A/N: *cringes* I am a bad, bad Faren. I honestly didn't realise how long it had been since I updated. I am sorry. This chapter had me stumped for the longest time, and I finally cut it off a bit earlier than intended so I could give it to you. My only defense for the length of time since updating is that I am working on 2 other stories at the same time I'm working on this one. I had ideas that wouldn't go away, so I had to start writing them. I may share them with you lot soon.

Chapter Seven

It Can Happen to the Best of Us

When I first realize I am awake, I am afraid to open my eyes or move. I can feel that I will be in pain. My body is stiff, and something is telling me that my neck is going to start a riot if I force it to move. I chance it, and open my eyes. The first thing I see is my showerhead, and I think I'd better ask if Arthur will help me change it because the mineral buildup is getting bad. Then it occurs to me to wonder why I'm sleeping in a bathtub.

My stomach lurches, because I'm getting a flashback of a moment of deep panic. Ron and I don't talk about that night we got drunk together, back when I decided to cut loose and live a little after the final battle—because we don't remember most of it. All I know is we started out in the kitchen of my house with several bottles of various alcohol, and we woke up the next morning in my bathroom (him on the floor and me in the bathtub), lacking certain key pieces of clothing with the vague understanding that we had left the house at some point. I was very quietly scared out of my mind for nine months that some witch was going to turn up with my shirt and my kid. Then Ginny and Hermione went swimming in the pond near the Burrow and found Ron's socks. The way we reckon it, we must have been drunk enough to think swimming in November was a brilliant idea, then somehow decided upon returning to my house that we should sleep in the bathroom. It was probably a good idea, considering how much we threw up.

Right now, I carefully flick my eyes about, and discover that I am not in the bathtub. I'm sitting on the floor, leaning against it. Why would I be doing that? I don't think I was all that drunk last night—

Last night! Luna!

I surge to my feet, because the last time I saw her she was laying in front of the toilet groaning, and she's certainly not there now. I cry out at the stiffness I feel (What? I'm not a teenager anymore, okay?), and grab hold of my neck as I stumble down the stairs. Lucky for me that my glasses didn't slip off while I was asleep, or I'd be falling down the stairs.

I hear a noise in the kitchen, two voices talking. I lurch that way.

"Luna?"

I blink at what I'm seeing. Luna is showered and dressed (must have used the other bathroom) in one of my button-downs and the skirt she was wearing last night, and she is standing at the stove with her hands on her hips, giving my house-elf a suspicious look. Kreacher is glaring right back, holding a teakettle. The sheer domesticity of this catches me off my guard. Luna is in my shirt, cooking breakfast at my stove, arguing with my house elf. Replace the blond hair with red, and I've seen this exact scene more than once before. Well, and transfigure some of the curviness into muscle, and make her shorter, and make her— make her not Luna! Merlin, what is wrong with me? I see a girl wearing my clothes and suddenly I'm thinking about her without them? (Pervert is such a strong word, doctor . . .)

I clear my throat and try for a nonchalant stroll into the room. "Good morning." It would sound more convincing if I didn't sound like I'd been swallowing dragon scales, probably. But I'm blaming that on my late night and sleeping on my bathroom floor. "You're looking remarkably well, Luna."

She gives me her patented closed-lipped smile. "I feel well."

"I'm amazed. I thought you'd be huddled under a blanket begging someone to make the hippogriffs stop kicking your skull."

She tips her head to the side and looks puzzled, then shrugs and turns back to the stove. "I'm making eggs and toast. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I reply, baffled by the idea that Luna cooks anything. I guess I always thought of her as somewhat lacking in practical knowledge, what with her eccentricities.

"I was going to make you coffee, but your, um, he didn't say his name, he says you don't drink coffee. He insists that he will make the master tea, and that I am trying to usurp him."

I can't help but laugh. Poor Luna, trying to argue with my demented house-elf who's so suspicious that I'm trying to retire him. "His name is Kreacher," I chuckle. "Thank you, Kreacher. I could definitely use a cup of tea." Still remembering the brief conversation I had with Luna on the staircase last night, I turn so I can smile at her and remind her that she's important. "And thank you for thinking of me. Eggs smell great."

