A/N:
Changed the title sometime in the last month. And most of the first four chapters. And a subplot or two. Somebody stop me. Or, failing that, buckle in for book three of a saga I have yet to think of a name for:
Luna Lovegood and the Colours of a Sunset Sky
Chapter 1: A Slice of Dirigible Plum
The Rookery was nothing like Harry had thought a house could be, and yet it had everything it needed to be a home. The not-quite-circular ground floor existed on four unevenly segmented levels, each two feet higher than the one counter-clockwise to it, terminating in a six-foot wall which held the door to the basement. From the upper level a wild amalgamation of planks, metal sculptures and animal bones formed a disturbingly functional staircase up to the thirteen bedrooms. Two of those rooms were the appropriate size for a human or two to sleep in; the others were more suited to rabbits or pixies, and more resembled pigeon-holes than anything else. However, Luna assured him they were most definitely bedrooms, and had held guests on many an occasion.
The roof terrace was accessed by walking up the curved wall at the end of the upstairs corridor; a feat made possible by a spell which rotated gravity. Luna showed him a fun little game she invented of straddling the border between normal and artificial gravity, which if done right would lift a person off the ground and set them into a wild, infinitely accelerating spin.
The unnaturally spongey texture of every surface in the corridor made a lot more sense after that revelation.
Harry was sleeping in Luna's room. As was Luna. Her father had seen no trouble bunking a teenage boy with his daughter, nor shown any concern that there was only the one bed. When Luna asserted that a guest should not be made to sleep on the floor unless they genuinely wanted to, and Harry refused to kick his friend out of her own bed, they ended up sharing.
The agreement was that they would top and tail. The reality was that Luna decided Harry's face was a much nicer view to wake up to than his feet, and promptly turned around so they were both laying with feet to the headboard. Harry had the sense not to argue, and his good sense was rewarded the first morning when he discovered that yes, waking up to Luna's face beside his was a pleasure, and one he could easily get used to.
Breakfast was every bit as unusual as the kitchen it was cooked in, but Xenophilius had, without being asked, sourced a prime cut of steak for Harry which he served having barely shown it to a flame.
Harry wolfed it down, and was too polite to mention it was decidedly not beef. Or alternatively, too scared to find out what it actually was, other than delicious.
"So," Mr Lovegood struck up a conversation as he was frying what might have started out as an omelette, "my daughter tells me you'll be needing the basement for the moons?"
"Yes, sir," Harry stammered, taken aback at how casually the man made mention of it. "Hopefully only the first."
"Ah, yes. My grandfather had the sickness," Xeno said in a wistful, dreamy tone which proved him his daughter's father. "The price of curiosity, and not wearing thick enough gloves. I was hoping you might be willing to help me in a little research on the matter. Grandfather's notes were woefully unreliable, and I have to doubt their veracity."
Harry almost choked on his water, thinking about the last edition of the Quibbler he'd read and wondering what the hell Luna's great-grandfather had believed in. "Su-sure. That'd be fine."
"Wonderful! Luna told me you were a helpful lad. Not that I doubted her choice of boyfriend," he added with a wink.
Harry actually spat out some water at that. "I'm not- we're not. Together. Not."
Xeno shot his daughter a quizzical look, which she met with a shrug. "He still has wrackspurts," she declared, and her father thankfully said no more on the matter.
Not that that stopped Harry's mind racing on the subject. It wasn't as if he hadn't had the thought before… drifted off in the middle of a lesson, finding the back of Luna's head more interesting than lectures on magical theory… been unable to stifle the smile on his face or butterflies in his stomach when she rolled over and gifted him a gorgeous smile to start his day that morning.
He was still nursing the blush from noticing how… translucent… her choice of sleepwear was. The sleepwear she was still wearing to breakfast. The sleepwear he was currently looking right at, and had been for a solid few seconds, even though Luna's eyes were up there and looking at him.
He hurriedly averted his gaze, and told himself he'd only imagined her father chuckling as he did so. Luna did not tear her eyes away; instead, she produced a pair of spectrespecs - from where Harry dared not imagine - and studied him through them.
Her assessment was: "Huh."
That first full day at the Rookery, Luna decided her house was boring and took Harry out to see the local sights. She showed him her favourite wall, and the prettiest stone therein. She taught him all the ways through the nearby grove, and there were many. They stopped in at the Burrow for lunch, as it was quite literally just over the hill, and Mrs Weasley was delighted to have two extra mouths at her overladen table. The twins tried to drag Harry into a pickup game of Quidditch, but he declined; he had set the day aside for Luna, and that was that.
He did have to promise to go back over the following day before they would physically allow him to leave.
