The Matchmaker
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
IV:
Interlude
A Golden Morning
The sun gleamed outside the window of the five-star Spanish honeymoon suite, and Mundungus Fletcher - now Lockhart, he supposed - woke in a good mood.
Spanish weather was so starkly different from London's. Every day was bright and warm, not a cloud in sight. This was a good thing, since Dung hated the smell of petrichor.
He hated London City, with it's dingy back-alleys, the constant sensation of feeling unclean and the smell of sewer water.
He'd lived on the streets of London half his adult life, so he ought to be used to it by now; but as soon as the proposal came, an opportunity to leave the streets and join Gilderoy Lockhart in a penthouse with frequent sex and a fresh shower every day, he jumped on the chance. Gilderoy was pleasant enough to be around. He was narcissistic to a fault, and when he opened his mouth Dung wanted to bash his skull in. But he had a pretty face and a smile that would make Mundungus swoon if he was a lesser man.
Their marriage was officiated in Spain, where gay marriage had been legal for a few years now. Their honeymoon, too, was currently being spent in a Spanish hotel on the coast.
Mundungus woke that morning, with a tanned arm slung around his waist and a hangover from the plentiful sangrias. Lockhart was still blissfully asleep. His attractive features less attractive when slackened, drool creating a damp spot in the silk pillowcase. Grimacing, Mundungus extricated himself from his husband's grip, gagging at the other man's morning breath.
Lockhart was much prettier when awake, showered and not smelling that disgusting mixture of sex and lavender perfume.
Cracking his neck, Mundungus shuffled into the shower. Steam filled the hotel bathroom, fogging the gold-gilded mirror. Already naked, he set out a fluffy white towel, inordinately soft, before stepping beneath the showerhead. He scrubbed the scent of sex from his skin, practically moaning at the smooth slide of soap. He was never taking a hot shower for granted ever again.
Mundungus savored the water rushing over his tanned skin, but knew he only had an hour to meet his dealer. Shaking the droplets of water from his bald head, Dung stepped out and wrapped himself up cozily. Scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face, Dung decided to keep his beard. Maintaining wary eye on his snoring husband, Dung slipped on a pair of his old boots and his ancient, tatterrd leather jacket. He played the part of a homeless ne'er-do-well very well, knowing it'd be better to blend in if he acted like 'one of the them'.
Gilderoy rolled over with an elongated mewl. His manicured hand groped the bed for a moment before latching onto Dung's blanket. He tugged the silk comforter to his chin and snuggled in further. Dung frowned fiercely at the warm sensation that flooded him. Damn it, but his husband could be cute, so long as his mouth was shut.
Still scowling, Mundungus lifted Lockhart's pants off the floor and silently fished for the man's wallet. He counted out the Spanish euros before shrugging and stuffing the entire wallet into his back pocket. "Where'ya goin, Mikey?" Gilderoy's eyes fluttered open, just as Mundungus reached for the doorknob. The man stilled.
He hated the name 'Michael', but Gilderoy refused to call him 'Dung'. Despite Dung's protests, Gilderoy had settled on the affectionate nickname 'Mikey'. Dung cringed at it every time.
". . . just for some breakfast, darling," he bit out. "Won't be long."
"Hm," Lockhart yawned. "Bring me back a leche frita?" Gilderoy didn't even attempt to pronounce it correctly; 'leech-ee fry-ta', he slurred. Dung didn't pride himself on fluency of the Spanish language, but he'd picked up a few select phrases.
"El burro sabe más que tú," Dung murmured in response.
"Wazz'that?"
Dung snickered to himself. "It meant, er, 'of course'."
"Why didn't you just say that, then?" The words were muffled as Lockhart rolled onto his stomach. He drifted back to sleep.
Sighing in relief, Dung made sure to close the door quietly behind him. Jerking his collar, Dung slipped down the elevator and out a back entrance. Lockhart's cash weighed heavily in his pocket, but Dung felt little guilt. Isn't that what they always said? Whatever's mine is yours.