I'm shocked by this entire turn of events, really. I expected her to be epically hung over, and instead she's up a good hour before me and making food? I'd love to see how long her 24-hour flu lasts.

"I don't really ever get sick," she says.

For a moment, I have no idea why she said it, then I realize I must have been thinking out loud.

"Really? Never?"

She shrugs. "I suppose I'm blessed."

She doesn't sound too convinced of her blessings, and I remember that she is going through a very hard time right now. I wonder if I should wait until after breakfast to bring that up again. Because obviously I'm not going to leave it where it ended last night. I want to know what's going on with her father, and what's going on with Scamander. I think about my own preferences in cases like these, and decide that such conversations are always better on a full stomach. And Luna's stomach has got to be particularly empty this morning. I'm trying not to smirk at that idea, but it's hard. (Oh, I have sympathy, doctor—it's still funny.)

But, of course, one cannot predict things around Luna Lovegood. She holds the pan over two plates, dividing the eggs equally, and says, "Did you really mean it, that you want me to tell you when things are bothering me?"

"Of course!" I exclaim, and take the pan away so I can set it in the sink and lead her to a seat at the table. I don't know where I picked up the idea, but I have this vague idea that you should pamper girls a little bit when they're upset and need to talk. "If you're hungry, you can eat first, and I'll still be here when you're ready."

She gives the plate a sort of mournful look, then looks back at me. Her eyes, normally so luminescent, are sparkling with tears. Luna, crying?

"I think I have to talk now, or I won't want to later."

"Okay," I reply calmly, wishing I could eat the eggs without looking like a real wanker. I really am hungry.

"But why?" she says, seeming genuinely confused. "Why would I tell you all of it, when you can't do anything to help? What is the purpose of doing it, in that case?"

I think for a moment. I knew last night that Neville and Luna aren't Healers, nor Aurors, and they can't help me with any part of the situation with Bug. But I still spilled my guts, and felt the better for it.

"It's nice to know that someone cares enough to listen. And that you have someone you can trust with what you have to say. And who knows? Maybe there is something I can do for you, Luna. What's the point in being Harry Potter if I can't help anyone?"

That makes her laugh, surprisingly. "It's just your name," she says. "It would be your name if you hadn't been famous, you know."

I can't say what it is about her statement that touches me so much, but I scoot my chair around the table to put my arm around her shoulders. "Thanks," I mutter, not even sure what I'm thanking her for.

She's sort of frozen beneath my arm. She doesn't get many casual hugs like this, I'll bet. Somehow, I don't see her and Rolf being the most touchy-feely of couples.

But I leave my arm where it is. "Talk to me, Luna. I promise, you'll feel better."

I need to get over to the Tonks house to check on them and to apologize to Teddy, and I have to report in for work at four. But I am resolved, now. However long Luna needs is how long she's going to get. I'll call in sick if I have to. If I find out that I need to do something for her father, if I need to help her pick a honeymoon destination—whatever it is, I'm going to do it. Luna is not going to doubt that she has friends, not anymore.

She breaks down, and starts talking. I'm surprised by how much spills out. "I don't want to put Daddy into long-term care, but his heart isn't very strong anymore. Nothing about him is strong. He needs a lot of help, and I've been managing it as best I can, but . . . But I'm not very good at it!" she suddenly wails, burying her face in her hands. I tighten my arm around her, but I'm thinking that opening my mouth would probably just make her stop talking. (Maybe I am getting smarter as I get older.) "I don't have much time for him, and he needs so much, and he's gotten so forgetful. I can't bear it when I help him and he says 'Thank you, Allegra dear,' because I can't bring myself to tell him it's me!"

Oh, damn, I'm going to have to open my mouth for at least a second. "Who's Allegra?"