Ignoring Harry's protests that he was going to die, brought on as a result of allowing Molly Weasley to feed his sensitive stomach being a terrible idea, Luna dragged him back up the hill until she came to a stop under a massive oak tree just on the Lovegood side, where she unceremoniously plonked her arse on the damp grass and laid back to cloud-watch the overcast sky.
Harry lowered himself to the earth beside her with a groan, slowly so as not to provoke his pounding head into any more pain than his new normal.
"This is daddy's favourite spot in the whole world," Luna announced, kicking her grass-stained feet in the air. "He says he and mummy used to get up to all sorts under this tree, but he never tells me what. I don't like to push him, but I do hope I find out one day."
Harry had a fair idea what the couple might have been up to, but tried not to think on it too hard. Not least because in his mind, Luna's mother was a slightly older carbon-copy of her daughter, who was laying right there next to him under that tree.
"He buried her here after she passed," Luna continued.
Harry looked about for a grave, or marker of some kind, but there was nothing. The natural beauty of the spot was untouched.
Luna giggled. "You'd be better looking down, Harry; you're right on top of her. But that's okay," she added, reading his mind as he panicked. "She won't mind. Just means you have good taste in resting places, is all."
She rolled over from her cloud-gazing to regard him, her head propped up on an elbow hidden by a wave of silvery locks. "You have good taste in a lot of things, Harry Potter. Morals. Friends. Pudding. I think you would have less wrackspurts if you trusted yourself more to make the right decision. Even if it is sometimes reckless, and Hermione might not like it. You have to do what feels right for you." She reached out and trailed a hand lightly up his arm. "Your instincts are the reason we became friends. Trust them."
"My instincts are kind of a mess these days, what with this." He pointed at his scarred thigh. "I don't know what to make of them anymore."
"Well, what are they telling you to do?"
Harry gulped. What the wolf was telling him to do at that moment was not something he was going to admit to the girl who was the subject of its… attention. What the real him - or what he thought was the real him, with how blurry the line was - wanted to… wanted… Bloody hormones.
"It's complicated."
"That's okay; we all have things we have to puzzle out. Let me know if you need my help with it. I love a puzzle. Puzzle. What a funny word. Puzzle. Pizzuzzle. Puzzizzoozulah."
Harry recognised her effort to cover for his evasion, and felt he had to say something. He knew what he wanted to say - no, he knew what he wanted, and that he was dreading saying it. Dreading the thought that Luna might not say what he wanted her to say in reply. His inner lion was cowering.
The wolf wasn't.
"Luna, I-"
Her finger to his lips stopped him dead. "It's a difficult puzzle, Harry. We'll both need to think on it. Now come on; Daddy wanted my help harvesting the dirigible plums."
Then she was off, not bothering to stand, rather choosing to push off and roll uncontrollably down the hill, laughing and whooping as she went. Harry stared after her, catching the breath he hadn't meant to hold, and he could almost feel the wrackspurts coming in to roost between his ears.
They made no mention of the conversation under the tree, not that day nor the next. Sharing a bed with Luna was even more awkward than before, though she showed not an ounce of the reluctance Harry felt in climbing under the covers together. The first night, he had attributed that to her carefree, innocent nature. With the memory of the way her fingers traced up his arm playing over and over in his mind's eye, he could no longer be so sure.
Another factor of my life to be uncertain of.
The next day was spent in the chaos of the burrow, as Harry was true to his word, and the twins were adamant that their typical quidditch session commenced at lunch and ended when their mother shouted at them to go to bed. Harry made it to dinner before the aching in his bones, and general violence of the twins' bludgers, forced him to retire and join Luna on the sturdy, supportive ground. It was perhaps the first time in his life he was glad to stop flying.
"Hello Harry," Luna greeted him, holding out an envelope to him. "This came for you, with the prettiest owl, but you looked so marvellous in the air I didn't want to disturb you."
Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and took the letter. There was no writing on the thick paper, but there were a great many raised dots. He tore open Hermione's letter with anticipation; it had not been forty eight hours since they said their farewells at Kings Cross, but he was missing her greatly.
The paper within was similarly marked not by ink but braille, which raised Harry's hackles; either she was testing him on his promise to make more effort to learn, or there was something in the letter intended for him alone.
'Harry. I have been thinking about all Dumbledore has said. Things do not add up. I cannot help but feel we made a mistake listening to him in regards to Remus and Sirius. Surely there were better solutions available to the Chief Warlock?
Regardless, that mistake is made. But the rest… I cannot trust that man again. Not with our safety. With Voldemort in the picture, and Albus being Albus, Britain is not a safe place for us. We would be better elsewhere.