Mundungus entered their relationship with barely a cent to his name. He was a veteran, technically, trained as an aircraft technician for the British Army. He was discharged after accidentally breaking a fellow technician's thumb with a hammer. The man retaliated by stabbing Dung with a screwdriver. Dung still had the scar and got into the habit of calling it a bullet wound. A 'battle scar'. Dung scratched the mark now, nestled right under his jugular. There was an ugly patch of missing chest hair that never grew back, and Lockhart liked to stroke the mark in bed. It was sensitive.
Clearing his throat and fighting a blush, Dung disappeared into the streets of Málaga. The white, crumbling architecture was almost blinding in the sunlight. There were few dark alleyways in Málaga, but Dung took advantage of the shadows cast by the towering buildings. He had the route memorized by now, following landmarks instead of signs. It took another ten minutes before he reached the rendezvous.
Leaning casually against the wall beside a rubbish bin, Dung waited for his dealer.
There wasn't much to do besides flip through Lockhart's wallet; he tipped his head at the small I.D. image, and was astonished that Lockhart was still radiant even in black and white. He stifled a chuckle. Gilderoy's middle name was Marian; he recalled it briefly on their wedding certificate, but to be truthful, he'd been incredibly drunk during the ceremony. Gilderoy hadn't seemed to notice, assuming Mundungus' staggering gait was simply because Dung was 'overcome with emotion'.
"Dung," a voice said gruffly. Standing ramrod straight, Dung flipped the wallet shut and slipped it away.
Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody hobbled in the alley, leaning heavily on his left leg. The scarred, hulking man was London-born and a former general for the British Army. He'd lost his leg, his eye and part of his nose after being taken captive and tortured for information. Dung never asked for the details, but from what he heard on the grapevine, Moody went on a vicious rampage after they threatened to find and kill his daughter. He murdered his captor with his bare hands.
Dung didn't doubt it.
He eyed Moody's wooden leg warily, detecting the outline of a knife strapped to the limb. He twitched. "Y - you got what I need, Mad-Eye? The - "
"Keep quiet, Dung," the man barked. "What if someone was watching, eh? If one of us were bugged, if I was a copper, it'd be like a verbal confession."
"You're not, though. Are you?" Dung asked.
"Course not, you idiot."
"So, you do got it?"
Mad-Eye's nose curled, a scar on his cheek warping. Shady business ran in his family, and once he became an invalid, he was relegated to grunt work. He hated lowlifes like Dung, but he had bills to pay and a daughter in college to provide for. "I've got it," he spat to the side, baring a yellowed snaggle tooth. "We've already agreed on the price."
"I have the money," Dung assured, patting Lockhart's wallet. "I wanna see it first, though."
"Course you do," Moody sighed. He gave a wry grin. "You're loaded now, aren't you? Got yourself a rich little boy-toy . . . or is it a sugar daddy? I never took you for the marrying type."
Dung felt no need to protect Gilderoy's honor. He was who he was. "What can I say? Marriage; it's worth both the bang and the buck."
Moody frowned, his glass eye watching Dung unerringly. "I don't think that's how the saying goes."
"It was a turn of phrase, Moody." Dung rolled his eyes. "A dirty joke. I was trying to be witty. To bang someone is slang for - nevermind, it's not funny if I have to explain it."
"Huh. Well, stop. Smartarses get nowhere - and don't you dare make a damn innuendo out of 'arses', either," he warned.
Dung barked out a laugh.
Digging through his heavy jacket, Moody pulled out a plastic bag of a snowy white powder. "I can't tell you where I got it from or else I'll get shot, so that prob'ly tells you how pure it is."
Dung licked his lips and forked over the cash. "At this point, I don't care. I'd rather be back in that damn coffin than go another week without a fix."
Moody snorted, and counted out the euros, double and triple checking for paranoia's sake. "From what I've heard, and from what you've told me, you were baked in there, too," he tucked the money away, patting his pocket.