"My mother," she says, sounding miserable. It's a surprisingly pretty name, for someone's mum, and I find myself wishing I knew more about her. "I honestly don't know if it's his memory or his eyesight that's gotten so bad. Some of both, I think, but he won't admit anything's wrong with either of them. I know his heart's bad, because he's got to take medicine for it, but it seems like he's gotten so old just in the past year and he doesn't want to believe it. I've tried to talk to him, but he's very stubborn. I think he doesn't want to leave the house, because he and Mother lived there together."

Luna sighs deeply, and wipes her fingers under her eyes to catch a few stray tears. She straightens her shoulders a bit. "Rolf says Daddy's mind is going quickly, and I need to be the one to make the decision. But I can't do that to Daddy, no matter what Rolf says."

"You are the one who knows him best," I say to her soothingly. I have no real practical advice on this topic, even though my heart breaks for her, so I just have to do my best, here. "So you need to do what you think is right. If that means that you want your dad to make the decision, then you can tell Rolf that."

This was meant to be bracing and encouraging, but my attempt has obviously fallen flat. It just makes her look tired. I think I might have just hit upon her second problem.

"You have told him, eh? You guys are fighting about this?"

"Not fighting, exactly . . . But we don't agree."

And I think I smell a fish. Is Rolf trying to get rid of Mr. Lovegood or something?

"Are you upset with him?" I ask as a prompt. "Is that why you said that last night, about not wanting to marry him?"

I'm shocked when she blushes and looks away from me. This isn't like the Luna I know.

"No, that's . . . never mind about that."

I want to let it go, because it's obvious how desperately she wants me to. But I can't. Not like this. "Luna. I can't remember ever seeing you cry before, you know that? And now you're blushing, and I don't think I've ever seen you embarrassed, either. Something's really wrong, here. Isn't it?"

"No," she says, sort of violently. "Rolf and I are going to be married, we're nearly married already. What's wrong with that?"

"Luna, I heard you say," I try to begin, feeling maybe just a little bit incredulous at this quick turnaround from confessing to close-mouthed, but she's cutting me off before I can get going.

"I hardly think our relationship is your concern, Harry. I don't pry into things between you and Ginny, do I?" "And now I've seen you nasty," I murmur, ignoring the fact that her sharp comment has actually gotten under my abnormally thick skin and stung me. "Luna, please."

"It's between Rolf and I, that's all," she says, making a visible effort to tone it down.

It's a little too late, and I'm certainly not buying it. I don't know what the problem is, though. I think I'm finally beginning to learn not to fly off the handle when I'm upset, and I make a conscious decision to stop and think about this. She's crying, she's embarrassed, she's defensive. I have noticed that Rolf seems to get away with throwing his weight around in her life a hell of a lot. So, she must be refusing to talk to me because . . .

"Oh, Merlin. Is this a sex thing?"

I'm surprised her face hasn't caught on fire, nor mine, for that matter.

"It is, isn't it? Shit, I'm sorry, I won't pry . . ."

I trail off right there because rather than looking slightly mollified by my apology, she looks even more miserable and defensive.

"Luna?"

"I don't like sex!" she blurts out.

I don't think I'll ever be anywhere near the skill level of my former professor, but McGonagall's galloping desks come to mind and I think I could pull it off. I could animate my chair and get out of this house, and maybe I could just take a Portkey to France or something and stay out of town until I feel like I can meet Luna's eyes again. Like next century, maybe. How did I get here, and how the hell do I get out of it?

While I'm busy trying to answer this question, Luna is apparently coming to believe that my mortified silence is permission to speak further. I should stop her. I really should.

"I didn't want to do it anyway," she whispers. "I wanted to wait until we were married. But Rolf said that since we'd declared our intention, it was the same thing, and there was no reason we shouldn't. I thought it made sense, that the ceremony was more of a formality, but now I feel confused. I don't remember if I agreed to it or not."

Wait. What?

"And I just don't like it at all," she says, hanging her head and letting her hair fall in her face. "It hurts. He didn't tell me it would hurt."