I have sent a letter of enquiry to Beauxbatons. My parents are prepared - eager even - to leave this accursed island behind. The only stumbling block is that my French is rusty, and yours non-existent. Do you think you could learn in a summer? I think you could. You have a tendency to accomplish anything you put your mind to.
I cannot wait to hear your thoughts.
Yours, with love,
Hermione.
PS. Oh my God I almost forgot Luna. Does she speak French?'
Harry read it all again to be sure, but his braille was fine; it was Hermione's mind that had his in a state. Her letter served as a stark reminder that, beyond the rolling hills and pleasant green of Ottery St. Catchpole, the world he lived in was trying to kill him.
Also: French? In one summer? He needed to speak to her. A glance towards the sky; to the wards Dumbledore and Flitwick had erected, which Minerva agreed Harry should not leave without necessity and escort. Damn.
Luna pulled a rainbow patterned feather from her hair. "Would you like to borrow my quill?"
"Yeah. I need to, uh… Do you speak French?"
"Oui, je parle francais. Pourquoi?"
"Just me then."
They went back inside the burrow and Harry sought out a quiet corner of the house to compose his letter. Failing to find one, he settled for the dining table, which was at least flat and generally uncluttered.
'Dear Hermione,
I think you're right about this country, but French in two months? More like two decades. Not that that's a no.
Definitely need to meet up and talk. Can you get here? Maybe tomorrow?'
Unsure of how to sign the letter, or if he should have converted it to braille somehow, he left it at that. Mr Weasley - or just Arthur, as he insisted Harry call him - was more than happy to help get the letter enveloped and on its way, lending Harry the family owl. All it cost Harry was five minutes trying to explain the function of a rubber duck, from which the man was most enamoured to learn that beyond entertaining children in the bath, there wasn't one.
Harry's mind was not on the dinner the Weasleys put on, delightful as it looked. He pushed an egg about his plate, and at some point must have eaten it as it was gone by the end, but all his attention was on the idea Hermione had raised. Running for the French hills seemed a smart move at first, but the more he thought on it, the more people he realised he would miss. The more people he would be abandoning to a fight which was, by all rights, as much his as theirs.
It didn't feel like the Gryffindor way. But Hermione had come up with it, and she was a Gryffindor, so… Maybe they could invite everyone to come with them; leave Voldemort an empty Britain with no one there to rule over.
That's stupid. This is why Hermione does the ideas.
No, I can come up with something. I need to… to get better at this. Think. Think!
If only we could get France to come to us. Bring that safety over here, call in the cavalry before the battle even starts.
Harry you're a genius.
Now how does one go about bringing a foreign government into a war that hasn't yet started against a dark lord they believe dead?
…
Might need Hermione for that part.
Hermione's reply arrived at the rookery late that night, the owl tapping on the window trying to figure out how to get through the tangle of vines growing over it. Luna clambered over Harry, who went very still as she did, to let it in.
The letter was short, and very sweet.
'See you tomorrow.'
Harry woke early the next morning, shaking off the remnants of yet another disturbingly vivid dream, and tried to tell himself his early rise was from the anticipation of seeing Hermione, rather than the brilliant moonlight shining in through the curtainless windows. Four days to the full moon - to the moment of truth. Four days of mounting symptoms before they found relief, one way or the other.
But that was in four days' time, and Hermione would be there in less hours, so he put her to the fore of his mind, gave up on the idea of falling back asleep, and got up. He was careful to be quiet so as not to wake his bedmate, but by the time he was pulling on his trousers she was peering at him through the hair splayed across her face.
"Was I snoring?"
"No," he lied, because she did. Only small, cute snuffles, but he wasn't about to tell her she sounded cute when she slept. That would be too much like flirting, and they were not doing that. Were they?
The exaggerated yawn she gave said otherwise, what with the way it shifted the covers off her to reveal a lot of skin… so much skin… unbroken, uncovered skin, all the way down to her-
"Luna, are you naked?" he gaped, spinning away to study the colourful murals on the wall.
"Hmm? Oh, yes. I got warm in the night. You give off a lot of heat."
"Uh, right, but… naked?"
"It was that or stop cuddling you."
Harry wanted to shrivel up and die. "You were cuddling me like that?"
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Uh, no, not wrong, just… umm…"
"Are you upset you weren't awake to cuddle me back? It's okay, I didn't mind; it was nice to see you sleeping soundly."
He heard a rustling sound, and the creak of the floorboards on Luna's side of her bed. Then on his side. Then right beside him. A glance through his peripheral vision told him she had not stopped to put anything on on her way over.
