Sirius Flooed back to Grimmauld with Remus in tow a little after four-thirty the next morning. He'd expected the house to be dark, to be quiet, and it was anything but:
The twins, Percy, and Fleur, all occupied the kitchen, flushed and laughing, and helping themselves to a plate of small quiches and pastries that Kreacher had obviously prepared; Kreacher was moving around the table, nudging large glasses of water into everyone's hands with far less disapproval than he would have if Sirius had come home in such a state. Bill sat with them, looking decidedly more tired but no less amused, and was nursing a cup of what smelled like very strong coffee.
"Looks like you lot have had a good night," Sirius said, grinning, as he wrapped his arm more securely around Remus to keep him upright.
"You're one to talk," George said, raising his eyebrows.
"Sneaking back into the house in the early hours of the morning." Fred tsked and shook his head.
"Disgraceful," Percy mumbled. There was a pause, and then all three of them dissolved into laughter. Fleur looked between the boys and Remus, visibly biting her lip to keep from smiling or laughing, and flapped a hand to quieten them; whether it was because she was worried they'd wake the rest of the house, or because she was worried Sirius or Remus might take it the wrong way, Sirius wasn't sure.
"Hopeless," Bill said, eyeing the four of them, but his eyes were curious as they flicked over Remus. "Need a hand, Sirius?"
"Wouldn't say no." Remus made a sound that was half-question-half-growl as Bill stood and stepped within reach and Sirius pinched him.
"It's just Bill," he said. "Be nice." Remus grunted, but let Bill move closer. Together they managed to get him upstairs and just as Sirius raised a hand to knock, the door opened and Sirius felt the silent pop of a broken silencing charm. A sleepy, blue-haired Dora stood there, and a very-awake Stella hummed at them from where she was sitting on the unmade bed:
"Moo," she said, waving a hand. "Mmmm, mooo."
"Yeah, Dad's back," Dora mumbled, rubbing her eyes. Remus straightened, and with a squeeze of Sirius' shoulder that he interpreted as thanks, eased himself away from Sirius and Bill to take a few ginger steps toward Dora. There was a crash and raucous laughter downstairs and Bill snorted and excused himself.
"Moo," Stella said, as Remus pressed his nose and forehead briefly against Dora's cheek, then stumbled toward the bed with a mumble that was even less intelligible than his daughter's.
"Thanks, Sirius," Dora said, hair now a soft pink. She yawned as Remus flopped onto the bed.
"I've been doing this longer than you've been around to thank me for it," he said, yawning himself. Remus waved a hand without lifting his head from the pillow and Sirius smiled, then glanced at Dora. "How was Harry last night?"
Dora winced, stepping out of the room and pulling the door mostly shut behind her. Sirius sighed.
"He and Ginny blew up part of his bedroom wall," she said in a very quiet voice, so as not to disturb either Ron, or Hermione and Ginny, who had rooms on this floor too.
"He— what?" That was not what Sirius had expected to hear and he felt fleetingly hopeful that that meant he'd been spending time with other people and taken an interest in something, but Dora's expression made it clear that wasn't the case.
"Kreacher and I went up and he tried to hex me and then I actually hexed him—accidentally." Dora rubbed her eyes, more awake now, but far less happy. "I know, don't look at me like that, it was just reflex..." Sirius let out a gusty breath, not sure if he was mad with Dora, mad at Harry—who'd hexed her first and so was at least partially to blame—or just tired and worried again; it had been a relief to be a dog for the night, and not have anything more complicated to think or worry about than keeping up with Moony's longer legs. "He's fine—well, he's not hurt, and he didn't seem… any more upset than usual. He and Ginny stayed up there and had a bit of a spat, I think…" She made another face, looking so concerned that Sirius couldn't hold any kind of grudge against her. She was as helpless against Harry as any of them were at the moment. "I tried checking in on him after that, but he said he'd had enough company for the night. There was no getting anything out of Ginny either—she told Molly she'd told Harry he was stupid and that ended up in a shouting match and Ginny being sent to bed." Dora ran her hands through her hair—now short, dark, and messy—in a way that was reminiscent of Harry himself.
"Godric," Sirius said, letting his forehead fall forward against the wall.
"I'm sorry," Dora said, miserable.
"It's not your fault," Sirius murmured, and meant it. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Harry was already in a mood last night… Ginny's obviously not helped that… It was always going to be a difficult summer." Dora stepped forward and hugged him. "Go back to bed," he said, releasing her after a few moments. "I can take Stella if she's—" They both glanced into the room, where Remus was face down in a pillow, not even under the covers, and Stella was fast asleep along his back. Dora's hair softened to pink again.
