A/N:
Look who's back, bitches!
Ahem. I meant to say, thank you. I'm overwhelmed by the number of people who are still out there waiting for this update. I don't deserve you, but I'm glad you're here. My humble thanks is all I can offer. (Well, that, and this shiny new chapter.)
Chapter Ten
Rediscovery
Victoire's fourth birthday party was great fun, all told. She's going through this phase where she feels the need to torment my godson, and she refused to speak English to him at all, nattering away happily in French until he was dying of frustration and the rest of us were howling with laughter. The May weather was so beautiful that the only time we spent indoors was when someone ran into the kitchen to fetch more drinks or bring out the birthday cake.
I personally sat on a blanket with Ron and Hermione and relaxed, watching Bill and Ginny play with Victoire and her little friends. It's mostly family, at things like this, but Victoire's got a couple of playmates from somewhere who were also in attendance. Angelina's pregnant, so Molly spent the whole day fussing over her whenever she wasn't helping Fleur with food. Ginny was so busy playing raucous games with the children that I felt absolutely no pressure, no eyes watching her and me and wondering when it was going to happen.
It was the most relaxing, comfortable, uneventful day of my life. I felt deliriously happy. The kind of happy that made me just as worried as my inclination to cry, lately. These ups and downs in my moods have honestly made me fear that I must be losing my mind. I don't know when I started losing my emotional equilibrium, but it seems I have. Maybe wedding season turned me into a girl?
And that has led me to where I am now. Pacing in Ron and Hermione's living room and trying to explain that I might have gone round the twist. Hermione is sitting on the sofa with a bunch of paperwork spread out on her coffee table, giving me that frowning look that says she's listening intently. Ron is in the kitchen, a half-drunk glass of milk sort of forgotten in his hand.
Even as I'm ranting about my uncontrollable mental state, I'm feeling rather comforted. They returned from their honeymoon last month just in time for Teddy's sixth birthday, and they hadn't changed in the slightest. I suppose I was mildly afraid that they would. But here they are, just the same as they've always been. The only difference a month of marriage has made is that Ron has finally removed the last of his clothing and his extra toothbrush from the Burrow.
"So . . ." I trail off, feeling sheepish about my rampaging around my friends' living room. "What do you guys think?"
Hermione stands up and walks slowly toward me. I think I'm a little afraid she's going to Body-Bind me and cart me off to the long-term ward at St. Mungo's. (You think I've been tense and defensive every time we chat, doctor? What reason would I have to act like that?)
Instead, Hermione holds my hand. "Welcome back, Harry Potter," she says softly.
In my confusion, I look at Ron, hoping that since the person who has confused me is his wife, he will be able to explain. Instead, he is wearing an expression that simultaneously gives the sense that he is overjoyed and that the milk he was drinking has gone sour.
"Huh?" is what I settle for. (My eloquence has, indeed, been occasion for comment over the years! I'm thrilled you noticed!)
"It's been such a long time . . ." Hermione says, still sounding soft and still confusing the hell out of me.
"Ron, mate, I changed my mind. It's your wife that's gone bonkers, not me."
He shakes his head slowly, sets his glass down, and comes over to us. "No, she's right. It's just, I really thought you might not be able to come back, anymore."
Okay, so they're clearly on the same page. While I'm apparently reading a different book entirely.
"It's been so long since what? I haven't gone anywhere."
I have to pull my hand out of Hermione's so I can cross my arms with proper indignation. I'm starting to wonder if they're just having me on.
"Harry, you— well, do you remember what you were like, your first few years of school?"
"Er, not especially. Kind of like I am now, only less prone to joke about death?"
"Harry, what you're talking about . . . This used to be normal for you. When we were younger, you felt everything deeply, and you expressed it. You changed, after a while."
"Not that we blame you, mate," Ron adds. "You had every right."
"I did?"
"It started when Cedric Diggory died," Hermione says, her voice firming up, like she thinks she'd better be a little less quiet and sympathetic now that we're talking about Cedric. And she's right, I couldn't take that soft voice she was using, not about this. "You started, erm, you—"
"You were shutting down," Ron breaks in when he sees Hermione struggling. "And when Sirius died, it got bad. There was a couple of years when it seemed like the only thing you could feel was anger. I mean, unless Ginny was around, then you were happy—but it was like you were completely focused on being happy, so that had us worried as well."
"And then you separated from Ginny."
"To focus on the Horcruxes," I protest, the only words I'm able to come up with that don't stick to the roof of my mouth.
"Like I said, we don't blame you."
"We understood what was happening. You needed to be a certain person, act in a certain way, or you'd have gone mad. You had to turn yourself off, especially your ability to grieve, and that process included the feelings you had for Ginny. We all did it, to some extent. But it was different for you. You were really—hard, I think, back then."
I'm speechless. Utterly floored. I don't know what to make of any of this.
"We sort of reckoned it worked too well," Ron says with a shrug. "You've been better, but not, er, I dunno, not real the past few years. Like maybe you didn't know how to turn your feelings back on."
"Oh, Harry, don't look so betrayed," Hermione says in distress. "We didn't want to bring it up before because we wanted to give you some space. We hoped that with enough time, you'd heal on your own. And it seems like you have. I'm sorry that it seems so confusing for you, but please believe me when I say that nothing you're experiencing right now is abnormal. Everyone is supposed to cry when they're sad and laugh when they're happy. Even you, Harry. We were so worried that you'd gotten too lost in being 'Harry Potter' to be whole."
"It's just my name," I blurt out, and it seems to be my only defense. "It still would have been my name if all that shit hadn't happened." I feel like I'm repeating something I heard somewhere else, but I can't think of it now. "Of course I'm a real person."
I don't know why my heart is pounding and why I feel sick. I don't know why I feel like I've been attacked. All I know is that I don't want to hear that this is normal, that I'm going to be this exhausted for the rest of my life, and I especially don't want to hear that I've been not normal for so long . . . Who really knows what normal is, anyway? (I know that's your job, doctor, but you really need to shut it.)
"Listen, mate, we didn't mean that you did anything wrong," Ron says, alarmed.
I'm stunned by my desire to tell him to shut the fuck up. I have to get out of here.
"I need to think . . . I'm going home . . ."
I duck into their Floo and ignore the way Ron reaches for Hermione's shoulder and the way her hand rises up to clutch his. Seeing other people so together like that has started to piss me off. I do need to think, alone. Kreacher appears to ask me if he can do anything for me, but I snap at him to leave me be and stumble upstairs.
What if they're right?
I go to the room where Sirius used to keep Buckbeak, because in some obscure way I think this room is more capable than the rest of the house in dealing with inner demons. This room is quiet and almost empty, containing only the chair that Sirius used to sit in when he retreated up here—everything else was removed to make room for the hippogriff, and I've never corrected it. I needed for there to be some place that Sirius had left a tangible mark on, the same way I can't find it in myself to do anything to my family's former house in Godric's Hollow.