"Do you like the paintings? I did them all myself."
"They're very, uh, pretty." Like their painter. No, don't say that out loud.
"I tried to capture the beauty of nature and how it interacts with the mundanity of life, but halfway through I got bored and added some dragons to liven it up."
"I see."
That did go some way to explain the psychedelic nature of the artwork, and the dragons all over it. It did nothing to shift the awkwardness Harry felt, standing there frozen until Luna guided the conversation right around to the elephant in the room.
"You needn't be embarrassed, Harry. We are friends. I trust you."
Harry tugged on his collar. "I don't think trust is the issue."
"Why not? I trust you enough to show you who I am on the inside… why should it matter if you see who I am on the outside as well?"
"I'm just not comfortable with it."
"Would you be comfortable with it if I were your girlfriend?"
Harry spluttered, but she continued unabated.
"I must confess I don't quite know what girlfriends do, but this seems like it should be included, don't you think?" Then she gasped. "Is that why you don't want to; you're saving this for when you have a girlfriend? How sweet! Or are you saving it for me, for when I have a girlfriend? That's very considerate of you, Harry. Unnecessary, but considerate."
Harry achieved a new height of embarrassment when Luna latched onto his arm, pressing her… self… against him exactly the same as she had several times the day before, yet entirely differently because one less layer of material lay between their skin. It is kind of absurd, isn't it?
"You need a shower," she commented, before skipping from the room.
Trying not to read more into Luna's 'girlfriend' comment than she meant by it, and because he did feel rather sweaty (or was that clammy?), he headed for the bathroom, hoping not to encounter Luna again. Fortunately she was nowhere to be seen, and by the time he emerged from his soothingly cold shower, she had seen fit to acquire some clothes.
Specifically, his quidditch jersey; his winter socks; and a pair of shorts that lived up to the name. He chose not to complain about her casual thievery, in case she took the jersey off then and there. That, and it actually rather suited her.
Harry received another letter that day. He recognised the wax seal; it matched the signet ring Minerva always wore.
'Dearest Harry,
I recently received a letter from Ms Granger addressing a most intriguing idea. She has, I believe, already shared it with you. I would encourage you not to make any decision in haste; please allow me the time to make enquiries and consider our options. Perhaps we might discuss the idea in full at the world cup?
Speaking of, the tickets arrived yesterday. How much did you spend to book an entire box, or would I rather not know?
Yours, truly,
Minerva McGonagall.
PS
It occurs to me that you do not speak a word of French. It would be a worthwhile pursuit to remedy this, whatever is decided. Am I safe to assume Ms Granger has this educational oversight well in hand?'
Harry clutched the letter to his chest, where a familiar yet of-late-absent feeling was blossoming. A call came from outside; he leant out the window to see who it was for. In the distance, waving goodbye to a familiar car as she made her careful way up the beaten-earth path, was exactly the girl he wanted it to be.
On seeing her coming, the thing in his chest dared to name itself Hope.
Hermione cursed the Trace for the thousandth time as she made her way up the path, trusting that her mum had put her facing in the right direction (something dad was no longer allowed to do following a prank gone awry and a very wet Hermione) and that her call would summon someone before she crashed into the house. Any of a half-dozen spells could have guided her to the door, but there she was, stumbling forward like an idiot because the blasted Ministry didn't trust children to be responsible with their magic. Bloody incompetent bastards the lot of them, just because they were useless terrors as chil-
"Hermione!" Luna shouted with glee. Harry echoed her a moment later.
Hermione wiped the frustration from her face, and focused on tracking the patter of feet rapidly approaching. Very rapidly. And not slowing at the -
Luna crashed into Hermione, almost taking both of them to the ground as they embraced. As Luna made to pull away, Hermione held her there a little longer, drawing a deep, deliberate breath. Luna always smelled pleasant and familiar, and Hermione had missed the unique scent of plum and… and Luna did not smell like she should. Not entirely. The girl was never that sweaty, and certainly had no way to have baked in the smell of the Gryffindor dorms. And that tang was decidedly not plum.
"Harry, why is Luna in your clothes?" Hermione asked.
It was Luna who explained. "He wanted me to put something on, but I couldn't remember where I left my good sundress. Also, they smell nice."
"They smell like sweat," Hermione pointed out, "and damp grass, and-" she took another sniff, even though she knew that tang all too well - "blood?"
"They smell like yesterday. I enjoyed yesterday. It's nice to carry a reminder of the things we enjoy."
Don't ask. Don't even ask. Smile and nod. "I suppose it is. How have you been?"
"Warm."