"Or not," Sirius murmured.
"You should sleep too," Dora said, putting a hand on his arm. She watched him for a few more moments, then stepped back into the room. The door clicked shut behind her.
Sirius sighed again and started upstairs.
It was quiet up there, and smelled vaguely of dust—not dust-dust, but powdered stone or something—which made sense if Harry really had blown up his room. It was not fully dark, though; there was a faint light coming from the space under Harry's door.
Leave him, he told himself. But he knew if he did, he'd just spend the next couple of hours lying awake wondering what Harry and Ginny had fought about and if Harry was all right after being—accidentally—attacked by Dora.
Hesitantly, and very quietly, Sirius knocked on the door, then murmured an unlocking charm and eased the door open.
"Kidd- oh." Harry was awake, sitting over by the window again rather than in bed, despite the early hour. A ball of light floated just above his shoulder.
Silence hung over the room, and Sirius stayed in the doorway, torn between not wanting to ignore the fact that Harry obviously had something on his mind to be up at this hour, and not wanting to upset him more by asking him about it. Was it whatever he and Ginny had fought about? Or was it unrelated?
"Moony all right?" Harry asked, a little hoarsely. He was looking right at Sirius, hadn't turned away, and didn't seem agitated or wary about having Sirius there.
"Yeah," Sirius said. "He's fine. We both are." Harry's expression did something complicated and he swallowed, nodding. "Sorry for—I just wanted to make sure you were—"
"'S'okay," Harry said, saving Sirius from himself.
Leave him, Sirius told himself again, but didn't move from the doorway, because something was different tonight—this morning.
"Dora said…" Sirius' resolve wavered after that, not sure how to finish whatever it was he wanted to say without saying the wrong thing, wasn't sure if Ginny's name was a safe thing to mention. "You… er… anything you want to chat about?"
Harry watched him for a moment, then looked away suddenly, face crumpling. Sirius dared to step a little further into the room and when there was no protest or argument, and no telltale crackle of the air in the room, dared continue all the way over to the windowsill.
Padfoot put a cautious hand on his shoulder. Harry let him, and so did his magic; no zap came. Slowly, hesitantly, Padfoot nudged Harry, who shuffled forward to let Padfoot sit.
Everyone's on eggshells around you.
"I'm sorry," Harry said hoarsely. He leaned back into Padfoot a little, and Padfoot wrapped his arm around Harry's front, shifting a little so Harry could lean against his side properly if he wanted to. His arm tightened and Harry waited for the panic and claustrophobia, perhaps even the resentment, but they never came, and so he did press a little closer.
It was like his fight with Ginny earlier that night had used up all his anger and now he was just... empty. Or maybe not empty, but at least like some of the too much he'd been feeling had drained away or been wrung out of him. Ginny's own furious arguments had managed to disrupt the vicious circle of Harry's own thoughts and arguments in a way that Padfoot's gentle worry and Moony's quiet enquiries hadn't. Maybe he didn't agree with everything she'd said, or wasn't ready to believe it all, but the thoughts were in there, mixed in with his own now, playing back to him like the things Voldemort had said to him at the Riddle house. They weren't much more welcome, but they were certainly better.
"Hey," Padfoot said, obviously smelling the change in his mood, "you're all right."
And how are you getting over it, Harry?
"I'm not," Harry said, and almost didn't recognise his own voice. He could smell that the comment had upset Padfoot, though he thought it was the honesty that had done it more than the fact that Harry was disagreeing with him again.
"Well, maybe not," Padfoot conceded. Harry tried to laugh but it sounded more like a sob, even to his own ears. "But that's okay. No one's expecting you to be, not just yet."
"You don't even know why," Harry croaked.
"Maybe not," Padfoot said. "But we'll either figure it out, or you'll decide to tell us a bit more, and then we'll tell you off for keeping it to yourself for so long, and we'll all move on."
"What if it's not that easy?" Harry didn't even know where to start.
"Maybe it won't be," Padfoot said, shrugging. He sighed. "I don't know what's happened, or what's still happening in here…" There was a gentle tap on the back of Harry's head. "And I won't lie and say I'm not a bit worried. But I promise you I'm more worried about you not saying anything, than I am about anything you might actually say."
"What if it's bad?"