What if they're right?
It churns up my stomach until I feel like it burns, and my throat aches, and my eyes won't stay open because I have to shut them against the force of the maelstrom in my head. It's horribly uncomfortable, but I still do it. I open up all those memories, every scrap of them. I have to think about myself, just my self, in a completely honest way. I hate it. Who gives a shit about me, about that inner self of mine? What does it matter? I would be happy to go on stubbornly ignoring it, but I can't anymore. Ron and Hermione aren't going to let me. It's Teddy's fault, maybe. Loving that little boy is making that self wake up, and I have to pay attention to it.
Waking up feels like the right thing to call it. I wasn't allowed to have feelings when I was a kid. I was barely acknowledged as a person at all. So when I found out I was a wizard, when I came to Hogwarts . . . I could never truly explain to anyone all that it meant. It meant I was real, just as real as everyone else, and I was allowed to be a person. Hermione was right, I did feel things deeply, back then. Everything, just like she said. Because it was so new, and I was wallowing in the freedom of it.
Then I discovered that I didn't really have as much freedom as I'd have liked. People watched my every move, and some of those people wanted me dead. And then those people started killing my friends. I couldn't deal with that. How could I have dealt with it? There was no way, no time, I was right in the middle of a war for my life and the lives of everyone I cared about and things were so dire—
Holy shit, holy shit, that means they're right, doesn't it? I did shut down. I had no coping mechanism, so I just didn't try to cope. I retreated behind this silence and anger, and I tried not to think about any of it. I try, now, to think about what it was like at the end, but my mind pulls back from that like I've touched a hot coal, and I even hear myself hissing in pain. But I do know, I remember . . . Looking at the bodies . . . Looking at Fred, at Remus, and at Tonks, and even looking at Severus Snape . . . I barely even registered all that at the time. I was sleepwalking, by then. I was going to die, so none of it could penetrate me. But then I lived. It should have changed after that, but it didn't. I think I kept sleepwalking straight past the end of that terrible, desperate night and straight on into the rest of my life.
When did I finally start thinking about the rest of my life? When have I actually sat down and acknowledged that things are over, and I can move on?
I'm not sure I ever did.
Oh, sure, I started doing other things. I got my NEWTS, and I learned how to drink and to curse, and I learned how to change a baby's nappies, but . . . I've been tackling my life like it's a problem I have to solve, all this time. I had to be an Auror because I had to be something, and I needed Kingsley's help because like it or not, I have to be famous. Solve the problem of proposing to Ginny, solve the problem of Teddy's illness, solve— I dunno, solve me?
Like I said. It's the Bug's fault. He made me love being around him, and he made me start acknowledging all the little moments that I had with him. He made me remember that I'm alive, and that life is full of those moments. There's a lot of painful ones with him that there might not be with another child, but I wouldn't trade him for the world.
This isn't fair. I didn't ask to be woken up. I didn't ask to face this moment, where I have to say to myself that it's all over.
Still, maybe I'd better. It's either that or fear going over the edge of madness, isn't it?
"It's over," I say aloud, feeling stupid and sort of cautious. "The war ended. I'm just Harry now. And I'm allowed to be."
I still feel stupid, but once I say that, I get up and leave Buckbeak's room and quietly close the door behind me. For all that I feel stupid, I think I feel better.
"You seem very distracted, Harry," Luna observes, looking up from a glossy brochure in her hands. I'm happy, in a selfish and vindictive way, when I notice that her hair has grown out well enough to fall into her eyes when she leans forward. "Are you all right?"
"Wrackspurts, I expect," I smile at her.
She smiles back, the smile with the slightly dreamy quality that she displays less and less often, these days. "I know you're joking, but I still plan to prove their existence, you know."
"I'm looking forward to that day," I assure her, and start to return my attention to the brochure I'm holding.
"Harry. Are you all right?" she says, with no sign that she knows she's repeating herself.
"Yes, I am. In fact, I think I'm better than all right, at least if Ron and Hermione are to be believed."
"Have they given any sign that they shouldn't be?" she asks guilelessly.
"No," I laugh as I reply, then, feeling hesitant about it, I try to explain what's been happening in my head over the past few days. It takes longer than I expected, but Luna is patient in a way that I've never seen anyone else express patience. Her eyes are sharp on me, her hands are incredibly still while retaining the brochure. It's as though she's frozen in time while she waits for me. So I try to speed it up, because it makes me feel absurdly guilty to have her sitting there locked into position just to hear me angst about my fucking emotional state. "Anyway, I just finally said aloud that I know the war is over. I have a life ahead of me, and it's time for me to figure out what I want from it, you know?"
"I thought what you wanted from it was to be an Auror and to marry Ginny," she says calmly.
"I— I thought it was, but I'm not sure anymore. These days, the only times I feel like I'm doing anything right is when I'm with Bug. Or, well, that's not true, not exactly," I stumble over this as I realize something else, something new. "I think this feels right, as well." I hold up my brochure to illustrate my point. "Doing things for you, being your friend . . . This is nice, for me. Feels like something I want to do instead of something I'm expected to do."
Luna gives me an incredibly sweet smile, but doesn't seem to have anything to say. That's happened a lot, recently. She's gotten a lot quieter. Well, okay, she's never been particularly loud, but she at least used to speak when spoken to. Now she seems to hold a lot of things inside herself. I know that some of that can be attributed to other influences, like the war, like being kept in a dungeon to compel her father—but we all know that most of it is due to The Arsewipe.
Urgh. Not him again.
"Have you seen anything you like?" I ask her, nodding at the glossy paper in her hands.
She sets it down, almost like she'd forgotten she was holding it. "Not this one," she says quietly. "Maybe this one . . ." She reaches out for a new brochure, and then she sighs and rubs her eyes with her hand. "I didn't expect it to be this difficult. I think perhaps—" She shakes her head.
"Yes, what is it?" I ask, as gently as possible. I don't want to make it obvious that I've noticed how quiet she's gotten. She probably thinks she's done a better job of pretending.
"I think it's difficult because no place is really right," she admits. "The right place for him is home, and I'm just looking for the least awful out of the wrong places."
"Why?" I frown. "Did he say something like that?"
Luna blinks slowly, clearly thinking hard. "No. He's the one who brought it up first, actually. He was feeling very lucid, and he apologized for being a burden, and asked if it might not be better for him to a professional caregiver. So I said I'd look at some rest homes, and he said that was fine." She drops her face into her hands. "I just hate the whole idea," she says, muffled. "That I'm looking for some place to foist him off on, like I don't want him anymore. And sometimes he doesn't really understand and he gets angry at me for talking about it."
I put down the rest home brochure I was perusing so that I can put my hand on Luna's arm and pull her hand away from her face. I've been feeling weird about looking at places for her father, because how would I know which one would be right for Mr. Lovegood? But this, this is the reason I am the right person to be here. Luna shows more of herself to me than she does to anyone else.