"Whatever the 'Matchmaker'," Dung mocked. "Slipped me reacted badly with the acid I'd been testing. I don't remember a damn thing except for darkness and an annoying voice in my head. Apparently, I was a great listener," his lips skewed into a sickeningly 'charming' grin. "Lockhart likes me best when I'm stoned."
"Ah - so this is for the sanctity of your marriage, then?" Moody said, amused, as Dung made a line of coke on the garbage lid then and there.
Dung held one of his nostrils shut, eyes dilating. "In sickness and in health. For better, for worse," he murmured. "For richer, for poor. See ya Moody. Don't get shot."
"Wotcher," the man said.
The world blurred, and the next thing he remembered, Dung was in the elevator back up to their hotel room. He found his key card in a back pocket and jammed it into the lock, snuffling to himself.
Humming softly beneath his breath, Here Comes the Bride, Dung dropped the takeout bag on the kitchen counter. A fresh leche frita was steaming inside. "Don't say I never do anything for you," he told Lockhart's sleeping figure. Mind buzzing far too rapidly for Mundungus to fell tired, he slipped back into bed fully clothed, and stared up at the ceiling. Gilderoy grunted in his sleep, his hand falling onto Dung's chest.
The younger man, glowing in the golden morning light, resembled sunshine.
Gilderoy's wedding ring glinted, a kaleidoscope of colors. Dung wondered how much it would be worth on the black market; Lockhart was known to be a bit forgetful, and he always took it off before showering.
Dung snagged the man's hand and kissed it.
He hid a vicious smirk, and let himself drift; content in his 'happy' marriage.
An Olive Branch
Although the television screen was muted, Myrtle fancied that she could read lips. "I've told you time and time again, Celestina," Stubby Boardman clutched Celestina Warbeck's hand, her beautiful, pale face smeared with tears. "I don't care if you're an amnesiac or if you're pregnant with my brother's son . . . you're my soulmate."
The soap opera was Myrtle's only entertainment on days like today. She was a barista at The Leaky Cauldron, and rush hour had come and gone. It was rainy, smog settled heavily over the city. Even for bistros that specialized in fresh, warm food, the rain presented major hardships. Myrtle stared despondently at the mason jar of tips; it was empty. Not that she got many to begin with.
She leaned further on the counter, watching with rapture as Celestina and Stubby kissed - when her elbow slipped on a wet smoothie spill. Her shoulder jammed into a pile of dirty dishes, which clattered into the sink.
Tom, her boss, jerked his head out from the backroom. "Bloody hell," he swore. "You scared me, kid. What the hell've you done now?"
"I . . . tripped?" she said nervously, hastily gathering the plates The man didn't get mad easily but he did not like it when she slacked on the job.
"Uh huh," he inspected her warily. Tom tossed a rag over his shoulder and stepped closer to her. He was getting on in age, but looked years younger, with rosy cheeks and spiky grey hair. "Feeling a bit restless, kid?"
Easily defined, Myrtle Warren was a flurry of nervous tics and pouts.
Myrtle twitched, hands in constant movement. She tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear, huffing in indignation. "I'm fine. Just bored, is all."
She wasn't traditionally pretty, with watery eyes behind ugly glasses and pockmarks speckled across her forehead. She didn't get as much attention from customers as the other baristas; she was, however, the only one who made it to work today. Tom was grateful for it.
"How 'bout you take the evening off?" he suggested. "God knows we aren't gonna get any more customers with this rain. I made extra bagels; take some to your girlfriend, surprise her at work . . . along with a cup of dark roast, too, on the house."
Myrtle lit up at the mention of her girlfriend. "That's perfect," she simpered, swiftly untying her extremely stained apron and tearing out her ponytail. She gathered her hoodie from the breakroom and stood awkwardly in the threshold as if forgetting something.
Tom was amused. "That drink isn't gonna make itself."
"Right," she blushed.