"I imagine it is." Padfoot rubbed his arm again, and didn't speak, but his scent did it for him; worried but not scared, open and patient. And more than that, more than the scent of him was the fact that he was there and warm and tired and choosing to sit with Harry over being anywhere else.
"Yeah," Harry said, swallowing.
Silence hung over the room for several long minutes, but it was comfortable in a way it hadn't been for a few weeks. It wasn't anything Padfoot was or wasn't doing, either; Harry could admit that the change was him.
We're trying to help now. You just have to be willing to let us.
"What—what if I'm bad?" Harry asked at last.
Padfoot twitched as if he'd smothered a laugh or a snort, and Harry stiffened, waiting for the immediate denial, or perhaps teasing, but it didn't come. Padfoot was quiet, cautious, but more than anything thoughtful for a moment, and then he said:
"Do you remember last summer, after the World Cup, when we talked about the possibility of Draco being a Death Eater?"
Harry thought he'd remember that conversation forever:
"You said the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters," he mumbled.
"I did," Padfoot said, "but it's actually you I'm wanting to quote." Harry shifted slightly against him, reluctantly curious and sure Padfoot knew it. "You said that even if Draco'd chosen to be a Death Eater, that he'd still be one of you. Still be your friend." Harry sighed, able to see the angle Padfoot was trying to take.
He lowered his head, and rested his cheek against where Padfoot's arm was draped over his shoulder. Padfoot's scent changed, became fond and protective and Harry swallowed.
"My brother was a Death Eater by choice," Padfoot said. His voice was calm and quiet, and he tucked Harry more securely against his side. "And you know I still saw him, even before I knew he'd switched back to our side. Snape was… well, Snape all through our time at Hogwarts. Dumbledore let them send me to Azkaban without a trial and sent you to the Dursleys." Padfoot sighed. "People make bad choices all the time. It doesn't always make them bad people."
"But they're not… close," Harry said. He didn't look at him—couldn't. He kept his eyes on the window, on the bright, round moon through it. "Wormtail—" Harry wasn't sure what words he wanted; ones relating to his parents—in his mind's eye he saw James look at Wormtail and Wormtail shrink—or relating to him (One of my prisoners for a new one… Hello again, Harry… B-blood of the en-emy, forcibly taken…). It didn't much matter, Harry realised; Padfoot would understand what he wasn't saying. "You're not—we don't—"
"No," Padfoot said levelly. "But then, you've not abandoned me, or Ron or Hermione to Voldemort—" Harry stiffened and his breath hitched but Padfoot continued. "—to save your own skin, have you?"
"Not to save my own skin," Harry said hoarsely. The claustrophobia was building and just as he was thinking of pulling free Padfoot tugged him closer, held him a little tighter. Somehow, that made him feel better rather than smothered.
"What were your circumstances, then?" Padfoot asked. He was clearly trying to be conversational, though Harry could hear the edge to his voice; this wasn't something Harry had ever brought up or even alluded to with him before now.
"This war's my fault," Harry said. The words tasted like a confession. A war needs sides, Harry. If there are no sides, there can be no conflict. "I had the chance to end it before it started." You're not a killer, Harry. I know it, and Dumbledore knows it. "And I couldn't." Padfoot was silent, and Harry thought he knew Harry wasn't just talking about the fact that his blood had been used to bring Voldemort back.
"Me either," Padfoot said, rubbing his thumb over Harry's shoulder. "I should've taken you and run. We talked about it after… ah... Ginny broke her wrist helping you train for the Tournament. And there were so many reasons we couldn't, so many reasons it wouldn't have worked, but if it had… things could have been so different."
"I wish you had," Harry said, and it was such a simple confession compared to the other one he'd just made, but it was this one that made his voice crack. It was this one that left him feeling both wretched and relieved for having voiced it.
He could not protect you from the Tournament. Voldemort had been talking about Dumbledore, but the words weren't inaccurate for Padfoot, or for any of the other adults, for that matter—Moony, Dora, Marlene, the teachers at Hogwarts, the Order... Voldemort and his followers orchestrated things so Harry was forced to face them alone, and it had happened that way with the Stone and in the Chamber, and when he went to face Wormtail, but it had also never mattered; Harry'd always managed to pull through without Padfoot or the other adults, or he'd managed to hold things together until they arrived late, but not so late that they couldn't help him if he'd got in over his head.
Padfoot and Dumbledore and the others had tried to get to him during the fourth task, he knew they had. He knew there was nothing they could have done, that they'd wanted to help him as badly as he'd needed the help… but the fact remained that they hadn't.