"Hey," I say softly, and cup her chin in my hand to make her look at me. "We've talked about this. You and me, and you and your father. You have no reason to feel guilty, or ashamed, or anything of the sort. Okay?"
She nods, just slightly, and I let go of her chin. I pick up her hand, though.
"Maybe I should go," I say quietly, and speak over the denial that sparks in her eyes, "so that you can look these over with him. I know he gets to say yes or no to what you might pick out, but you might feel better—you both might feel better—if you look at the options together."
"It's possible," she ventures.
"I know you've gotten used to making the business decisions on your own, but this isn't something that has to be decided today, right? You can take your time, and look at these when he's feeling up to it."
Luna squeezes my hand gratefully. "You're very insightful, aren't you?"
"Wonder when that happened?" I laugh, pulling away from her, the serious spell broken by my own discomfort. Me, insightful?
"It's been happening very gradually," Luna says soberly. "But I think you've really allowed yourself to become more mature since Teddy became ill, if that's what you're asking."
Merlin. I sometimes forget how seriously Luna can take flippant statements. Speaking of insight . . .
"You're right, Harry, I'll wait and look these over with Daddy. But you don't have to go, if you don't want to, I'd hate for you to think you can only come over when I need something. Would you like something to drink?"
I shake my head in negation. "Didn't you say earlier that you have a lot of work to do for the magazine today? I know that you're busy, I can go."
Relief flashes in her expression for just a moment, before she asks, "You don't mind?"
"No, I don't. But don't work too late, all right?" I add, taking a look at the shadows under her eyes. "You'll get so distracted that you'll try to organize the entire issue tonight, but you need sleep."
She gives me a real Luna Smile. "Thank you for being my friend, Harry."
"Thanks for letting me," I say in return, just for something to say. I guess I mean it, though. I do enjoy being around her, because the commitment I made to my friendship with Luna was so purely my own choice and not driven by other factors.
Then I go home to prepare for night duty at work. I kind of like night duty. I've always suspected I was what you might call a night owl, given my penchant for getting up to have adventures in the middle of the night and wanting to sleep in late all the time. But there's something about sitting around the office, sharing a cuppa with the other night Aurors and companionably griping about paperwork. There's a lot of impromptu duelling practice, story-swapping, and fact-checking in the Defensive books and papers. I probably learn as much during night duty as I used to learn in a DADA class period at Hogwarts, although some of it is of dubious usefulness.
Even more fun (for me) is the fact that Ron is far enough into his training that he gets night duty assignments from time to time, and tonight just happens to be one of those times. I said that we swap stories, but when Ron and I are working together, we end up telling most of the stories. It's a bit therapeutic, honestly. The good wizards and witches of the Auror division are the only people in the world who know the truth of who I am instead of the rumours. Ron and I have made it pretty clear that we were idiotic kids with more luck than sense. My partners on patrols laugh when people ask for my autograph, these days.
I'm getting a cup of tea when I hear everyone start laughing uproariously behind me. I turn around to see Ron winking at me, and another trainee named Zachary is practically laying on the table.
"M-m-moral f-fiber!" Alicia gasps out, setting them all to howling.
Oh. The Triwizard Tournament, then.
"Oh, shut up," I mutter, sitting down and making a creditable effort at not blushing. "I was fourteen and I thought my best friends were drowning."
"You know, it's awfully sweet that the thing you'd miss most in the world is him," Zachary says, popping up off the table with a grin.
Ron groans.
"Well, we all know what young boys get up to at boarding school, don't we?" Zachary leers.
"God," I sigh. "Can't a bloke have a best friend anymore?"
A round of chuckles and elbow nudging. I know they're only joking, so I don't take offense.
"We got enough of this from our dormmates back then," I grumble. "Which is ironic, since Ron and I were the straightest ones one of the bunch."
Ron freezes, and gives me a slightly shocked look.
"You heard Zachary," I say, enjoying this now. "What boys get up to at boarding school. Why do you think Seamus and Dean always went to the showers at the same time?"
Ron is gaping at me.
"Of course, they mostly fantasized about getting you in there with them, but I told them you wouldn't go for it," I say, sipping my tea, making my voice as unconcerned as possible.
Ron chokes, tries to speak, can't quite manage it.
Which is, of course, the moment I burst out laughing and set off the whole group. Ron sits back in his chair with a weak, "Bloody hell, Harry," and a wry grin on his face.
"I love winding you up," I tell him. "You should have seen yourself just now."
He throws a wadded up piece of parchment at me and takes a deep drink of the coffee he was neglecting.
I turn to Alicia. "Wonder what he'd do if I told him it was actually Ernie Macmillan who wanted to get him off in the shower?"
The spray of coffee actually hits the ceiling. I'm impressed.
After a while, we start trying to get some work done. Trainees have to write reports of their role-playing training sessions, because it's good practice for the day they have to report actual incidents. My new job is to read over the reports to see if they make sense, and follow up on anything that looks like a disparity with the trainee in question. Then I have to write my own opinion of the report, and then, finally, I turn the whole mess in to The Trout. I assume he reads them with the intention of following up on any disparities with me, but since I've only been doing it for three days, I doubt he's even opened the file yet.
If my new job includes confronting the trainees with the findings, I'm going to quit. Lucas used to go over my reports with me, and it was completely humiliating. I left out so much that I should have put in. Going back and forth with Lucas was like having Hermione berate me for not studying. If I have to do that with Ron and Zachary, I will start hating my job.
Why? Because Lucas was always right, just like Hermione was always right. Making me feel like a particularly stupid twelve-year-old got me to start filling out reports properly, which makes this department run smoothly, which is something I've learned to appreciate. I started feeling less like a retarded child and more like a stuffy old man, but I wanted to earn this job so I kept at it.
I've gotten very good at writing detailed reports. Getting Ron to do the same is a skill far beyond my mere mortal powers.
"Twenty-four?" I repeat in shock.
Ginny rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, you're taking the whole "charmingly oblivious" thing a bit far, aren't you?" She is smiling though, and she pushes the casserole she made forward so I can take a second helping.
I scoop the mixture enthusiastically onto my plate. Ginny hardly ever cooks, I've got to take advantage of it when she does. There's meat and potatoes and all kinds of manly things in this dish. God bless her for learning how to cook in a house with six boys.
"So, then, what do you want for your birthday?"
"I can't believe I'm turning twenty-four," I mumble over a chunk of beef I'm chewing. "Get me a coffin, I'm ancient."
She scowls at me. "That's not funny."
"You're right, it's not, I'm sorry."
For some reason, that surprises her. "You are?"
"Yes?" I answer with hesitation, thinking Is that wrong?
"You usually aren't, so much."
"I think," I say slowly, "that I might not joke about being dead anymore. I think I might actually appreciate being alive."
I came to Holyhead to have dinner with Ginny, and I don't really want to spoil it by describing my recent emotional journey in depth. I'm hoping she'll get the gist of it from that.