I feel something like a fish that's been landed on the shore. Unable to breathe but moving my gills with desperation, staring wildly at nothing at all. The nearest approximation I can find to a response to Luna is, "He probably didn't know it was your first time. Didn't you know it would hurt the first time?"

Luna looks up at me in shock. "Just the first?"

"Yeah, after that it gets easier . . . I hear . . ." I say lamely. I should be doing something comforting. But really, can't she talk to Ginny or Hannah or anybody who's a girl about this? I know she grew up without a mother to explain this to her, and I sympathize, I really do, but I cannot be here. Oh. Except how I said I would listen to anything she had to say, because we're friends. And I think I'm the only one who's ever said such a thing to her. Why didn't I think about this possibility before I made the offer?

"But it . . . It didn't get easier," she whispers, and I think she might be crying again. "It always hurts. I thought it was supposed to."

Okay, now I'm listening.

My kitchen has seen some really, really strange things over the years. Crazy things, even. It's housed some of the biggest names in recent wizarding history, including me. When my house elf serves me in here, I still sometimes get nauseated because it reminds me of the meals he cooked when Ron and Hermione and I were in hiding and thought we could be dead in another week. Fred and George tested out their status as adult wizards in this house, and I can still see the scar in the wood on the table from when they nearly spilled dinner. There's a chair I never sit in because I can still clearly picture Sirius in that chair, tilting it back onto two legs, a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand and a sparkle in his eye while he teases me. We planned a war in this room.

And now . . . now my kitchen has done its magic again. Kept us feeling safe for one more hour while things are terrible outside the door. Luna probably doesn't want me to touch her right now, but I wish I could hold her. The worst part is that I don't think she even knows the implications of the things she's told me.

"I told him no, but he said engaged and married was only semantics and I was being too prudish. He was so insistent . . ."

"He says it's more fun for him, that it hurts me. He says I'll learn to like it that way . . ."

"I tried asking him if we could take a break, but since we're supposed to be married so soon, he said it was pointless. I'm not sure he really respects me, anyway . . ."

"He has a lot of good ideas, but The Quibbler still belongs to Daddy, doesn't it? Even if we get married, he'd have to listen to what Daddy wanted . . . But if Daddy doesn't—doesn't last . . ."

So. Here in this kitchen (a room that I suspect will become a wizarding landmark if I don't tear the house down someday), I've just found out that my friend is in an abusive relationship with a controlling asshole who thinks she's too stupid to make her own decisions.

"You can't marry him, Luna."

"Why?"

"Haven't you been listening to yourself? This isn't right."

"Are you sure? I thought maybe . . ."

"Shit, Luna, you thought I treat Ginny that way or something? You know she'd cut my stones off if I did that, like I'd even want to, I mean, that's just . . ."

"I just thought it was the way things would be for me."

That shuts me up, in a big way.

"I know I'm not very pretty," she says, sounding angry. "And I know I make people uncomfortable. I'm not . . . I'm not . . . I don't know! I just know that Rolf is the only person who'd even want to marry me, whether he disrespects me or just wants me to have children, or whatever it is he's after. He's the only person who's ever going to want me, and I don't want to miss out on what everyone else has. I don't mind being alone, I guess, but I . . . I don't like being different as much as I used to."

That statement hits me like a sack of bricks. I'm not sure whether I want to throw up or punch something, although I'm leaning toward punching the whole world for her. Suddenly I don't give a shit if touching her might seem physically threatening. I'm going to hug my friend. She's leaning over the table, and I stand behind her and put my arms around her, and she suddenly twists around so she can return the favour, and she doesn't say another word. She just sits there, holding me as tightly as I'm holding her. Suddenly, I feel better. There is action I need to take, here. Something tangible I can do.

"Luna, you are not going to marry this man. I understand how you feel, but I absolutely will not allow you to put yourself into a situation like that. Do you understand what's going on, with Rolf?" I don't think she does. So I just tell her. "You are in an abusive relationship with a controlling asshole who thinks you're too stupid to make your own decisions. You really think you can stand being married to him?"

"Abusive?" she repeats, like she didn't know. She had to know.