No one had been able to help him and in their absence, Harry had failed to protect them as completely as they'd failed to protect him, had sentenced them and everyone else to a war he wasn't ready to win—
He could not protect you from the Tournament, and nor did he train you, prepare you, help you… they thrust you out like a shield between them and me, never prepared, always alone...
None of them had swooped in to save him, or pick up the pieces, late or otherwise. He'd been attacked, tortured, lost his hand escaping, had had to summon his own rescuer once he was away from the graveyard, and yes, Padfoot had kept Harry alive, but then Harry had had to wake up and try to ignore his missing hand and new Dark Mark to recount the night's events, and maybe he'd understood that it had been necessary but even then, what choice had he had? And then he'd been expected to just accept that neither his hand or arm could be fixed, else they would have been by now—
Alastor Moody walks around on a lump of wood because Dumbledore cannot heal him the way I healed Wormtail tonight.
Harry curled his remaining hand over his stump, swallowing.
He knew Padfoot and Dumbledore and the others blamed themselves enough for what had happened enough as it was, and that telling them that Harry blamed them too, just a little bit—even though he didn't want to and knew he shouldn't—would only make it worse. It wasn't their fault he'd failed the way he had, or made the choices he had, but part of him resented the fact that they hadn't been able to do anything to intervene before he'd had to. And that was an unfair way for him to think, and it had been unfair of him to push them away each time they'd offered to help since, but they hadn't been able to on the night of the fourth task, hadn't been able to heal him since, so why would they be able to do anything helpful now? How could they promise it would be any different next time?
Harry made to pull away, eyes stinging and stomach churning with guilt, but Padfoot held on tight—not so tight that Harry couldn't have shaken him off if he'd really wanted to—enough to to keep him there.
"Kiddo," Padfoot murmured. Harry let out a shuddering breath.
We're trying to help now. You just have to be willing to let us.
Harry's face felt hot and wet, and a sob escaped his mouth, and then a second and a third.
Padfoot disappeared from his place at Harry's back, but didn't leave.
"Shh," Padfoot sat in front of Harry now, nudging his legs out of the way so he could sit close. His voice was soft and he wrapped Harry in a warm, strong hug. His scent was worried, and sad, and helpless, but he was there.
That didn't change what had happened, didn't fix it, but for the moment, it was enough.
Harry curled his hand over Padfoot's arm and held on.
"... absolute best behaviour, Ginny, do you understand?" Mum asked, expression pinched and voice sharp. She was still furious about Ginny confronting Harry the night before—which was fine, because so was Ginny—and Ginny knew that being allowed to leave Grimmauld was not any sort of reward or sign of forgiveness, but rather meant Mum obviously thought her not being around for a bit might be a good thing. "I don't want you acting up—"
"Luna hasn't done anything that would merit me acting up," Ginny said, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into Grimmauld's fireplace. She stepped in after it before Mum could respond with a firm, "The Rook," and let the green flames carry her away.
Luna was waiting, perched on the back of a brightly patterned couch, and though her face brightened when she spied Ginny, she didn't smile, but rather frowned.
"What?" Ginny asked uncertainly.
"We'll be going down to the stream," she said, more loudly than a response to Ginny probably merited.
"Have fun, Luna, my love," came the slightly distracted response from upstairs.
"Come on, Ginny," Luna said, leading the way out of the house.
They settled at the very bottom of the Lovegood's garden. Luna, who hadn't been wearing shoes to start with, rolled up her tights so she could dangle her feet in the clear water. Ginny toed off her trainers so she could do the same, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and arms, and the light, fresh breeze. Grimmauld was lovely and so were the people in it—mostly, anyway—and it had plenty of space, but Ginny didn't think she'd ever gone two weeks without going outside before, and she'd missed it; in previous years, they'd gone to the park across the road from Grimmauld, but now couldn't risk someone seeing them in the area.
"Having a nice summer?"
"Oh, yes," Luna said. "It's been lovely so far. We've been packing and planning, because we're making an expedition to Mesopotamia towards the end of next week to look for a grove of dirigible plums."
"Aren't there— Doesn't Sprout have them in the greenhouses at school?"
"Yes," Luna said.
"So— why do you have to travel so far for them?" Ginny asked. "I'm sure she'd give you some plums, or seeds or something, if that was what you were after."
"I'm sure she would too, but new trees can't be grown from any fruit except the fruit of the original tree," Luna said.