If the bright, happy look on her face is any indication, she's got it. It's really just splendid to be with someone for so long that they can guess what you've been thinking.
"Good," she says softly, and leans over the table to drop a brief kiss on me. Then she picks up her fork and resumes eating. "This is nice," she says in contentment. "You don't even have to leave to get to the hospital in the morning."
"I know. Can we sleep in?"
At least the shaking of her head seems regretful. "No, quarterfinals are this weekend. We're practicing like mad."
"How are things looking?" Ginny shrugs. "We don't have a prayer at championship, but Gwen says we might make semifinals. She also says . . ." She takes a deep breath. "That a scout from England's team will be there to watch me play."
The hand that isn't holding her fork is nervously digging a sliver of wood out of her table. I cover her hand with my own. "That's amazing, Gin. Brilliant. You're going to knock 'em dead, I know you will."
Her smile is sort of sick. "Gwen says she'll kill me if I don't make the team. Apparently I'm the only player in the last five years to even be considered."
"What happened to Noggie?" I ask, needing a moment to mull over whether or not I ought to track Jones down for threatening my girlfriend.
"Oh, that was just plain old silliness," Ginny explains, dismissing it. "We're better friends now, I use the name her friends actually call her."
"Oh. Good for you. She isn't pushing you too hard?"
"No," Ginny says with an inward smile. "She knows exactly how to motivate me. Seriously, she knows me so well it's almost scary. She's brilliant with the whole team, she really is. I never would have got this far without her help."
I clasp my hands together and flutter my eyelashes at her. "And her eyes? Are they green as a fresh pickled toad?"
Instead of blushing and throwing something at me, like she usually does if I bring that up, she just wrinkles her nose.
"Do I sound that bad?"
"Bit of hero worship isn't so bad. Jones is great, sounds like the perfect captain."
"Unlike some people," Ginny smirks. "But yeah, Gwenog's really great. I'll try to tone down the screaming fan-girl-isms, for your sake."
God, that is such an unfortunate choice of words. Either that or my mind is much further in the gutter than I have thus far believed it to be. I actually thought I wasn't as much of a pig as most men.
"You okay?" Ginny asks, sounding amused. I must have been staring at her or something.
"Yeah, I'm good. Are you finished? I'll clean up, if you like."
"And he does dishes," she murmurs, pushing her mostly-empty plate toward me and wiggling her eyebrows.
I tease back by giving her one of those bottom-to-top looks with way too much heat in it.
Ginny sighs, suddenly.
"You okay?"
"Uh-huh. Just tired. Would you be— well, disappointed, if I just wanted to sleep?"
"You want me to go?"
"No, stay. But just to sleep, you know?"
"Sure," I say cautiously. Sleep beside Ginny without any sex. Huh. This is a novel idea.
Still, it's nice, I think as we crawl into her bed. It's warm, and comfortable, and quiet. I've always liked having her beside me when I sleep—call it a holdover from the days when I would wake up unsure if I was actually awake, still dreaming, or having a vision. Just knowing that someone is there with me to help me figure it out . . . honestly, it's great that it's Ginny but I'd have taken the giant squid, that first year or so after it was all over.
She curls up like a shrimp so that I can curve myself around her back, and she sighs in contentment and immediately begins falling asleep.
"It's like being kids again, doing this," she murmurs. "We used to save sex for special occasions just because we were worried about my dad catching us, remember?"
"Of course I remember, I'm not that old yet," I quip.
"How late can you stay, tomorrow?"
"Not long. I have to get back so I can work. Don't you have practice pretty early, anyway?"
"Yeah." She sounds disappointed.
"Why?"
"We just need to talk soon, that's all."
"About what?"
"About Teddy. You've noticed that he puts himself between us, right? I just think we ought to talk about that soon. Goodnight, Harry."
She mumbles her way through that and falls asleep. I was feeling wide-awake because my body was fiercely protesting not having sex with Ginny. Now I'm awake for a different, even less comfortable reason. It's coming. The talk is coming. And it scares the hell out of me.
Ron came to my cubicle earlier today and asked me if he could come over and talk later tonight. Don't get me wrong, he comes to my cubicle all the time, usually just to chat for a minute or invite me over for dinner or something. But I knew something was wrong immediately, this time, because of the way he stood there with his hands in his pockets and the uncomfortable way he was talking.
This is the reason I am at the market buying booze. I'm not much of a drinker to begin with, and making my home safe for a six-year-old means it's not on my usual grocery list. But Ron wants to talk about something he's not looking forward to, and that is just terrifying. If it's about Ginny, I might save him the trouble and beat myself up. That's the kind of awkward conversation I would suddenly move to Bolivia just to avoid, if I wasn't so certain that Hermione would find me and drag me back.
The clerk raises her eyebrows when she sees that whiskey is all I'm purchasing, and I'm tempted to start talking to myself very loudly about the sorrows I must drown. I have perfectly justified reasons to become an alcoholic, not that I'm about to take advantage of them. But who cares about the dumpy girl, anyway? I didn't have time to make a special trip to the magical drinks shop in Diagon Alley, and I'm stocked up on orange juice (the sole reason I usually visit the Muggle market).
I make it back home only five minutes before Ron arrives, and I tamp down my wish that he could have waited until after I'd had a chance at dinner. I get the feeling I won't be hungry later. He raises his eyebrows when he sees what's on my kitchen table, with an expression almost matching that of the clerk in the store. Then he grins at me.
"I don't want to do this sober, either. Should have thought of that."
"That's why they keep me around," I say, kicking out a chair toward him (which he doesn't take), "for my ability to think ahead."
Ron just laughs at that, deciding the quip is so bad that it's not even worth a derogatory remark, and swipes the bottle off the table. "Come on. Let's at least do this somewhere comfortable."
"Okay, but we'd better get a couple of glasses and limit ourselves, or I make no guarantees about where we or our clothing might end up."
"Good point," Ron says, then heads for the living room and leaves me getting the glasses and trailing behind him.
"Where's your wife tonight?" I call after him.
"At home, worrying that we'll get in a fistfight and she'll have to patch us up."
"Bloody hell, mate, would you just tell me what this is about?"
Ron remains silent until I finally join him in the living room and hand him a glass.
"Are you hungry or anything?"
"I've already hashed this out with Hermione and we've worked this out for ourselves," Ron says, and it takes me a moment to realize this is an answer to the first question, not to the second. "So this is just about what's between us."
"So . . . what's between us?"
"It's about what you said at the wedding." It sort of bursts out of him, then he swallows half his glass in a go. "The best man speech, I mean."
"Oh, boy," I mumble. "Kreacher!"
Ron frowns in confusion as my elf pops up.
"Yes, Master Harry?"
"Kreacher, be sure all the doors are locked, and hide the Floo powder. Don't let me or Ron out of the house at least for a few hours, okay?"
"As the Master wishes," he says, Ron's confusion transferring to him.