"Glad to hear it," Hermione said, releasing Luna and stepping back. She turned to face Harry, wishing so hard she could have seen his face; known without asking how he was feeling; known if it would be alright were she to wrap him up in a bone crushing hug and -
He grabbed her hand and pulled her forwards, taking her completely off balance - not that it mattered, because his arms about her waist held her up.
"Finally over your reservations about hugging then?" she quipped.
"Mostly," Luna replied on his behalf. "He still has the strangest opinions about-"
"So, France?" Harry butted in. "Couldn't pick somewhere that speaks English?"
"I tried," she lamented, eager to get that frustration off her chest, "but Australia barely has a magical society, and North America's makes ours look progressive, would you believe? The East India Magical Institute for Commerce uses English, officially at least, but I'll take my chances with the French language over Sri Lankan sun, thank you very much."
"Did your research, huh?"
"Obviously. This is only the rest of our lives I'm planning for here." She said that quickly, as she'd had plenty of time to come to terms with the enormity of that, but rather suspected Harry wouldn't have considered it that way.
"Picked out the houseplants for the entrance hall of our retirement home yet?"
Or maybe he has.
"No, I was going to leave that to you; let you think you're contributing."
"It's a very important decision. I am honoured, and will treat this responsibility with all the seriousness it demands."
"You're a prat," she sighed.
"An honoured prat, of the highest order."
She squeezed him tight and pressed her cheek against his. He was almost as tall as her these days, which didn't seem fair somehow.
"I missed you."
"We missed you too," Luna enthused, joining the cuddle. Hermione extracted an arm and hooked it around to include her properly.
"Imagine how warm this would get," Luna mused, seemingly to no-one, but Harry broke into a coughing fit at her words. Luna laughed, and Hermione felt a brief twang of jealousy at not getting the joke. Two days away from him, and already there are things I've missed out on.
Which is normal, Hermione. Stop being jealous; it's not even like they got together or anything. Nobody is taking him away.
Ever.
"But anyway, what do you think about France, Luna? Did you speak to your father?"
"It's a very pleasant country. I spoke to daddy earlier this morning. Are the two related in some way?"
There was Luna's particular brand of innocence, and then there was the naivete of complete and blissful ignorance. Hermione had learned to distinguish the two.
"Harry." She let her voice go ominously low, as it often did for that particular name. "You did ask her, did you not?"
"I asked if she spoke French…"
Hermione inhaled, with the same steady control she willed onto her own mind, and pinched what remained of her nose. It didn't help. Breathe, Hermione.
"And then?"
"She said something in French, so I guess that meant yes?"
"Oui," Luna chirped, blithely.
You are a palace of peace and tranquillity.
"And when you broached the topic properly?"
"I, uh, thought it would be better if you did that?"
Let troubles wash over you like- oh, sod this!
She broke the hug. "Clearly, if this is how well you would have handled it! Do not take that as being let off the hook, Harry James Potter," she hissed, poking a finger hard enough to hurt it into his annoyingly firm chest.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Right. Good. So, Luna…"
"Ooh, is this where you ask me if I'd like to run away with you to France to escape You-Know-Who?"
How did she…? "…Yes."
"What an exciting question. I would need to ask daddy though, and I don't think he'd like to leave mummy. I'll ask him after tea; he misses her less in the evenings. Oh, but I never asked; are you here for tea?"
"If you don't mind."
"Daddy loves sharing his cooking! What about tonight - oh! Is this a sleepover?" She said that word like it sacred, or forbidden. "I'm sure we could make room. Did you bring nightclothes?"
For some reason, that set Harry to sputtering again. Hermione couldn't understand why; remembering how safe she felt that night after Dumbledore's confessions, a sleepover sounded a wonderful idea. Bedclothes she lacked, but surely Mr Lovegood would transfigure her some? If he put enough power into the spell, they would last the whole night; and even if they didn't, she would already be safely under her covers with time to sort it out. Hardly a mortifying prospect.
"I'd love to, if you'll have me," she said, wearing the smile of a girl with no idea what she'd signed up for.
The bed they all shared that night was terribly cramped and stiflingly warm, but Hermione couldn't say she came to regret her uninformed decision. If there was one thing she had learned at Hogwarts, it was how to distinguish the unusual from the unpleasant; the barmy from the bad. So they lay there, squished into one bed, talking into the early hours about everything from Luna's mother's experiments (the woman was convinced Gamp's Laws were flawed, and determined to prove it) to the coming Quidditch World Cup (which Harry had premium tickets for, and Hermione could not attend as she had existing plans to finally see Les Mis in the West End), and Hermione savoured every second of it. There was nothing bad about being with the ones she loved.