"Even if he'd never done a thing to you, physically, he's still an overbearing blowhard who's been jerking you around with your emotions like he's a professional at it."

"But he's not a bad person," she says, sounding tired. "Really, he isn't. I don't think he does it on purpose. If I talk to him, I could—"

"No."

She lifts her face and glares at me.

"I know that you're a brave and intelligent person, Luna. I know that better than anyone. But you're just too close to this to see it for what it is. No. You don't go near him, not ever again. I don't care what kind of person you think he is, he has treated you terribly. Just . . . Just—no."

"What am I supposed to do? Just tell him I don't want to marry him anymore?"

"Yes. That's exactly what you tell him. And you do it by letter, because I don't want you to ever have to see him in the flesh again."

"But he's my fiance, I can't just . . ."

"No," I say again, very firmly. I don't know why I'm being so firm on this, honestly. It's just that I've never really known Luna to be confused. And if this guy makes her confused, I can see her trying to break things off and ending up letting him hurt her some more. And that has me seeing red. The whole thing has me seeing red. Mr. Calm Fucking Wisdom has been hurting her. I think the reason I'm holding on to the girl so tightly is because I'm going to walk out this door and go murder him if I let her go. I want to kill him. Rip him limb from limb. I haven't experienced a feeling of needing to kill someone like this since . . . Well, let's just say there has only ever been one person in existence who I needed to kill as badly as I need to kill Rolf Scamander. And I did kill that other person.

"But I have to go home at some point," she says at last, sounding a little bit amused. Her face is still sort of pressed into my stomach.

"Does he know where your house is?"

"Well, yes, of course—"

"Then you're not going home."

"I have to," she says, stiffening up and pulling away from me. "I can't just leave Daddy there!"

Oh, bother. Forgot about that. Fine.

"Then I'm coming with you."

"What?" she blinks.

"I'm going to stay with you for a couple of days. Until we can get this sorted out." (Translation: until I can get an official statement from her so I can arrest this bastard.) "I am not going to leave you alone with this guy, Luna."

(Yes, I'm just as surprised by the words that are coming out of my mouth as you are. I said I'm going to do what, now?)

"Harry, this is not necessary—"

"The hell it's not. It's not about whether or not it's necessary anyway."

"Then what is it about?" she frowns, ready to argue.

"It's about taking care of you!" I snap. Seriously, what's wrong with me? Why am I getting mad at her, when it's Scamander I'm mad at? "You're going through a hard time, and you need someone, and I'm here. And I don't want Scamander in your house, so I'll sit in the doorframe and wait for him with my wand drawn if I have to!"

"You're being very fierce about this, you know," she says, suddenly sounding like the Luna I know. I'm not sure why.

"I'm always like this when it comes to people hurting my friends," I respond.

"I know," she says, almost smiling again.

Please don't tell me that seeing me ranting like a lunatic is making her feel better. (You say "yes" like this is my normal state of being or something, doctor.)

I hear a noise that sounds suspiciously like the alarm on my dryer, and Luna's face brightens.

"My laundry is finished," she declares. "My robes are clean, so I'll be going now."

"Kreacher!" I shout, and he appears instantly. "Don't let her in the laundry room, Kreacher."

The elf nods, with a vicious smile. Revenge for the breakfast argument, I can see it in his eyes. I think I love him. Luna is giving me a rather put-upon look.

"You're waiting for me, because I am escorting you home," I tell her very seriously. Then I run upstairs, grab some clothes without looking to see what they are, and run back downstairs, panting for breath. Two minutes has to be a record for this. "Now you can get your robes."

She does retrieve them, and apparently she leaves my shirt in the laundry room, because she comes back wearing her own shirt again.

"Why are you bringing your clothes?"

"Because I'm going to be sleeping at your house," I tell her with complete conviction. There is going to be no argument, here. She's just going to have to deal with it.