"Hold that," Ron breaks in. "Let me call Hermione first, okay?"
"Sure," I say, waving a hand to the fireplace. "Although it's probably not necessary. I bet she's already expecting you to be late and completely plastered."
"You're probably right," he chuckles. "But I'll call her, any road. Tell her not to wait up or worry, you know."
So this is marriage. Huh.
Hermione expresses to me her desire that Ron return home in one piece, then admits that she's long past the stage of trying to understand how men work and that she'll settle for him returning home. I reckon I can promise that much, although I don't take her point about how men work. We're upset about something. We drink until we're loose enough to talk about it, and sometimes we have to hit each other. Then it's over. What's not to understand?
"Right."
"Right."
"So."
We finish one glass in silence. Ron fiddles with his empty glass, then looks up and says, "Fuck it, mate, let's just have this out."
"Okay," I say, very startled.
"I left you guys. Things were bad and I left. I wasn't there for you, not like you were telling everyone. I ruddy well walked off right when you needed me."
"Yeah. Yeah, you did."
"So bollocks to your speech! I'm not your best man!"
"Yes you are!" I shout back, jumping to my feet and causing him to follow suit. "You told me what happened! You told me you meant to come back a lot sooner! It's not your fault we'd already moved camp. I'm not stupid, I know you had a lot of issues back then. You had them back when we were kids!" I shove him in his chest, absolutely spoiling for a fight. I've been wanting to punch him in his stupid mouth to get him over his self-esteem problem ever since the TriWizard Tournament. "You're still a bloody wanker, by the way. If you can't let go of that stuff and think better of yourself and just move on, then you have no business being married to Hermione."
"That's what she said," Ron admits, instead of shoving me back.
I find myself just staring at him, then a snort of laughter escapes me. Ron looks at me, confused for a second, then he starts sniggering, too. I begin laughing in earnest, and a minute later we're both collapsed on the sofa howling. Impressive, it only took a single glass of whiskey to get to this point.
Once we've both calmed down somewhat, Ron tries to speak.
"I was hoping," he gasps out in between gulps of air, "that we'd gotten old enough—to do this without—doing anything stupid. I was wrong."
"Th-that's what sh-she said!" I barely manage to stutter out, and of course I set us both off again and it's probably another ten minutes before we've completely stopped laughing and have resumed a normal breathing pattern.
Ron gets up and pours us each a fortifying second glass. "Seriously, mate. I don't want any bad feelings left between us. Are we okay?"
"It's fine, Ron. It was a bad year for all of us, and if you can forgive me for being a complete prat, I can forgive you for not being able to put up with it full-time."
"All right. Fair enough."
We're quiet for a few minutes as I think about everything that's changed over the years. Ron is still my stubborn, idiotic best friend at heart, but he's grown up. He's a lot more quiet, now. Thinks for a long time before he speaks, and he really has moved on from that childish need for attention. I'm fairly certain he's happy with his life.
"I'd love to keep you up all night getting drunk with me, but you've got a wife to get home to, eh?" I say, trying for jovial and ending up more on the depressed end of the spectrum.
"I do, at that," Ron says, getting up. When he reaches out his hand for mine, I'm a little confused, but follow direction, and he ends up pulling me to my feet, too. There's a quick, back-thumping embrace, then he says, "I don't want you to get drunk alone, either. Do you want me to stay?"
"No," I say, slightly shocked. "I'm going to bed. Do I look like an alcoholic to you?"
"Well, no," Ron says uncomfortably. "But your life isn't exactly easy these days, Harry, so we all get a bit worried about how you're handling it."
I roll my eyes. "You can take the bottle home with you, if you'd like. I don't really want it around Teddy, anyway."
"Oh, bollocks," Ron says in frustration. "Fine, Harry. If you don't want me to worry about you."
"I'm not a drunk. And you don't really need to worry, anyway. Things are going all right for me." I clap him on the shoulder. "Honest."
Ron nods, says goodnight, and steps into my fireplace mumbling something about how people who should have gone daft ages ago shouldn't be allowed to live alone. I pretend I can't hear him. (Doctor, even you have to agree that occasional deafness is necessary in a friendship that's lasted this long.) I don't live alone, in any case, I have Kreacher . . . Er, never mind. Just—oh, hell, maybe Ron's right.
I distinctly remember telling people—several people—that I did not want to have a birthday party. These people were clearly not listening.
It was bad enough that Alicia brought a cake to work and made everybody sing to me. The Trout was not amused in the slightest, for one thing, and I did not want to celebrate my birthday. Then I went over to the Burrow for dinner, all unsuspecting, and found a bunch of people waiting to pounce on me with yet another cake.
I repeat, several people.
Still, since everyone got together to have a good time at my expense, I should probably not be grouchy and spoil it for them. Wedding season notwithstanding, I don't actually go out much for the purposes of socialization. It will probably be someone else's birthday or wedding before I see Seamus again, so I make sure to spend a couple of minutes chatting with him about work and this witch he's seeing who works in Records at the Ministry. (Yes, I was only joking about him and Dean. Not too sure about Ernie Macmillan, though.)
It's actually not that many people, and all of them are friends and family, so I find it fairly easy to just accept the impromptu party. Besides, it's like I told Ginny: I might be glad I'm alive this year. Maybe I ought to loosen up and just celebrate a bit. The only kids here are Victoire and Teddy, and they have moved from trying to annoy each other to completely ignoring each other and are quietly sticking to their father and grandmother, respectively. I can just relax and have a good time today.
Or so I believe.
(Yes, doctor, I do know that repeating the same action over and over expecting a different result is a mark of insanity. But does it truly make me insane to keep hoping that things will just go without incident sometimes? Don't answer that.)
It's all well and good during the hors d'oeuvres and casual conversation, but by the time we get to the actual cake, it's become clear that something is wrong with my godson. He has left his godmother to come cling to my leg. I have attempted several times to dislodge him so I can talk to Dean about some editorial pieces in the paper recently regarding werewolves, and I don't want to do that within Teddy's hearing. But he is acting cranky and spoiled, and I have to settle for general pleasantries and affirmations that Dean's wife really does sound like a great girl.
Dean eventually realizes that I am annoyed with my godson and makes a tactical retreat to talk to Neville so I can deal with it. Andromeda is frowning at us from across the room where she is talking to Molly, and I deliberately turn my shoulder to keep the conversation private.
"What is it, Bug?"
"Nothing," he says sullenly, astonishing me. Where on earth did my shy, polite little Bug go and who is this child?
"Why are you being such a brat?"
"I'm not," he says, and suddenly his eyes are flooded with tears. "I'm not a brat."
Oh, boy. This kid is in desperate need of a nap. Of course, if I suggest such a thing, he will inform me that he is six years old and far too big for one. Maybe he didn't get enough sleep last night? I turn back toward Andromeda and raise my eyebrows in question. Her response is a shrug. Great, she doesn't know what's wrong with him, either.