"Which is in Mesopotamia?"
"That's right," Luna said.
Ginny hummed, shifting her feet; they'd attracted a small school of plimpies, which were nibbling on her toes. It tickled.
"So what do they do?"
"They enhance your ability to believe the extraordinary," Luna said.
"I'm not sure your ability to do that needs enhancing, Luna," Ginny said, amused, and Luna beamed. Ginny smiled, then squeaked and moved her feet again.
"How's your summer been?" Ginny's good mood faded a little. "Oh dear," Luna said. "Are you bored?"
Ginny felt a little surge of fondness for Luna, that boredom would be the thing she'd immediately assume was the cause of a less than ideal summer. "I'd have thought there'd be lots going on."
"There is," Ginny sighed. Certainly she wished she was allowed to sit in on Order meetings, and train with the adults, but even without that, there was plenty happening; the twins were working on—whatever they were working on, Ron and Hermione were scheming (when they weren't worrying about Harry or Draco), Stella was beginning to look like she might start crawling (according to Mum, Dad, Bill, Sirius, and Remus, anyway), Bill was around more now than he'd just about ever been in Ginny's life, and, of course, there was a constant supply of other interesting people to spend time with. "I'm sorry, it's— I don't know how much I'm allowed to tell you." Ginny trusted Luna, she did, but Luna's Dad ran the Quibbler, which reported anything and everything that Mr Lovegood believed was interesting or important. The Order was both of those things.
"That's all right," Luna said, leaning over to catch a plimpy in her cupped hand. "If it's not boredom, is it where you're staying? Is it not very nice?"
"No, it's fine," Ginny said. "We're staying—" But Ginny wasn't sure that she was allowed to talk to Luna about where she'd been living. "—we're with Harry and Hermione."
"Oh, that does sound nice," Luna said. Ginny grunted. "Oh," Luna said again. "Or maybe not?" She looked sad, rather than wary. "Is Harry not doing any better, then?"
Luna knew the broad details of what had happened in the graveyard, but not the specifics; she knew, of course, that Harry and Cedric had disappeared from the task and wound up there, that Tom had returned, Cedric had escaped, and then, later, that Harry had too, though in significantly worse shape. She knew about Harry's hand; when Draco had gone to Snape and Ron and Hermione had sat down together, Ginny'd gone to find Luna and sworn her to secrecy. If anyone knew of some obscure thing that might be able to repair that sort of injury, it would have been Luna, but she hadn't known of anything, so instead they'd just sat down and been sad together. Since term's end, they'd exchanged one or two letters, and Ginny'd been vague (in case they were intercepted, or something) about details, but not so vague that Luna could have missed that Harry'd been struggling.
"No," Ginny said stiffly. "Not better at all." Then, guiltily, angrily, she added, "Maybe worse now, even."
"Oh," Luna said, cocking her head. She lowered the plimpy she was holding in cupped hands back into the water, and spun a little to face Ginny more fully. "Did something happen?"
"I did," Ginny sighed, and then caught Luna's expression. "You could at least look surprised," she muttered.
"Oh, sorry." Luna's face became almost comically shocked. "Is this better?" Ginny kicked a bit of water at her, startling away the plimpies around their feet, but Luna only smiled: "You're not very good at not saying something when something upsets you, and you looked upset when you came through the Floo."
There wasn't much Ginny could say to that, so she just sighed again.
"Are you sure you've made it worse?" Luna asked, and then paused. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. People don't usually confide in me, but you do sometimes, and you're always welcome to." Ginny'd actually been hoping for a change of scene and something to distract her from everything back at Grimmauld, as well as some time with Luna because she'd missed her the last few weeks, but something in her warmed a little at the thought, and not in an angry way.
"Not sure," Ginny said, and Luna seemed to understand that it wasn't hesitation over sharing, but rather a response to her first question. "But I probably did." She hadn't shared much of the specifics with the others but what she had shared was enough for Mum to rip into her—that Harry had enough to deal with without her starting arguments—and for Ron to look disappointed. Later, once they were tucked away in their shared room, she and Hermione had talked about it in a bit more detail (though Ginny'd kept Harry's Mark to herself, and his comment about not being a killer). Hermione had listened without interrupting though she visibly disapproved, and when Ginny was done, she'd said:
"You can't just… force someone to be better. Especially not Harry, after what happened, and not if he's not ready—"
"I know," Ginny had replied irritably. "Which is why I wasn't trying to push him into being better; I was trying to push him into wanting to be." Hermione's lips had thinned. "Don't pretend you don't think things are awful too."