She started the machine and let it whir. Once the coffee finished dribbling out of the machine, softly steaming, Merope got too excited. She grasped it with both hands, the cup collapsing. A bit of the top sloshed onto her jeans, the droplets soaking quickly into the material. Swearing, she sucked at her scalded fingers and popped a plastic lid on top. With a sharpie marker in hand and a tongue tucked between her lips, she scrawled out 'My darling Olive,' on the cup sleeve in her best cursive. After doodling a little heart, giving it an arrow through the middle, Myrtle smiled and stood straight.
"Done?" Tom asked, raising a bushy grey brow. He set down a pulp fiber tray and Myrtle slotted the cup inside.
"Can I make one for myself?"
"If you can manage to keep it in the cup this time."
As the second cup brew, she used tongs to pull out two plain bagels from the display case. Olive didn't like hers toasted but had a secret, guilty addiction to the raspberry jam. Myrtle brushed the bagel crumbs from her hands. "Think she'll be happy to see me?" she asked, slightly apprehensive.
Tom hesitated. "I think so." Though what I think and what'll happen are two separate things, Tom didn't say.
From witnessing Myrtle's interactions with the female lawyer, Tom could only rationalize their relationship with: I guess opposites attract. On the outside, it was a beautiful, tragic love story - two women separated by class, star-crossed, one a 'queen' and the other a servant. It was the gender-bent tale of Cinderella, but instead of loving a prince, Myrtle fell for the evil stepsister.
. . . Metaphorically.
Tom shook his head. He, of course, had his reservations, but Tom did his best to support Myrtle. As her employer, and as her friend.
She was just a kid, and she's already been through too much. Not long ago, she'd been viciously traumatized by the Matchmaker's attack. Nearly three months ago, she went missing in the middle of the night, lured into an alleyway at the faint whimper of - what she thought - was a stray dog. The animal had been bathed in shadow, but before her eyes could adjust, a hand closed around her mouth and a cloth placed over her mouth. She told him, in a shaking voice, what she remembered most was the voice. The dog had begun barking, almost like a rabid animal, until a soft voice whispered 'hush, boy,' and the creature heeled.
Tom, himself, had filed the missing person's report when she hadn't arrived for her morning shift. He went about his day in a state of vague concern until news broke that two girls had been found buried alive. Video footage showed the retrieval; he was relieved to witness Myrtle and another victim emerge from the coffin clutching each other's hands.
The other victim, however, was a surprise. Olive Hornby, witness attorney, had been dressed in a rumpled pencil skirt, her lipstick smeared, and a heel of her shoe snapped; he almost didn't recognize her without a Blackberry plastered to her ear.
Hornby was a frequent customer who the other baristas called 'Cruella DeVil'. Tom always knew when she had arrived by the clicking of her sharp, four-inch heels on the hardwood and the sound of her snapping at her poor assistant. Last he recalled, she had fired the poor temp and hired another within the same half-hour break. Myrtle was always scheduled during Olive's lunch break. Olive was dismissive at best, and cruel to her at worst - she was constantly volleying back and forth between ordering a venti dark roast and railing insults through her cell phone. Against all odds, Myrtle had become enthralled with Olive's bright red lips and sarcastic quips. Myrtle would daydream for hours on end, sighing at the television and ignoring her duties.
Tom was almost grateful the two had gotten together. Myrtle worked harder and faster when she had a dinner date to look forward to, and always came to work with a skip to her step.
He watched as she balanced the bagels and the cups, her hood up as she stepped out the front door.
"Bye, Tom!" Myrtle called out to him, flapping her free hand. Her voice cracked as she stepped into the cold rain. "Gross!It's pouring," she spluttered.
Tom lifted an idle hand in goodbye, shaking his head fondly.
Myrtle rushed to the parking lot, knobby knees shaking under her uniform skirt. Her dingy car was parked at the furthest possible spot, and she sloshed through puddles of mud. Panting slightly, she scrambled for her keys and opened the lock. Myrtle slid into the front seat, shivering and soaked to the bone.
