle the Bard...
This was not his copy though. His copy had long been lost by Hermione during the hustle and bustle of the aftermath of the Second War. It did not matter if she technically had owned it back then, for she was not the one who needed it the most.
'Selfish little boy,' whispered a voice, 'Everyone depended on it, not just you.'
Suddenly something welled up inside him. From the pit of his chest rose a beast he had repressed for years. He had long ago put it away, sating its needs and wants for Ginny Weasley. The monster that had grown in his heart had been satisfied with the relationship he had maintained with the young redhead for a couple of years, eventually retreating back to its origin and bothering him no more. There had been no reawakening however, and he was both glad and disappointed with that.
Now that monster had been poked and aroused from its restful state. And it had grown. Angrier, more forceful, and greedy as ever, he could hear snarling on the edge of his hearing.
This was wrong! This was wrong! That thing in there was a perversion, a desecration upon the memory of everyone's suffering! The book was not supposed to be shining! It was not supposed to look like a slab of melted gold. It was supposed to be in tatters and pieces!
The beast in his chest was roaring at him to go in there and burn every last copy they had, but he paid it no mind. Those thoughts were not his own, he said to himself. They weren't his, just some imaginary creature's.
Even as he repeated this mantra he did not believe it.
Putting his hand into his pocket, he retrieved a small box from it. Glaring hatefully at the thing, he then wondered why it was that he even had it. Lifting it up to eye level, he scrutinized every detail of the small container in his hand.
Then, opening it very carefully, he stared at what once in his eyes was the best ring he had ever seen. Now however, his eyes told him otherwise. It gleamed a sickly pale yellow, the refraction of the rain doing nothing to help its gilded appearance. It seemed distorted in shape now that he looked at it, certainly not the perfect size for her now that he thought about it.
With a furious cry, he threw the box towards the opposite building, high and forcefully over the rooftop. He did not mind the amount of money he spent on the piece of gold. Money was of hardly any consequence at the moment. But to him, any amount was too much for such a worthless thing.
The rain was now coming down stronger than ever. His body felt heavy and drunk with anger. Everywhere he turned to there was something that would tell him of how grateful he should be, of how fortunate everyone got off with so little taken from them...
They rise shoulders up, shoulders up, shoulders up! They rise shoulders up so high!
With a bitter grunt, he pivoted on his feet and began walking towards the Hog's Head. Bastard he may be, but he was not going to be late.
His legs did not seem to be obeying him however. He noticed, as he passed by the same two drunks, that he was going back the way he came. But the significance behind this did not register until he found himself before the door to The Motley Crew's Grave. Even then, his was dazed and woozy, the anger form before fleeting and a mere memory now.
Hesitantly, he put a hand on the door. It was an old door, and it didn't even had a handle for which to turn. Instead, all one had to do was push and the door would open either way.
They rise chests up, chests up, chests up! They rise chests up so high!
"No," he said to himself, "I'm a prat, but I am not a failure."
Taking his hand off the door was harder than he wanted it to be. It was like it had been glued on, but at last he managed to remove it.
He felt the beast scream bloody murder.
He had taken seven steps away from the door, before he finally had it.
And then, without anything perceptible on any dimensional plane whatsoever, the beast quieted down.
Several minutes later, after a rather embarrassing intrusion in on a private show at the The Siren's Call, he entered the Hog's Head. The storm was still going strong, but no longer did it seem to be so depressing. Despite that, his hands shook as he tried to grasp something in his pocket that was no longer there.
"Good evening Harry," said a voice in the far corner of the room.
He smiled. Luna always was so formal.
"How you been Lu?" He said as he pulled up a chair, reclining as far back in it as possible. The sound of their voices were loud compared to the held stillness of the room. It was blatantly obvious that everyone was listening in on them, but they kept on doing it while trying to act inconspicuous, which of course always got the opposite of the desired result.
They rise ARSE UP, ARSE UP, ARSE UP! THEY RISE ARSE UP SO HIGH!
Ah...now he remembered why no one sung that unless they were drunk or just inconsiderate of everyone else.
"I've been well," replied Luna, either oblivious or feigning ignorance of the cacophony outside, "Some Smawkrodogs managed to ruin my lawn this morning but nothing that can't be fixed."
"Really?" Harry said mildly.
He got one of her half-moon smiles and a nod.
"And what of your neighbor's?"
The same smile, except this time there was a more knowing look to it.
He made a note to look into her neighbors. He had a feeling that Smawkrodogs were not so selective of whose lawns they ruined.