It took a lot of thought before I decided to go to work. I'd have liked to play hooky and keep an eye on Luna, but I have this feeling. Between this situation and Teddy's, I had better stock up my time off for when I absolutely need it. Thus, I leave her house at 3:45 pm and go to work, expecting to be back just after midnight. Her father was napping the whole time I was there, so I have until tomorrow to come up with a good explanation of my presence. Because Luna's pretty insistent that Mr. Lovegood doesn't need to know the particulars of what's going on with Rolf, and I'll have to come up with something.

I still have to speak to Teddy, not to mention check on how he's feeling, but it will have to wait for my day off tomorrow. At this point, I don't really think about the possibility of not telling him what I've done. Bug and I are as honest with each other as we can be, even if that might seem a little strange to everyone else. I think it's just because I feel like a child, myself, and I'm not ready to start feeding him lines like "Because I said so." Trying to pretend that Neville and Luna don't know he's got some convoluted version of lycanthropy . . . that's just not how he and I work.

So I fret about it for my whole shift, which thankfully is extremely quiet. I'm on the emergency call team tonight. It's a great shift to have; we just do paperwork and sit around bullshitting unless we actually get something through the lines. We do get a call around ten o'clock, but it's a dotty old lady who thought her wellies were attacking her cat, and we're back at the office snickering our way through the report by a quarter after. Except Alicia, whose shift was just ending and who decided to stay and calm Mrs. Huckabee down with a cup of tea. Alicia's the sort of kind soul who ought to be working in the long-term ward of St. Mungo's, using her soft voice and concerned nature to help patients, but she's got this weird drive about her that led her to join the Aurors instead.

Finally, it's midnight, and I nearly bolt out of the office to get back to the Lovegood's place. Luna called Rolf, instead of writing him, and I stayed in the next room while she did it, but I heard some of the conversation and it wasn't very pleasant. She was quite firm about it being over between them, and he'd just been stunned into silence. I've been getting a bad feeling over the last hour of my shift that the whole thing went too easily, and I'm afraid of what I'm going to find.

Nothing, apparently. I scoot out of the fireplace and find the house quiet. Mr. Lovegood and Luna are both in bed, and my concerns are, as per usual, unfounded. Nothing wrong with a healthy dose of paranoia, though. (Just because my paranoia is a war relic doesn't mean someone isn't out to get me, doctor.) So I slip into a pair of shorts and a clean undershirt and curl up under the throw blanket on the sofa in the sitting room. I'd be sleeping on her floor if I wasn't afraid of having to explain myself to her father. I also hate sleeping with a shirt on, but that's one I don't want to explain to Luna or her father.

I drift off, pleasantly surprised by the coziness of the sofa. I don't know how long I sleep or how long I hear the noise before I finally realise that I am hearing something and drag myself into wakefulness. I'm hearing . . . howling? Snuffling? Is there some kind of animal outside?

Clutching the blanket around my shoulders and keeping my wand in the pocket of my shorts, I head for the front door to investigate the source of the sound. Just before I let go of the blanket to pull my wand and open the door, I rouse enough for the sound to resolve itself. It's a person. Making howling and snuffling noises just outside. Basically lost in the throes of mourning, it sounds like.

"Harry?"

I spin around upon hearing my name. It's Luna, with a blue robe wrapped around her waist, standing lightly at the foot of the stairs, her eyes wide and her short hair in disarray.

"Whhhyyyy?" moans the sobbing person outside.

"Oh, good grief," I growl and yank open the door.

And there's the bastard I was waiting for. A specimen of dignity, I assure you, with bloodshot eyes and a bottle of something alcoholic loosely hanging from his grip and a bit of drool in his beard. He's sort of using the door to keep himself upright, so he falls over when I open the door. I make a mighty effort and resist the urge to kick him in the head. He looks up at me as best he can, through a professionally academic hairdo gone awry (and doubtless some blurred vision), but I sort of doubt he knows it's me.

"I wanna see Luna," he tells me, struggling upright. "She can't leave me. I need her."

"No," I tell him, and make to close the door.

"Lunaaaaa!" He starts in with the howling again.