She's worth it, Myrtle told herself fiercely, imagining Olive's small approving grin. Well, it was more of a quirk of the lip, really.
Olive had been staying late at work most nights and giving rainchecks on their dinner dates. Myrtle was a bit put-out, but knew Olive was busy with some case or another. Myrtle wasn't sure what Olive did, but since the dress code called for pencil skirts and tight blouses, she certainly wasn't complaining. Myrtle was sure Olive would be thrilled to see her.
Snuffling, Myrtle turned on the heat and wrapped her cold fingers around the steering wheel. She backed up carefully, squinting to see through the rainstorm. Her wipers swung lazily, smearing the rain more than anything. The rich, bitter smell of coffee filled the car, and her stomach rumbling. Soon, she reminded herself.
When she arrived at Olive's office a few minutes later, Myrtle took a moment to bring down the vanity mirror. A soft mewl left her lips. She resembled a drowned rat, her hair dangling in tangled, wet strips, her glasses smeared with water. She hurriedly wiped at the lenses and tried to fix her hair into some semblance of a style. It looked greasy and snarled and -
Myrtle shoved the door open, nose crinkled as she fought tears. She clutched the food to her chest and allowed the rain to fall over her skin, a chill reaching her bones.
Lifting her head high, as though nothing bothered her, Myrtle stepped into the office; Prewett, Nott & Hornby, Attorneys at Law. It wasn't a cozy office, with largely minimalistic decor, but it was warm. Olive worked in a large office building, the waiting room filled with irritated, just as wet-looking souls, dressed in suits.
Myrtle cleared her throat, struck with the sensation they were all watching her. Her fingers trembled slightly around the coffee tray. She stopped at the receptionist's desk where a woman with brown hair pulled into a tight bun dutifully jotted down notes from her computer.
"May I help you?" the receptionist said dryly.
Myrtle stilled. The woman should know her by now - she was Olive's girlfriend, for god's sake, and she'd visited before. Did Olive not talk about her, ever? Myrtle curbed her anxious, panicking, quickly spiraling thoughts. She knew she was overreacting, and so did the secretary. The woman eyed Myrtle with faint distaste. "I'm," she cleared her throat. "I'm Olive's girlfriend - I brought her some coffee?" she postured it like a question.
"I can see that," the secretary said. Irma Pince, her badge read. "Unfortunately, Ms. Hornby is busy. Would you like to make an appointment?"
"I don't - I don't need to make an appointment," Myrtle said, consternated. "Could you just, call up to her, maybe? She'll want to see me. You have an intercom, don't you?"
Irma's bored countenance finally flashed with some sort of emotion. Her fingers closed around the intercom, covering it. "I was told explicitly not to bother her - "
Fed up, Myrtle tore away from the counter. "Forget it! She can make some time for me."
Behind her, the secretary made a choked noise of protest. Her lips pursed in sympathy before she shook her head. "Little idiot," she murmured, returning to her computer.
Myrtle fumed all the way up the elevator. She imagined what she would say to Olive; your secretary treated me like dirt, haven't you told her we're together? The elevator dinged, and Myrtle exited on the second floor. The doors were made of glass, but the blinds were shuttered. Myrtle could read O. Hornby printed on the door.
Prepared to find Olive situated behind her desk, perhaps reading the riot act to one of her clients over the phone or chewing on her pen like she was prone to do, Myrtle was entirely surprised to hear faint sounds of . . . was that . . . grunting?
Her breath caught in her throat, suddenly terrified that Olive was choking or injured or lying dead on the floor - Myrtle curled a hand around the door handle and yanked.
The coffee fell from her hands.
All she could see was a strong, firm back dressed in a white dress shirt, and two long, dark, familiar legs wound about his waist. Olive's eyes fluttered at the sound of coffee splashing, long eyelashes peeling open. Her mouth, red lips smeared and dripping with saliva, parted in a small 'o'. Her hand scrabbled at the man's back, nails scraped into his skin. In response, he bit the small of her throat, her head rearing back. "Arcturus," she whispered, tone raspy. "Arcturus, stop."