Then I wonder if he might not feel well. "Teddy? Have you had a glass of water this afternoon?"
"I don't want any," he says, now both sullen and tearful. "I'm tired of drinking water all the time. I don't want to."
I experience a moment of loss. Teddy has long since gotten over his reservations about telling me when he doesn't feel well, but he is clearly having a rough day. It's entirely possible that he just didn't want to ruin my birthday party. I don't want to embarrass him in front of my friends, because he likes all of them, but this is rapidly becoming one of those situations where I have to be a responsible adult and force the child to do what is best for him whether he wants to or not.
"I'll be back in a few minutes," I tell Luna and Hannah, who are standing close by and looking concerned. Then I scoop up Bug and carry him out of the room, with him uncharacteristically pouting in protest and me shaking my head at Andromeda to let her know I've got this under control.
I take him up to Ron's old room, which has been made up for guests in general, since none of the Weasley children live at home any more. Bug is making ugly noises and squirming and being a general nuisance, and I am entirely shocked. This is so not like him. The first thing I do is conjure up a glass of water, because he's not getting dehydrated on my watch. I am very close to panic. On occasion, when he was in his Terrible Twos, I had to give him a time out. I hated it even more than he did. I have not had to punish him for misbehaviour in at least three years, and I am terrified at the prospect that I may have to discipline him right now. God, why didn't I let Andromeda do this? Am I a glutton for pain? (Don't answer that!)
He very nearly throws the water at me, and I fix him with a good stern look. "Drink it."
He does so, but by the time he's halfway through, he's crying so hard that he's hiccupping and practically choking on it.
"Oh, good grief," I mumble, and take it away before he really does choke. "Teddy . . ." I trail off helplessly.
"Don't be mad at me," he cries, scrubbing at his eyes. "I don't want you to be mad at me, Harry."
Well, shit. There went all the wind in my sails.
"I'm not mad at you, Bug." Well, not now, anyway. "Why are you so tired?"
"I don't know," he hiccups. "Grandma made me take my medicine today, and it made my tummy hurt and now I'm tired and I'm still th-th-thirsteeeeee," he finishes on another wail.
Bloody hell. I pull him up into my lap and let him bury his face against me and soothe him until he stops crying, which takes a bit longer than expected. Eventually, he settles down enough for me to refill the glass of water. Just because the whole thing is so pathetic and I feel so sorry for him, I hold the glass and let him sip out of it, like he's still a baby. He's so tired I worry that he'd drop the glass if left to his own devices, anyway. He's practically asleep by the time we get through the water, and I find myself just cuddling him into me and stroking his hair. He's falling asleep in my lap, and I don't want to let him go to lay him down for a nap. My poor Bug. He's such a sweet and innocent kid, and he'll be embarrassed by his own behaviour when he wakes up and feels more rested.
I hate his illness, and I hate the medication he has to take, and I hate lycanthropy and doctors, too. I pretty much hate everything right now. I do, eventually, lay him down, thinking I'd better go get a washcloth and clean him up a bit before I go back to the guests, though.
I hear a noise and turn to see Ginny in the doorway. She grimaces when she sees Bug's red face.
"Want a garden hose?"
The glare I give her could probably melt steel, and is maybe a little unfair. Did I mention that I hate everything right now? (Misdirected anger is one of my strengths, doctor, don't look down on such a special talent!)
"Kidding," she says, raising her hands in surrender. "How about a washcloth?"
I nod, and she disappears for a moment to get it. I try to wrestle my emotions into submission while she's gone, and I manage to have a grateful smile on my face when she returns. She hands it to me and lets me clean off Bug's face, with him muttering a sleepy protest.
"You need anything else?"
I shake my head. "He just needs to get some rest." I can't resist pushing his shaggy hair away from his face and just generally touching him to reassure myself that he is not burning with fever or anything of the sort.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"Please tell me what's wrong with him?"
I look down at my sad, ill little godson, and I look up at her pleading face, and I cave in and I tell her. Right there, with all the party guests wondering where the birthday boy is, I finally break down and tell her the whole story. I think that Bug is still awake enough to hear us, and even stop me if he wanted to, but he curls himself up against my outstretched leg and rests in silence. So I tell her everything.
Merlin help me, but I wish I could just have a breakdown and go on a crying jag by the time I finish telling her the truth. Ginny's at my side letting me lean on her while I talk, silent and contemplative about what she's just learned. She's not the only person in my life who's grown up a lot in the last few years. She's always been mature for her age, and I can see that she is forcing away her personal hurt over having this kept from her so she can understand what Teddy is going through.
I don't stop when I get to the end of the saga of Teddy's illness. I keep going. Straight on into the territory that Ginny was probably hoping we would be alone and more prepared for before it came up.
"I'm just worried about Andromeda, you know?" I say, hearing my voice wavering. "This is really hard on her, and she's not getting any younger. Ginny, this isn't fair, especially not for you, and I—"
"Harry," she says suddenly, and kisses me to make me stop talking. "Not now. Please. It's your birthday. Not today."
"Really?" I say weakly.
"Really. Now let's get you cleaned up so you can go back downstairs without anyone thinking we hired a clown as entertainment. You just go down and relax and take one day to enjoy being twenty-four and not dead. I know that we have a conversation long overdue, but I don't want to do it on your birthday. Just for today, I love you and helped Mum decorate your cake. Okay?"
Ginny is such a wonderful person. She really is. My heart aches when I think of this overdue conversation. It's inevitable by now, but I'll miss this. So I say okay, and kiss her softly, and go wash my face before letting her lead me back down to the party. This may be the last day she and I will ever have like this, so I just let it be what she says. Everyone can probably tell something is wrong, but I don't care. I twine my fingers through Ginny's and feel glad that she's still my friend.
Luna and her father have decided that he will move into The Hollows in mid-August, and in the end, both Neville and I accompany them. Neville and Mr. Lovegood aren't particularly close—not that I am particularly close to Mr. Lovegood, myself—but he's been worrying about Luna as much as I have. We all know this is the best solution, but that doesn't make it any easier on her.
I'm thinking about my own parents as we go through Luna's Floo one by one. They died and were gone from my life before I was truly old enough to remember them. (Leaving aside my little Dementor problem, anyway.) In some sick, perverted way, I feel grateful that it happened that way. Because they were taken from me like that, I will never have to go through this small, constant, painful method of separation. She and her father had no one but each other for so long, and I don't believe the calm face she is wearing today.
But I know all too well just how necessary the mask can be, so I don't force her to admit how much this hurts. I just volunteer to Levitate Mr. Lovegood's trunk so I can feel like I'm being helpful. Neville, being the great and dependable guy he is, is letting Mr. Lovegood lean on his arm and is even casually conversing about gardening techniques with him like it's no big deal. Luna lets them take the lead, hanging behind with me as we meander our way to the registration desk. I can tell what she's thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing: Thank all the powers that he's lucid. If we had to do this with Mr. Lovegood confused and protesting every step of the way, I don't think Luna could . . . Well, yes, Luna could. She's pretty strong. But I'm not sure I could take having to watch her go through that.