I crouch down and give him a nice, eye-to-eye murderous glare. "She doesn't want to see you. Go away. I'm asking nicely because I don't want to be in the morning paper. If you don't leave now, I'll suck it up and add the headline to my collection."

"But we're getting married," Rolf moans at me. "I just wanna talk to her. I don't unnerstand wha'ss wrong."

"What's wrong is you're an arsehole," I inform him, and shut the door.

"Luna," he starts in again, still crying. "I want my Luna."

Luna steps up to the door.

"Don't you dare," I tell her.

She puts her hand on the knob and gives me a challenging look.

"But . . . You can't . . . he's got snot on him," I say with desperation.

She opens the door.

"Luna," Rolf says, stumbling to his feet. "Luna, le'ss talk. I should change. I know. I will. Okay? I love you, and I wanna marry you. I'll do anything. Please. I do respect you. I do."

Luna's eyes are so sad as she passes them over the wreck of a man in front of her. "But I don't respect you," she says, very softly. "Now go away, Rolf. I don't want to see you anymore." She shuts the door and turns to me. "I can't lock it," she whispers, her lip trembling. "You lock it, Harry."

I do, as fast as I possibly can, then I put an arm around her and lead her away from the door.

"Luna, I was going to talk to you tomorrow about the possibility of pressing charges, but . . . Well, if I arrest him right now for trespassing and making trouble and everything, and if you come down and add the domestic violence charge, I can keep him in a cell for a good long time. I'd probably have to let him go in the morning, otherwise."

She shakes her head, so hard that her hair hits me. "No, no, that's not a good idea."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not charging him with anything. I don't want to do that, I don't want anyone to know about this."

"Luna, this is—" I stop, and take her by the shoulders, and turn her so that I can look right at her. "This is not your fault, and you do not have anything to be ashamed of." Thank the powers that Aurors get a course in domestic violence issues, or I'd be at a complete loss. I'm basically just quoting the sensitivity portion of our handbook. "You have every right to charge him for rape and abuse, and you don't have to hide it. No one is going to take advantage of you over this, not over my dead body." (Okay, that part didn't come from the handbook.)

"I know," she says. "But I don't want to. I'd have to go to the Ministry and make a formal statement, and there would be an inquiry and paperwork and . . . I can't put Daddy through that. I'm not going to do it, Harry."

I've got my mouth open to argue. I get as far as, "But Luna."

"That's final, Harry."

Damn, she does know how to be authoritative when she wants to. Maybe I can talk some sense into her in the morning. On that note, I lead her upstairs, and I sort of tuck her into bed. I don't mean to treat her like she's a child, but she looks so hurt and worried that I can't help it. I can't leave until she assures me that she's all right, then I go back downstairs.

Scamander is still out there. I can hear him. He's not talking anymore, just being a nuisance. I unlock the door, which gives him time to find his feet again before I can open it. He faces me with a scowl (and by golly is it intimidating on this pathetic slob, I'm shaking in my sho. . . oh, wait, I'm not wearing shoes).

"Already moved on, has she?" he slurs. "Got herself a new man in her life. Tha'ss what this is all about."

"I'm here," I growl through my clenched teeth, "just because I thought you might show up. I'm her friend, and that's all you need to know. Now get lost."

"Must be some kind of record for time. I hear rebound relations—relation-sips are all about sex. You like what I showed her to do, don't you?"

I don't even consider my wand. I grab him by the shirt and yank him toward me, and I'm shocked by the strength I seem to possess. I don't even think about the words that are spilling out of my mouth.

"Luna is a good person, and the only thing she's ever done that she needs to be ashamed of is getting attached to you. You do anything to impugn her honour, and you'll be facing me. Not just me, but everything that being Harry Potter can mean. You don't want to start something with me, because I will win. Got that? I am a Ministry Auror, and I am goddamn Harry Potter. I will fucking destroy you, Scamander."

I toss him away from me, and the git finally takes himself off for the night. I curl up on the sofa again, and I feel a lot better. I think I enjoy threatening people.