Arcturus Black, the words echoed in Myrtle's head. Olive's new assistant. Her jaw trembled.
He pulled back in confusion, and all Myrtle could see through the tears blurring her eyes, was dark hair and an aristocratic chin.
Just another rich pretty boy. Myrtle frantically thought back to Olive's complaints about the man; he was lazy, he'd been disowned from his family, he kept flirting with her clients, he could never get work done in time -
Apparently, those were his only faults.
Shaking her head, droplets of water splashing through the air, Myrtle jerked away.
"M - Myrtle," Olive called out weakly. "This isn't . . . "
"Who are you talking too?" Arcturus mumbled, peeking back just as Myrtle disappeared into the hallway, slamming the door behind her.
"N - no one," Olive choked out after a moment. Her hand clenched his shirt. "No one at all."
Myrtle let out a choked sob. Leaning against the wall, Myrtle finally let the tears flow.
She let out a moan that seemed to echo down the halls, despondent and haunting.
Like a ghost.
A Total Eclipse of the Moon
A mirror in one hand and a moist towelette in the other, Ginny wiped the makeup from her face. It came off in sticky clumps, the purple eyeshadow smearing, giving her the appearance of a raccoon.
A high, bell-like laugh sounded behind her. "You look like that little creature . . . the one who I catch digging around our trash at night?"
Luna held the slight lisp of a Frenchwoman; she had the hair and pale skin of one, too. She'd been raised in Paris with her mother and father until her mother's death, after which her grieving father moved them to England – into a house right next door to the Weasley family. It had been destiny, Luna was fond of saying, their pillow talk filled with sweet nothings and Luna's ramblings about karma and kismet.
She matched the décor, dressed in a cascading white dress and colorful, feathered earrings that tickled her collarbone. Their bed was covered in plush, ivory sheets, quilted blankets and hand-stitched pillows. Jewelry and clothes were scattered on the floor, a lace bra hanging over the vanity and a sketchbook propped against the mirror, a colored picture of Ginny – sleeping peacefully - on display.
There was no dark colors to be found in their home. Ginny, however, with her tanned skin and brown freckles and copper hair, felt out of place even in her own home.
"Raccoon," Ginny sighed, glum. "I know. The damn makeup won't come off."
"Why did you wear so much today, love?"
Luna glided over to Ginny, standing behind her in the bedroom vanity. She was soft and beautiful as always, a pale, dainty hand stroking Ginny's hair, like a pet. Starved for touch, Ginny leaned into it. ". . . interview," she said, finally. "I spoke with an athlete who's notoriously hard to get alone"
"Did it go well?" Luna asked, genuinely thrilled for her.
"He was certainly a strong-willed fellow. Didn't seem to like me one bit. A pity, but I got what I needed from him," her lips quirked in a small semblance of a smirk. Ginny continued working on the monstrosity that was her face. "Where did you go, today?" She tried to keep her tone light.
"Oh," Luna said dismissively. She threaded her fingers into Ginny's long red hair, the strands wet and slightly tacky. "Nowhere, really. Are you sure you washed your hair well enough, love?"
"You pivoted the topic, Luna. I'm a journalist, that's my job." Ginny's lips tugged into a frown. "Seriously, where were you? I tried calling you a few times – "
Luna released a breathy laugh. "More than a few times," she said gently. "Nearly blew up my phone, really."
"So, what?" Ginny set the mirror down. She turned, frustrated. "I was worried. I missed you."
Luna, who'd tensed at the sudden movement, slowly relaxed. "I turned my phone off," she admitted, voice light. "It was nice, not being so . . . connected. Do you know how dangerous phones are? They strain your eyes and my daddy always says social media will be the downfall of our society – not to mention the germs that collect on the screen, let alone – "
"Luna!" Ginny snapped, exasperated. She turned in her chair, hazel eyes blazing. "I don't – I don't care what your dad says about cell phones. Were you ignoring me?" she demanded. "Is that what it was?"