Plus, she didn't even have to get bedclothes transfigured; Luna was kind enough to lend her a set she wasn't using.
That morning, shortly after breakfast, a man in a long brown cloak which completely shadowed his face appeared at the edge of the wards, seeking Hermione. Mr Lovegood let him in without fuss, which Harry thought rather negated the point of having wards in the first place, but he held his tongue long enough to let the stranger explain his presence - whilst fingering in his pocket the wand he wasn't allowed to use, but would not hesitate to if he must.
"Miss Granger, I have come to recover the item you have borrowed from our department," he said - though on hearing him speak, Harry was not so sure it was a man; a robot would have sounded less androgenous. "I was also hoping you might accompany me to answer some questions regarding your experience."
"So that's the catch," Hermione said, snapping her fingers at herself.
"Indeed. A small price to pay, wouldn't you say? Especially as it will take us almost no time at all."
"But of course it won't," she agreed with a wry smile; a genuine one, which finally put Harry at ease.
So she went with the… person… leaving Harry and Luna a little lost for what to do with their day. Their aimless (but rather pleasantly so) meanderings saw them before the Weasley's door as the sun reached its zenith. That was where Harry realised they had not been moving aimlessly for some time; rather, they had been following the wafting scents of Molly Weasley's cooking.
It did not matter to Harry's nose that the leg of lamb was warm from being roasted, as opposed to fresh off the kill; it still smelled delicious. And when he laid eyes on the size of it, it seemed to him Mrs Weasley had predicted their unplanned attendance.
The two empty spaces already laid at the table were something of a giveaway as well.
"Harry!" Arthur exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "Luna! What a lovely surprise. Do take a seat." He hurried around to pull Luna's chair out for her, while George casually kicked Harry's out for him.
Harry took it gratefully and cast a wide smile across the family, which was when he spotted a face he had not seen before; a chiselled face, sat atop an equally hard torso, adorned with a tooth earring and hair which marked him a Weasley.
"Charlie Weasley," he introduced himself, leaning over the table to shake hands. "Pleasure to finally meet you. Gin's been gushing about you all morning."
"I was not!" Ginny protested, prodding her brother, which only caused her to rock back as he was unmoved.
"You should see him in the sky, Charlie," he mocked, good-naturedly, sweeping his arm in the air with the other hand over his heart. "The way he turns; perfection. Harry Potter was born to fly. And did you know he killed a basilisk for me? Did I mention that yet?"
Ginny folded her arms and glared at her brother, but she didn't correct him. Harry felt a blush rising to match hers.
"Thanks for that, by the way," Charlie added. "She's a nightmare, but I'm rather fond of my rascally little sis. You ever decide you want to make a career out of wrangling giant murderous reptiles, I'll put in a good word."
"Charlie here works for the Romanian dragon reserve," Arthur explained, proud as a peach. "He's back in the country for the-"
Charlie's cautioning hand cut his father off. "Ministry business," he said. "Can't say more, even though you'll be finding out soon enough. Should be fun."
Based on the enunciation of that last word, Harry decided it was the sort of fun he had no interest being involved in. 'Fun' did not factor into Hermione's plan of learning French and leaving the country.
"Anyway, food's getting cold," Molly reminded them, and they did not need telling twice. Harry even managed to get some vegetables down him; the wolf's appetite had not changed, but his decidedly human stomach had rallied for a campaign in favour of nutritional balance, in which lunch at the Burrow was a victory.
The conversation did not stop - Ron was not the only Weasley unafraid to talk around their food, although the others were more dignified about it - but it did move on to concern less Harry-oriented topics. Until someone, for whatever tangential reason Harry hadn't really been paying full attention to, mentioned the name Sirius Black.
"Hope he's ok," Harry muttered, feeling all eyes turn to him for an opinion he didn't have or particularly want to air if he did.
"Whatever do you mean?" Percy asked, bemused.
What does he mean, what do I mean? Why would I not want him to be safe? Unless…
Ginny met his look with wide eyes and a subtle but panicked shake of her head.
…Gin didn't tell them.
Harry put his head in his hands. Lunch had been so pleasant, and now it was surely about to implode.
"What do you know about Sirius, and the whole - mess - at the lake?" he asked, seeking a solid footing from which to weather the coming storm. Casting a silent prayer into the universe, offering it a chance to spare him the calamity.
"Only what Dumbledore told us."
"Which is?"
"Professor Lupin saved you from that madman, and not a moment too soon," Molly said, with the confidence of a woman preaching gospel.
So, they got the cover story version of events. Thanks, universe. Thanks a lot. Lady Fate, please go take a long walk off a short pier. And take Albus Freaking Dumbledore with you.