Luna and her father already toured The Hollows extensively before making their decision, but the witch who is there to greet us and finalize the paperwork offers to take us all the way around the facilities before ending at the room that will be Mr. Lovegood's. I'm pleasantly surprised, and we take her up on the offer. The kind and welcoming staff was one of the main factors in choosing The Hollows, for Luna.
It's a nice place. There's lots of open lawn and gardens for the residents to walk and relax in, shaded over with large, leafy trees. There's a big common room with chess boards and card games and shelves of books. It's well-kept, and the residents seem happy enough. At least, nobody throws themselves at our feet and begs to be taken out of here, which is pretty much the only standard I have. I don't know anything about this kind of thing.
Even though I know she needs the mask today, I can't stop worrying about my friend. My hand keeps reaching out instinctively to touch her elbow or her shoulder just to reassure her. She doesn't turn to me to acknowledge it, but she doesn't try to stop me, either. And when we get to Mr. Lovegood's room at last, she stops cold in the doorway for a second, and I quietly put my hand on her back and push her inside. While not large, it's very clean and cozy-looking. Unfortunately, he's having trouble breathing by now, and he has to sit down in the armchair by the window. Luna steps away from me to go over and check on him.
Helen, the kind witch who was giving us the tour, excuses herself, saying someone will come by at five o'clock to show Mr. Lovegood where the dining room is and that we may stay as long as we like. Which means that it's finally the moment for Luna to say goodbye to her father. And by golly, is it ever awkward for Neville and me. I look at him, he looks at me, we wonder if we should leave, and feel reluctant to do so in case Luna needs us. We wind up shuffling our feet a lot and pretending to be studying an extremely bland painting on the wall that depicts a vase of flowers and a stack of books.
"Luna, you're a dear to keep me company, but I know you've got work to do. I'll join you in arranging the editorials, but I think I need a bit of a kip first."
And cue the clenching in my gut. He's not entirely aware of things.
"I might just go sit in the chair by the window, downstairs . . ."
"You look so comfortable, though. Why don't you just nap here?"
"Excellent suggestion," he mumbles.
I see a light blanket folded up on the end of the bed, so I grab it and give it to Luna. She smiles at me as she takes it and throws it around his shoulders.
"Now, then," she says, quiet and calm. "I'll be going home now, as long as you're comfortable. Will you be all right?"
"Fine, Allegra, just fine."
"I'll come see you tomorrow, then." She bends down and kisses his sparse, flaxen white hair, and whispers something very strange. "Ti àmo, pàpy."
Without a word of explanation at the confused looks Neville and I are giving her, she grabs us each by a hand and walks us out of the room. She keeps hold of us as we walk down the hall. Normally, I would feel amused by the three of us hand-in-hand, and chalk it up to an eccentricity of Luna's. Today, I think she might just need us to keep her from running back to his room and taking him home again. With this thought in mind, I shuffle us at the Floo so that Neville goes first, Luna in the middle, and me last. I think she needs one of us at each end, just in case. Sure enough, when I climb out and brush the ash from my shoulders, I find that Luna is locked firmly in Neville's embrace.
"I have to go to work soon," he is saying with regret. "But there's time if you want us to take you out for lunch or something. Get your mind off things?"
"No, thank you, Neville," she says. "I'd much rather not go out today, although I'm glad you offered."
"You ought to eat, though," I speak up. "I could cook something."
"I'm not hungry at all, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Harry."
Her extreme politeness has me a bit baffled. She does tend to start speaking that way when she's out of her element, but she's with the two people who are arguably her best friends right now. She's usually a bit more relaxed around us.
Oh. Out of her element. If anything could make a person feel like that, I suppose it would be signing your dad off to a bunch of strangers and going home without him to work in an office you used to share.
"Do you want me to do anything?" Neville asks, clearly at a loss just as much as I am. There's not really much that anyone can do for her, not today. We can love her and support her as much as we want, but coming to grips with a difficult situation is always something you have to do alone. She just needs time, I expect. (Of course I don't want to do your job, doctor, but I don't think it requires superhuman insight to figure that much out.)
"No, Neville, nothing. Just keep being my friend."
"Always," he says gruffly, and gives her a final squeeze before letting her go. "I'd better get going, then. You know you can call me anytime, or Hannah, if you need us?"
"I know," she says with serenity, making him smile.
Man, I always knew Neville was a good person, but he really is something. I always saw him as such a self-effacing person, but it's like he has this strange, dormant confidence that wakes up in situations that call for compassion and a helping hand. When he takes his leave, the house goes quiet.
Very, very quiet.
I know Luna probably wants some time in private, but I can't just leave her here, all alone in an empty house. Believe me, I know what crushing loneliness and isolation feel like, and I just can't shake the idea that if I leave, that's how she'll feel. She might smile and say she'll be fine, but it's not true. Even if she doesn't know it, it's not.
"Luna, I'm going to stay here with you."
"You are?"
"Yes," I say decisively. "I know you probably want to get some work done, so I'll leave you alone for a while. But I'm going to be around today, and I'll sleep here tonight. Just in case, you know, if you want to talk or something." I had to work awfully early this morning, and I have to work awfully early tomorrow morning, too. But I can rest here just as easily as I can at home, in my own big, silent, empty house.
"O-okay."
That didn't sound very composed, I think to myself.
"Thank you for being such a good friend, Harry." Her voice sounds squeezed, somehow.
"Luna, your dad will be okay there. It looks like a really nice place."
"He's dying."
It takes me a moment to realize what she's just blurted out. When it finally hits me, my response is "What?"
(It's true. My skills as a linguist and as a friend are simply astonishing.)
"He already knows. They told us when we were doing all the medical testing during the preliminary paperwork. His heart is failing so quickly—"
I might start out slow, but I catch up fast. Luna is cut off because I've snatched her into my arms so quickly that her face sort of slams into my chest.
"Oh, Luna, I'm sorry. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I wanted to, but I didn't know how," she says, sounding bewildered. "I wanted to keep him at home with me as long as possible, but he's really dying now and he needs to be somewhere that they can take care of him."
I walk her over to the table and make her sit down.
"I'm going to make you some tea."
I am aware that tea does not actually fix anything. But everything looks a damn sight better with a hot cup in your hands, especially if that cup was put there by someone who cares about you.
"Did they tell you . . . how long?" I ask her as I rummage through her cupboard for something that is recognizably tea-like. This takes longer than it should. There are canisters labelled with words that I am certain Luna or her father made up.
"A few months, perhaps. Maybe sooner."
Filling a cup with hot water is a moment's work, so once I find a box of Irish Afternoon tea in bags, all I have to do is pop the teabag in it and join her at the table. She clutches the cup and leans over it, but doesn't cry. I think it would be easier if she would just cry. Or maybe it would only be easier on me. By Merlin, am I still that selfish even when I'm trying to be the direct opposite?