"No!" Luna exclaimed, eyes wide. "I promise, I wasn't trying to ignore you. Nev and I just went to the museum and I wanted to – "
Ginny paused. "Nev? Neville? You were – you were with him?"
"Well, yes. He wanted to see that exhibit on underwater sea-life and thought I would like it – " she trailed off, almost shy. "I did. It was beautiful. Did you know seahorses -"
"Stop that," Ginny spat. "So you're going on dates with him now, then? Does he know you're a lesbian?"
"You – " Luna's breath caught. "I'm pansexual, Ginny, you know that. But my sexuality has nothing to do with it. He's my friend! You were just at Harry's the other day."
"Harry means nothing to me!" Ginny's voice escalated into a scream. The words bounced off the walls, traveling through the air like the slice of a knife. "But you and Neville -
"Ginny, he bought the tickets months ago, before . . . before everything. You know you mean more to me than he does. Why are you so upset?" Luna insisted, laying a trembling hand on Ginny's shoulder. "I swear, there's nothing between us, Ginny, not anymore. He's – he's my best friend."
"I'm supposed to be your best friend." Ginny hissed, blinking rapidly, as though fighting back tears. "Your very best friend."
Luna's breath caught. "Oh," she breathed, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did. She pulled Ginny towards her, enveloping the older girl in a tight, consuming hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered, voice shaking. "I didn't know you'd be so upset." She didn't use the word jealous or possessive, though the thought crossed her mind. "Please. Don't be angry with me."
There was a pause, the thump of a heartbeat, before Ginny spoke.
She pressed her mouth into Luna's throat, mumbling the words. "I'm not angry with you," she said, sniffling. "I'm angry at myself for letting this happen. I should've seen how he looks at you – "
Luna's brows furrowed, and she tried to pull away. "How he -?"
"I shouldn't have let you two hang out as much as you have," Ginny continued fiercely. "Neville doesn't think we're going to last. No one does. Harry doesn't. Hell, my mother doesn't. But they don't understand. You're mine, Luna – I'm the only one who loves you. Neville can't ever love you as much as I do – no one can. No one."
"Ginny, you're rambling," Luna, concerned, held a hand to the woman's forehead. She blinked, startled. "You're . . . you're so cold. Are you feeling well? Did you get caught in the rain? Is that why your hair is so wet?"
"Don't be stupid," Ginny spat, swatting at Luna. "I'm not sick."
Luna caught her hands deftly, tugging her close. The blunt nails were jagged and dirty, slightly trembling, and the tips blue. "There's dirt under your nails, Ginny, what've you – "
Almost violently, Ginny pulled away, back hitting the vanity. The table rattled, and a bottle of peony perfume tipped over. They ignored the sound of glass shattering.
"It's me or him, Luna," Ginny said, the words bursting from her lips like a tsunami. "I'm so done with this. Done with . . . coming second. I should be your priority, not him."
Luna flinched.
Gimny's eyes only hardened. "Me or him."
Luna let out an almost choked sound. Her pink lips pried apart as she whispered. "W - why would you force me to choose? If you say that you love me, why would you - " she cut herself off, shaking her head. Blonde strands drifted through the air. "You don't mean that."
"I do. I'm serious." Deadly serious.
"I'm not choosing between you guys. I'm leaving, Ginny," she murmured, eyes lowered. She turned toward the door, her hand lingering on the frame. "I think you need some time to yourself."
"You - "Ginny stared blankly at the back of Luna's shining, flaxen head, the strands glowing like a halo in the fluorescent bedroom lights. Her lips tightened. "You're leaving me?" she whispered, affronted.
Her fingers curled around a pink shard of glass, a piece of the broken perfume. "We'll see about that."
To be continued . . .