Harry mulled over his options, and settled on the plaster approach: Rip it off quick.
"Sirius is innocent of everything, it was Pettigrew who betrayed my parents, Sirius was at Hogwarts to hunt Peter who was hiding there in his animagus form, and, although Lupin helped, it was Hermione who saved our lives by driving off the dementors. Lupin turned as we were getting Sirius to safety, and don't have a go at Ginny for not telling you because she probably didn't know if it needed to be kept a secret and chose the safer option."
The silence was so deafening Harry had to fill it with something. "Did I miss anything?" he asked Luna.
"Only that Hermione caught a rat."
"Right. Peter was caught by Hermione - I still have no idea where she found the time for that. Or how she got to the other end of the beach. Oh, and I should probably mention Scabbers isn't dead, because he was Pettigrew all along, which I guess is why Crookshanks tried to kill him all the time."
"Bullshit." It was Ron who had spoken. He was clutching his knife with paling knuckles and a barely constrained tremor. "Bull. Shit. Black kidnapped me. He was going to kill me, and you're defending him?"
"He wasn't going to kill you, he was-"
"I find I must agree with my brother on this matter," Percy interrupted. "The Ministry's official summation of events is far more… reasonable. Why you would say such absurd things, I cannot understand."
"And to think of Remus!" Molly wailed. "He saved your life and now you're claiming he did nothing? Do you know what happens to that poor man if you go spouting this nonsense at his trial?"
"Now, now, dear," Arthur said with his hands out placatingly. "Let's no-one be too hasty. We wouldn't want to jump to conclusions-"
"Sounds like Harry did, and they're insane," Ron seethed.
"On brand, then," Fred quipped. His wink at Harry promised support, even as his words ridiculed, and everything else about him screamed confusion.
"Perhaps the poor lad was confused," Molly contributed, throwing another incidental insult into the shitshow. "It must have been terribly stressful to be-"
"NO!" Ginny yelled, on her feet and slamming her hands down on the table, sending her plate and its contents spinning. "No, I have had it with you! With everyone! Why does everyone think they have a right to decide what is and is not true about Harry's life?" A tear formed in the corner of her blazing eye. "You weren't there! You don't get a damned say, because you weren't there! I was! I flew out with Harry to face Black down, and I didn't tell you before but I am telling you now, the only reason we made it back is because Sirius is innocent! And Hermione is awesome! And Harry Potter is the bravest person I will ever know, so I will not put up with you ignorant twats questioning him one moment more!"
"Ginevra Weasley you mind your tongue-"
"Fuck you! Fuck you, you weren't there. You weren't there when he was; or when it was the dementors; or when a shitting dark lord was in my head! But what, you expect me to do what you say because… because what? Because you cook nice food? Because of roast lamb and boiled potatoes? Fuck your potatoes! You know what? You know what!?"
She drew her wand with a violent flourish, and for a second her family recoiled under the threat. Then she snatched it into an overhand grip, and threw it at Harry. Pure instinct saw him catch it.
With a parting glare at her mother, and pausing only to pick up a broom from under the coat-stand, Ginny stormed out of the Burrow.
Harry didn't know whether to run after her and hand her wand back, or stay behind to keep her family from following. After the show of support she had put on, he wouldn't have felt at all right leaving to her to face the consequences alone.
Everyone else apparently had other questions on their mind. It was Charlie who voiced them.
"She gave you her wand…"
Harry studied the offending article, realising he had never been close enough to take a proper look at it.
"Uh, yeah?" he mumbled. "Is that…?"
Luna answered, frighteningly seriously. "To give away one's wand is the greatest symbol of respect and trust. It is to pledge loyalty to the recipient; to offer support without allowance for question or reciprocation. It is… not done."
Oh.
Arthur stood, slowly, waving down the twins who were doing the same.
Oh bollocks.
He crossed his arms behind his back and came to stand beside Harry's chair.
"I fear I have been remiss," he said, barely above a whisper. "Harry James Potter, you have risked your life to save my daughter's; you are the reason my family is whole. I cannot - I do not doubt your word."
Then he presented his wand, handle first, with only the slightest of trembles betraying his reluctance. Harry still did not understand the full implication of the gesture, but he did know he should not accept it - not from a shaking hand.
Nor when he did not deserve it. In saving Ginny, he had not lead the charge.
"Give it to Hermione, if you must; she did more than me."
The wand was withdrawn from his vision. "…So I shall."
"Not that she'll take it," Harry mumbled.