"I'm not," Hermione said, "but I'm not sure that shouting at him will have made things any less awful."
She hadn't said anything more, but she hadn't needed to; she'd turned off their light and put her back to Ginny, which had spoken volumes.
"I definitely said some things that I probably shouldn't have," Ginny said to Luna now.
"Mean things?" Luna asked.
"Some," Ginny said, a little guiltily. "I told him he was self-absorbed, and stupid."
"Was he?" Luna asked, eyebrows raised.
"I think so," Ginny muttered, folding her arms. There was no condemnation on Luna's face though, and Ginny deflated. "It was still probably the wrong thing to say."
"You don't usually say the wrong things," Luna said, and Ginny smiled, grateful. "You're actually very good at saying the right things." She considered Ginny for a moment, head tilted, expression a little troubled. "You're good at saying the right things to be nice, or helpful, and also you're good at saying the right things to make people go away, and, I imagine you'd be very good at saying the right things to make people angry or upset too." Ginny had no idea whether that was supposed to be an insult or a compliment, or maybe both; Luna was matter-of-fact as ever. "I'm sure you'll have said the right things this time too." Luna was quiet, considering. "The problem is that saying the right things doesn't always mean those things are right." Luna studied her with eyes the same clear blue as the stream. "What were you trying to do?"
"Help him help himself," Ginny muttered.
"But meanly," Luna said, humming thoughtfully and nodding, as if she understood. Ginny wasn't sure she did; Luna didn't have a mean bone in her body. Then Luna frowned, and it was a strange look on her, about as close to fierce or protective as Ginny had ever seen. "Not too mean, though, I hope? Harry's too nice—"
"Harry's mean too, when he wants to be," Ginny muttered. Thanks Ginny, you've saved me. Now get out… Voldemort used you.
Luna looked a little doubtful, and though she was annoyed at him, Ginny felt a spike of grudging affection towards Harry; a lot of people were mean to Luna, both on purpose and accidentally (even Hermione and Ron, sometimes), but never Harry. On the rare occasions he did get fired up enough to be mean to someone, he seemed to reserve it for Ginny and Sirius.
"Even if he can be," Luna said at last, somewhat disapprovingly, "that doesn't make it all right."
"I know," Ginny said, exhaling loudly.
"I know you do," Luna replied serenely. She lay back on the grass, hair gleaming in the sun, and began to trace her finger through the air above her. Ginny was fairly sure she was making shapes out of the few, fluffy clouds above them. "Make sure Harry thanks you."
"I— what?" Ginny glanced over at her. "I thought you were implying that I need to apologise."
"Yes, that too," Luna said seriously.
Ginny laughed a little and lay back beside her, twitching every now and then as the plimpies investigated her feet, which were still in the water.
"Hey, Luna?"
"Mmm?"
"What do you know about… um… magical tattoos?"
"Mum had one, of the lunar cycle." She smiled up at the sky, and Ginny smiled too for a moment.
"Are they tricky to remove? If someone decided they didn't want one anymore?"
"I wouldn't think so," Luna said. "I think you'd just vanish the ink."
"But what if there wasn't ink? What if it was like a… a mark. Discoloured skin. But magical. Could that be removed? Or healed?"
"I suppose that depends how it got there," Luna said, rolling over to face Ginny. Her eyes were bright with curiosity.
"It was put there by a spell, I think." Harry had only said it happened when Voldemort healed him, but in Sirius' recount to them all back at Hogwarts, he'd mentioned Voldemort spelled the mark onto new Death Eater recruits.
"Is it magical?"
"Yeah, I just said it was put there by a spell," Ginny said, "so—"
"We make non-magical things with spells all the time," Luna said, waving a hand. "Does it do anything?"
"I'm not sure," Ginny said. "If it was finished it would, but it's not."
"Then yes," Luna said. She rolled back over to look at the sky again, clearly enjoying the sun. "I'd say it could be removed. If it has no magic of its own, it's probably a matter of removing either the magic that put it there, or the magic that's keeping it there. Murtlap essence might work."
"What's that?"
"It's made from murtlap tentacles," Luna said. "But it's very good at soothing and accelerating healing in magically inflicted injuries." She frowned. "Cuts, though, usually, so maybe not in this case. What about augurey feathers? They siphon magic the way a normal quill siphons ink. Or you could ask Bill, I suppose. Curse breakers are usually very good at removing unwanted magic."