Sighing, he motioned to Aberforth to come over. All he got was an affronted look and an angry glare. 'He really needs to stop hanging around those goats,' thought Harry, 'his social skills need a bit of polishing up.'
"Why did you want to meet me here Harry?" Luna asked, finally upfront about her curiosity.
Harry shrugged. Truthfully, he had originally thought it might hold some symbolic meaning, a tribute to how they first began as friends in his fifth year. He should have known this place held no significance to her, Luna was not one to waste sentimentality on such a trivial thing. What mattered to her was what is, not what was.
"Let's just say I wanted to mess with Aberforth a bit." He said, playing nonchalant and acting aloof. He would bet that tomorrow's edition of Witch Weekly would include at least seven interpretations on what that meant. He grinned wryly, so much would come out of some complete bullshit he said on a whim. Just how messed up was this world?
He saw Aberforth make a very rude gesture towards him. He returned it wholeheartedly. They had never gotten along well, even after the Second War.
'All the little angels rise up, rise up, rise up so high!' He sang in his head, 'How do the little angels rise up, rise up, rise up so high?'
"Hmm..." Luna said as she mimicked his actions, leaning back in her chair. "You're either serious, or lying to my face."
Then suddenly she standing over the table and nearly locking lips with Harry. Their foreheads were touching and the man was uncomfortably aware of how focused her gaze was on him. He felt like a schoolboy all over again, caught sneaking Norbert off the grounds.
"Are you lying to my face Harry? If you are..."
There was a hint of something in that sentence. Menace? Anger? Primal lust?
Whatever it was, there was no lying to it. Well, no lying to it and walking away the same shape. Luna could get rather creative during those moments in which she lost track of the time and had to spend the night at his house (and while he certainly enjoyed those times, he couldn't say he always felt like he would come out of it with all his body parts in the right place). Muggles had nothing on wizards when it came to kinky.
"I'm lying," he said with a straight face, "I'm lying because I'm terrified."
Screw it. He was going to crash and burn anyways, so he might as well do what he came to do.
"Terrified of what exactly, Harry?" Said Luna softly as she lied on her front on the table now. Behind her Harry could see her legs moving around in a complicated manoeuvre. It seemed oddly erotic, with her blue raincoat and her pale face so flushed.
'How do the little angels rise up so high?' Harry thought, desperately ignoring how provocative the situation seemed.
And then Luna was back in her seat, straightening out imaginary wrinkles in her coat. There was a small smile on her face.
The pit of anger bubbled up once more.
"I can tell you this, I'm not terrified because I came here to propose to you."
That got her attention. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'Women!' He thought exasperated.
"I'm terrified because I don't want to end up like those poor sods out there singing. I'm terrified because I think I'm going to go over to the bookstore and burn it to the ground. I'm terrified because I know I'm going to spend the night looking in the mud for a piece of absolute shit. I'm terrified because you're going to do things to me the next time we shag. I'm terrified, because I'm not sure my anger is my own anymore. I'm terrified Luna, because I know that in five minutes I'm going to go over there, and beat the living fuck out of Aberforth if he doesn't stop trying to kill me with his eyes."
He took a deep breath. He realized he now had everyone's undivided attention. Before everyone was trying to keep up a small charade of having their own business to attend to. Now they had given that up and were not even trying to hide their eavesdropping.
Looking Luna straight in the eye. He realized that he would not be crushed if she said no. She was just a girl, just another woman to add to the list of romantic failures if it all became pear-shaped.
Which was exactly why he didn't want for her to become just a name. She was Luna Lovegood!
The rain outside had stopped. The drunks as well. Not even a goddamn cricket now.
He sighed again.
"So why the lie?" Luna asked.
"Why are you so obsessive about me lying?" Harry snapped. "Why not about my anger issues? Don't tell me I don't have that, because you and I both know I do. Why don't you just find something else about me to nag me about? Why don't-"
"Why don't you propose to me already?"
Harry glared at her. Luna was once again reclining in her chair and twirling her hair. Her blond locks were in disarray, not that they were in a proper fashion before. Nothing about her to an outsider would be particularly attractive. She was stunning in her own right, true, but she gave off a vibe of such queerness that it repelled any person from ever getting too close, literally and figuratively.
"Because I'm trying to do this right!" he growled out, petulant.
Luna seemed amused. "You're not doing it very well then. I'm rather sure you should have gotten down on one knee by now."
"You're not making it any easier on me!"
She gave him a flat look. "I'm the woman you want to marry."