He probably should have kept looking at the man speaking with him, but he was utterly fixated on the small slip of wood in his own hands. The one which was not his, but apparently also was. The one pulsing with a magical tingle which felt entirely incompatible, yet strangely subservient. He could have cast with that wand. It would not have felt right - not have helped his magic to blossom to life as his own wand did - but it would not have resisted him either. He could have cast any spell he knew with Ginny's wand, almost as if he had demanded she cast it herself.
Is that what it means to be given a wand?
Arthur apparently realised he was second in Harry's mind, as he crouched down to bring his face into view before, haltingly, speaking the rest of his mind.
"Harry? Harry, listen… When my daughter was little, she idolised the Boy-Who-Lived. A hundred times she asked me to read those silly stories at her bedside, and I always indulged, but I did worry: What if this boy is not the hero she wanted him to be? What if he is, and breaks her heart even so? What if her hero does notice her, but is not as pure as his reputation, and my darling girl's infatuation sees her hurt? It is a strange sort of terror, to see your youngest child set herself up for such pain. But it seems I needn't have worried one bit. So thank you. Thank you for being the person she needed you to be."
Harry turned the wand again in his grip. "I'm not the hero she wanted," he mumbled.
Arthur shook his head. "We could argue over how wrong you are all day, but, no… little girls do not need idols to put upon pedestals. I am thanking you for being her friend."
Then, between one roll of Ginny's wand and the next, he was gone, taking his leave and a broom of his own to seek his errant child.
Harry finally glanced up to find Molly pale as though she had seen the ghost of a ghost. It was to her shocked face everyone now looked, waiting for her to break the reverie in one freshly explosive way or another.
She said not a word.
"Thank you for the lovely meal," Luna spoke quietly, squaring her cutlery away atop her half-finished meal. "I think we should be heading home now."
It was Ron, of all people, who thought to get up and help Luna with her coat. He accompanied them to the door while his brothers struck up the bickering again. Harry turned to face the boy as he stopped across the threshold; either to politely say goodbye, or to physically keep him from bothering his sister.
With what Ron had said about Sirius, part of Harry was hoping for the latter.
"Right, well, uh," Ron stammered in the doorway. "Look, I just wanna say…"
This should be good, Harry thought as Ron feigned a cough to compose his words.
"That godfather of yours damn near ripped my leg off; starved me for days; and tried to trade my freedom like I was an object. So I won't pretend to like the man. But I - I can see how that doesn't necessarily make him guilty of all the other stuff. So, I guess I might believe you. You and Gin. I believe you. For what it's worth."
"Thank you, Ronald," Luna beamed. "That was not an easy thing to say."
Ron's eyes were to the heavens, where his sister and father were engaged in a circling chase, their troubles and difficult conversations already put on hold in favour of the simple thrill of doing something they loved.
"Should've been."
The Moon. The great glowing orb which lights the night sky, so massive, so incomprehensibly immense, it alone holds power over the oceans. By its motion the tides are formed, as every drop in every ocean yearns to be closer to its magnificence.
Harry's body felt an ocean, his veins rivers of blood, and as blood is thicker than water, so too was the moon's pull stronger upon him. It was calling to him: A siren offering him gentle caress; a jailor opening the door to sweet freedom. The way was open. The wolf howled out for the hunt.
It could not leave its cage.
Harry watched the moon's ascent through the small slit of the window into the Rookery basement until he could bear to watch no more; until the itch became too much and he tore off all his clothing which scratched so harshly against his skin; until his irritation turned to frustration to anger to uncontrollable rage, rage which drove him to claw at the damned thing which had denied him his release.
Blood streamed from his scar and the gouges his fingernails left around it. He let it flow, down his face and into his mouth, where he drank it back into his body. He wanted it gone. He wanted every last drop to leave him, to answer the moon's call and leave his dried up to husk to wither in peace, and yet he could not resist its intoxicating taste.
The wolf howled; the boy screamed; and all night the cages they suffered in remained shut.
At some point, he must have exhausted himself into sleep, because he woke cradled in gentle arms, his dried blood running once more as it mingled with the tears falling from another's face onto his. His eyelids were caked shut, but he knew it was Luna by the softness of her touch. He pulled her closer, unconcerned with his nudity; if she was not bothered, he would not be either.
If nudity was a thing people saved for their girlfriends, a simple solution presented itself.
"Luna," he croaked, through a throat so clotted with blood he was shocked he had not drowned. "Luna, will you be my-"
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, my silly boy; yes."
A/N:
And with that, here we go again. Thought I'd start things off with a sort of happy chapter, before... well, you'll see.
Shout out to my reviewers, especially the one advising me on Britishisms without realising I am, in fact, 100% a British 90s kid. Gave me a chuckle ;)