"Luna, please, talk to me. What do you need?"
"I don't think I know."
"Have you—have you thought about what you'll do?"
Her grip on her teacup becomes incredibly desperate. "Yes. But I haven't made a decision yet. I don't think I want to keep the house. Not forever, anyway, I think I'd like something smaller. But I do want to stay here for a little while. At least until Daddy is gone. It might be very sentimental of me, but I need the house to be here for him, if he wants it."
"I'm not going to judge anything you want to do," I say to reassure her. "You do whatever you have to. But what are you going to do about The Quibbler? I mean, if you move somewhere smaller . . ."
"That's one of the things I haven't decided yet," she says, miserable.
Today, she moved her father into a care home and is confronting how badly she will miss him. Looking for a new location for her magazine's editorial office is quite possibly the last thing she needs to be trying to do.
"Well, there's no reason you have to decide anything today. You know what you ought to do today?"
"What?" she asks, looking up as though eager for some direction.
"Nothing at all," I say with a soft smile. "It's time to throw up your hands, declare this a bad day all around, and spend the rest of it in your garden or reading a book in your pyjamas. Or even better, I could go get you some mead."
Luna laughs in a weird, choking way. "Thank you, but no."
"If you're sure."
"I'm quite sure. I prefer to keep my mind busy, you know. I've found that when my mind is occupied, it's not dwelling on losing things— so I— oh," she gasps. Even with her head hanging down, I can see that tears have finally started to fall.
I get up so I can stand beside her and rub her back while she hunches over the table and cries. I don't say anything, because I don't have anything to say. I've never been through anything like this before. I have no advice to offer, and nothing to do that will make it better. I really, really wish Neville didn't have to work, because I think he'd at least have something to offer, after his own experiences with his parents. Luna only cries for a minute, though, before she lifts her head, wipes her eyes, and attempts to smile at me.
"I think you're right, Harry. I think I will go and garden for a little while."
"Okay," I say, feeling awkward and knowing I sound just like I feel. "You want to be alone, don't you?"
"I do know that you're trying to help, so I don't want to hurt your feelings."
"You won't be. Go on, then. I'll let you be. But like I said, I'll be here. Come find me if you need anything."
"Thank you, Harry."
"Luna? Can I ask you something first?"
"Yes, of course."
"What did you say to your dad, when we were leaving?"
She looks very hesitant about that. I'm surprised, because I didn't think Luna really had any secrets left to keep from me after everything that's happened the last few months.
"It's okay if you don't want to tell me," I assure her. And it really is. I've turned into something of a nosy git where Luna's concerned, but I do respect that even a good friendship has the capacity for some things to be personal.
"I just told him I loved him, actually. I was speaking Italian."
Luna can be a veritable font of surprises. And here she is, being so matter-of-fact about it.
"I didn't know you speak Italian."
"I'm not fluent, so I don't suppose I do speak Italian, not really. But my mother was Italian, so I remember a few things. And sometimes my father likes to hear some of the phrases that Mamma taught me. And it helps me remember her, when I start to forget. She could speak English very well, but her voice sounded much more beautiful in her native tongue."
"How did your parents meet? Did she come to school here?"
"No, they met in Italy. My father was on an extended holiday. They got married while he lived there. I was born in Italy, actually, even though I don't remember it at all."
"I had no idea. You are a surprising and wonderful person, Luna Lovegood." These are things I should have known about her long ago, aren't they? But then, Luna has a unique understanding of privacy. She's not afraid to voice her thoughts and feelings, but very few people know anything about her personal life. You have to earn that. I don't know why it touches me so much to learn this about her. Maybe it's just that it adds so much to my understanding of her. She never talks about her mother.
"Don't be silly, Harry. Being born in another country does not inherently make a person wonderful, after all."
"I know, but you're wonderful, anyway," I tell her with a smile, then I squeeze her shoulder. "Try to relax today, okay?"
I grab a book off the shelf in the living room without really looking at it, and tell myself I need to remember to call Kreacher later to have him bring me a change of clothes. I spend the afternoon reading lesser-known wizarding folk tales that do not, thankfully, appear to contain the secrets to a massive conspiracy. After a little while, Luna comes in with dirt smeared on her chin and she looks a lot better. Being outside working up a sweat seems to have cheered her. We both go to sleep fairly early, and I have to say that I find her sofa a lot more agreeable to sleep on now that I don't have to worry about drunken arsewipes showing up in the middle of the night.
I go back to my own house after work the next day. Luna was going to go back to The Hollows to have lunch with her father, which she plans to do as often as she can manage, and I think she's going to be okay. She knows where I am if she needs anything, and I'd like to think she wouldn't hesitate to ask. I have a nice, lazy afternoon in which I go for a long jog, take a nap, then go and have dinner with Teddy and Andromeda before turning in early again.
Maybe turning twenty-four wasn't good for me. I'm turning into an old man or something. An afternoon nap, and in bed at nine o'clock? Maybe I'm coming down with the flu.
I don't have to be at work until afternoon the following day, so I decide to do something unusual, and read the paper from cover to cover. I generally only skim the headlines, but today I go through the newspaper at length. The classifieds are surprisingly entertaining, but the society pages make me want to put out my own eyes. So-and-so married what's-their-face, and this bloke went to this charity event, and nobody I care about might be cheating on his wife. Kingsley tells me I ought to stay abreast of things like this, but I can't bring myself to do it. He keeps trying to make a politician out of me, but I'm just an Auror.
Then I see it.
What in the bleeding hell is this?
The image is quite fuzzy. But it's unmistakably Ginny. And a man.
Why is there a photograph of Ginny and a man on the society page?
I can barely manage to tear my eyes away from the photo to read the text. It tells me that there was a party last night after the Harpies' last big game, and that a bunch of celebrities were rubbing elbows at it. In fact, I vaguely remember Ginny inviting me to attend this party and me declining because I hate going to these things. This celebrity in particular is named Alain Paradis, lead singer of a wizard rock band from France, who just happened to be doing a concert in Wales the night before. In this photo, he and Ginny are standing together with drinks in their hands, and he is leaning over her in a way that has me seeing red. Why is he standing so close to her? Why is she letting him?
My fireplace flares to life, and I look up.
It's Ginny.
"Harry," she says, the flames making her face wavery and uncertain. Or maybe that's just the expression she's wearing right now. "Harry, have you seen— oh."
"Oh?"
"Listen to me," she says. "It is not what it looks like. The paper likes to stir up rumours, but you know me better than that."
I stare at her, hard. Her eyes don't move from mine. She's right. I do know her better than that.
"I believe you," I say at last. "That it's not what it looks like, I mean." I hear myself moan. "There'll be a bloody mob trying to get to me to get a quote. The Trout will go spare."
"You'd better call out of work," Ginny says grimly. "And come up here and see me. It's time for you and I to have that talk."