They were silent, neither of them backing down from the other. Harry knew it had gone all wrong, but his everlasting stubborn streak was willing to live up to its history of making bad situations worse. Luna kept twirling her hair in her hand, tying it this way or that, not even looking at him in the face, and that infuriated him more than any amount of cussing or insults ever could.
He decided to take a look around, lest he suddenly decide to tie Luna up and practice proposing to her until he got it right.
In the corner, there was a group of three people, all of them looking far too well dressed to actually be regular customers. They were all looking at one another's faces, with not even a glimpse in his direction. Those two facts alone were enough for him to figure out that they were there because he was as well. People usually were very conspicuous about their interest in him, especially if he showed up unexpectedly.
The fact that those in the corner were not, certainly wasn't suspicious at all.
"I need a therapist," Harry muttered to himself, very much aware of how attentive the silent bar was. Those three people seemed to be huddling a bit more now too.
"What you need, Harry, is some Maglen Bark Brew." Luna said, drumming the table with her fingers in an unidentifiable pattern. "It'll clear away all the pesky annoyances and make you focus on what really matters."
"Really?" Asked the Man-Who-Conquered, completely unconvinced as to the validity of her statement, "And what do you think really matters to me?"
Luna took a sip of water from a glass on the table, her eyes wide as the day he saw her. "At the moment? Me."
Harry scowled. "You arrogant witch."
Luna smiled genially. "You pompous wizard."
"All's fair in love and war."
"Aphorisms, Harry?" The once Ravenclaw shook her head. "You're getting desperate. Your Yhadks are sizzling."
Disregarding that last comment, it seemed to Harry that she was egging him on. Sad thing is, it was working.
"Would you stop it?!"
"Certainly, so long as you tell me what to stop."
That was it. No more. His mind would not be able to take another minute of this...this...insanity!
Ramming his hand into his pocket he retrieved his trusty wand. It had been quite a while since the Elder Wand had fixed it, but it showed no sign whatsoever of the trials it had endured since then. Losing it once had been bad enough, Harry was not willing to tempt fate too many times.
"Mutatio!" He yelled, pointing his wand at the glass of Firewhiskey in front of him. A jet of black light shot from the tip and quickly vanished as it was absorbed by the glass.
Instantly, instead of there being a half empty glass of Firewhiskey, there was a ring. In comparison to the one from before it seemed to not even deserve the title of ring. The light reflected off the glassy surface and reminded him of the color of roadkill. Transfiguration was a difficult subject to grasp, what with several laws and physical impossibilities, but Harry was fairly proficient at it (considering that he essentially defied the muggle law of conservation, he should be). He'd give it about ten minutes before the spell wore off, which was nine more than he needed.
Luna was staring at the ring with an unreadable expression.
It was one of the few times Harry actually managed to surprise her.
"Are you going to use that to..." she started and then trailed off
"Yes," Harry said, knowing exactly what she meant.
Then, apparently shaking off the shock, Luna's face returned to her normal placid expression. Slowly, in an almost dream-like manner, she extended her arm and picked up the ring off the table. Holding it up to the light and close to her eye, she began to look it over, as if looking for any flaws in its design.
Then, apparently satisfied, she put it on her finger. Her right ring finger.
"A bit loose, but definitely my kind of ring." She said, looking off towards the wall. Perhaps it was just his imagination but her face seemed a bit more colored than usual.
"It's going to turn back in a couple of minutes," Harry warned, "so I suggest you take it off before it does."
Luna grinned. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
"And cancel the marriage, Harry? I think not! The Smawkrodogs would never leave me alone!" she exclaimed, and then added, "They hate it when people break up, you know. I'd have to spray essence of Winter Flin all around my house!"
Harry stared at her. He could never tell when she was being serious or not.
"That's it?" he asked weakly. "No special moment? No squeals of joy?"
"Do you want me to squeal? I'm sure I could manage a good one if I have a sip of water." Luna's face was the epitome of innocence.
"No. No," he said, motioning for her to not, "I don't think everyone would appreciate that so much as I would." Truth was, he would not appreciate any squeals at all.
They were quiet.
"So," Harry said after a while, in the tone of someone who was aiming for small talk and missing by a longshot, "that's it?"
Luna took another sip of water. "Yes."
Harry let out a long breath. At this rate he was going to have white hair before the marriage itself.
"So when should we have the wedding?" He asked, pretending he did not see the people in the corner just up and leave.
Luna head cocked her head sideways like an owl. "I've just accepted the ring, Harry. Let me work out some frustration first."
"Frustration?" He asked, brows furrowing in confusion, "With what?"
He got a blank stare. "You."
"Oh."
End