In the end, my conversation with Bug is a lot easier than the next conversation with Luna. Bug is a forgiving sort, all in all, especially concerning me. (And if you don't think that scares me . . . The responsibility for not hurting him is totally on me, since he'd forgive me for poisoning him.) The only thing left still simmering in my mind, after I take him into my lap and we embrace to seal the deal on my apology, is Ginny. Spilling my guts to Neville and Luna was an accident, and now I've used that one up. I can't "accidentally" tell Ginny and then apologize. Again, I know Bug would forgive me, but I sure as hell wouldn't forgive myself, not for taking advantage of him like that.

So, Bug and I are okay with each other pretty quickly, and I head back to the Lovegoods, wondering why the universe couldn't have engineered Ginny's presence at the Three Broomsticks the other night. I then try to convince Luna to press charges against Scamander, and there are distinctly fewer hugs and less cuteness in that conversation. (The answer's still no, obviously.)

Luna puts a halt to my arguing by going into her office to work on her magazine article, and I wonder if I should go home. I decide to stay for one more night, just in case, and I end up spending the afternoon with Mr. Lovegood. Luna's right, he's gone decidedly barmy.

"So you're staying here with us, are you, young man?" he asks me, fiddling with a twisted structure of wire and cords and dials that he informs me is meant to alert us of Wrackspurts in the area.

"Yes, sir. Er, you remember me, don't you? Harry Potter?"

"Harry Potter?" he grunts. "Remember him, sure. He and a load of Death Eaters blew up my house and ruined my work on Ravenclaw's diadem. He was a good friend to my Luna, though, so I forgave him for that. See here, what's your name, lad?"

I sigh, realising the trouble Luna's having with him. This is, in fact, when Luna comes out of her office to put a cup of tea each in front of Mr. Lovegood and I.

"How is the detection device coming along?" she asks.

"Very fiddly, I'm afraid," Mr. Lovegood says, and picks up his cup in hands that tremble a bit, inhaling the steam. "Ah, this is wonderful, Allegra love."

Luna keeps smiling her same slightly misty smile, but I see the way her eyes squint, like she's flinching inside.

"Mr. Lovegood?" I say, taking matters into my own hands. (Yes, I had noticed how often I've been doing that where Luna's concerned.) "You know that this is Luna, don't you? Your daughter?"

He gives me a slightly disgusted look. "Well, of course I do," he snaps. "Now, then, I've got quite a bit of work to do here, if you don't mind." He reverts his attention to the tangle of wires, and I shrug at Luna.

"Sorry."

"It's quite all right," she murmurs. "Most people need to see things for themselves, I find, before they really understand it. Belief is pretty rare, isn't it?"

I'm not sure whether she meant it the way it sounded, but . . . burn. I remind myself that Scamander is the one who doesn't believe in her, not me. I decide to be kinder to Mr. Lovegood than I've ever been to anyone and to pretend that nothing is wrong with him, because I feel like it will be easier for her, for now. I pass him spare parts and encourage him in his construction, and I cook dinner (don't get too excited, spaghetti's pretty easy) so Luna doesn't have to. I have work in the morning, so I turn in at a decent hour, worried because Luna is still working in the office when I lie down on the sofa.

Scamander shows up again, less drunk but even more pleading. Rather than try to deal with him, I hit him with a tongue twisting jinx and let him make nonsensical noises on the porch to his heart's delight. But I hear Luna creep out of the office to sit by the door and fret half the night. Something is going to need to be done about this guy. If Luna refuses to involve my office . . . we'll just have to do things privately.

I don't tell him everything. I basically just tell him we've got to get rid of Scamander, and he shouldn't ask why. He accepts this. I wish I could bring Ron into this, but he's still in the training programme, and he can't afford the trouble if he gets caught playing vigilante. I think it's a mark of how much Ron's matured that he understands what I'm saying and doesn't get his feelings hurt about being left out. He and Hermione are prepared for us to come by if we happen to need a minor healing charm or something, though.

When Scamander shows up the next night, Neville and I are waiting for him.