Chapter Two: The Quibbler

Luna returned home, to the tearful and emotional arms of her father. He sobbed deeply, and apologized for everything under the sun- for letting the Death Eaters take her, for not having the courage to stop them, and for betraying her friends in exchange for her own security.

"It was foolish of me, to go against everything that you stood for," he wept. "Will you forgive an old man?" He asked, his voice trembling.

"Of course," she said lightly, perfectly understanding his love for her. The two of them had only each other in the world, after her mother had died. "There isn't anything to forgive, daddy."

Then he laughed heartily, and walked down the winding path to the house. "I must apologize…" he muttered vaguely, pointing his wand at the Dirigible Plums as he passed them.

"Herbivicus."

There was a small flash of light, and the plants straightened up and shed their dead leaves. The plums, until now only tiny, wilted prunes, swelled back to life; the vibrant orange shade returned to their juicy flesh, and began to sway a little from side to side.

"The horn of the Snorkack that I mentioned to you… it, well, exploded. And it hasn't come back since," he muttered angrily, using magic to swing open the front door. One spell later, the innards of the rook-shaped building had tidied themselves up- the thick layer of dust on the floor vanished, and the chairs straightened themselves into a more perfect position by the table.

"You must have been cheated, daddy," she smiled airily, heading up the stairs to her room. "Never mind, though. We'll keep on looking until we find it."

He smiled and laughed, grateful that the void that his daughter had left behind was filled again. Humming absently, Xenophilius began to prepare an infusion of Gurdyroots for them to drink, while Luna travelled up the stairs to her room at the top of the tower. The painting she had done at the top of the ceiling was rather ruined - the faces of her friends were charred and Harry had Hermione's hair – and the golden chains had ended up spelling 'fwiends'. She supposed her father had done his best to restore it.

She found her paint palette beneath her bed, and began to restore the mural. Her brush strokes were steady and practiced; she found it more fulfilling to do it by hand than with magic. She painted, and floated off into a dreamy haze for several hours, letting the brush fly across the ceiling. Paint splattered across her clothes, as she reconstructed the faces of her friends; she did Neville's rather large nose, Harry's scar, and Ginny's fiery red hair. In the tiniest letters she could manage, she wrote the words 'friends' on the wall, in bright gold paint.

She flopped back on her bed and gave an airy smile. Fixed on her ceiling were the faces of all her friends; the most important people to her, save her father. They had accepted her for what she was, when all others had shunned her for her oddities. And the radishes. She suspected that it was something to do with the radishes.

There came a call from below, and her father walked up the stairs to her room with a large pile of The Quibbler in his arms. Luna smiled; it looked like he had managed to conjure up a story in the hours that she had been painting.

"Luna?" he called, wobbling dangerously on the steps. "Could you take these to the Weasleys? They've renewed their subscription… and I can't be bothered to owl that hovel of theirs."

"Daddy," she lightly chastised, springing up from her mattress. "The Weasleys are very nice. They're doing us a favor by buying…"

She took the magazine from her father and skipped down the stairs. It would be nice to see Ginny again. And maybe Ron. He could be very unkind sometimes, and she thought that he looked rather funny when his ears went red.

She hopped out the door and headed southwards, to the Burrow. It was a good day for a walk. The wind was gentle, throwing out her hair, and the grass wiggled beneath her feet. She thought that she had caught a fleeting glimpse of a Nargle; but her brain did not go fuzzy, and it was therefore impossible. Her necklace of corks swayed around her neck as she hopped, careful not to topple the large pile of magazines.

She skimmed the cover of the magazine as she walked, taking in the headlines and latest discoveries of her father in her absence.

CRUMPLE HORNED SNORKACK REMAINS ELUSIVE. That would be the Erumpent horn. She felt a tinge of sadness; they both had been so certain that the horn was the final, irrefutable evidence of the Snorkack's existence. She would have brought it onto the Hogwarts Express to wave in Hermione's face. But then it would have exploded, and she might have died. Or been horribly burnt and disfigured.

Oh well.