A/N: Two years, I know, I'm sorry. I know y'all all probably thought I'd abandoned this fic. I haven't. I HAVE finished college, gotten engaged, helped three friends plan weddings, planned my own wedding, gotten married, moved 3,000 miles, started a new career, and battled chronic illness. Excuses, I know ;)
I honestly don't know if anyone will even still have an interest in this fic after so long, but I did sit down and start writing again, and I thought I'd share just in case anyone does still enjoy this story.
Chapter TextChapter 4 - LunaA cold, damp cell. A hard floor. A warm blanket. An apple sitting by the cell door. A quiet, sympathetic look. A gentle hand. A cold sneer. A harsh command. A knife. Fiery pain. Cold grey eyes.
Chapter 4 - Luna
A cold, damp cell. A hard floor. A warm blanket. An apple sitting by the cell door. A quiet, sympathetic look. A gentle hand. A cold sneer. A harsh command. A knife. Fiery pain. Cold grey eyes.
I woke with a start, scrabbling into an upright position as I took stock of the room around me. My breath was coming hard and fast, and I knew I had to slow it down before the wave of panic crashed over me. There was really no need to panic, after all. The dream may have been made up of memories, but memories are, by their very nature, in the past. I simply needed to remind my body that I was safe. Closing my eyes, I wrestled my breathing back under control through sheer force of will: in for four, out for four. I felt the damp, cool air brushing my skin, chilling the dampness on my neck until my hair brushing against it raised goose bumps; Leila must have opened the window again. Soft silk bedsheets against my legs contrasted with the slight roughness of the coverlet under my fingers. I could hear the even breaths of my three sleeping dorm mates, the creak of mattress springs as one of them rolled over, and the distant hoot of an owl. The air was laced with the deep, earthy smell of forest after rain. My mouth tasted of sleep.
Slowly, so slowly, I felt the tightness in my chest ease. Opening my eyes, I saw that the window was indeed open. There was a slight pink tinge to the grey sky, and the only thought in my mind was that I needed to see more of it. I needed release from this small room and the walls I hated so profoundly just then. I needed to rebalance myself before breakfast, and this was the best way I knew how. My toes met wood as I slipped out of bed, careful not to make a noise that might wake my dorm mates. I didn't bother to change out of my pyjamas as I wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, collected my shoes, and tiptoed out of the room.
The common room was as silent as a graveyard in the early morning, save for the whirring of someone's half-finished project in one corner. Our common room's chaos rather reminded me of a mind cluttered up with such a rapid succession of thoughts that they spilt out all over each other, creating a bit of a jumble; it seemed an apt description of my house in general. This was less charming, however, when one was trying to travel from one side of the room to another without tripping over a stack of books, or pile of papers, or a life-sized model of a blast-ended skrewt apparently constructed entirely of marshmallows. An interesting concept, that.
I slid into my shoes when I was safely out of the common room and at the top of the spiral staircase connecting Ravenclaw Tower to the rest of the castle. The bronze eagle on the common room door made a quiet sound at me, seeming to reprimand me for being out of bed so early. Looking up from my shoelaces, I gave him a gentle smile.
"I'm so sorry you can't come with me, Ansel, but I simply can't bear to be inside this morning. I assure you, I've no wish to make mischief."
Though crafted entirely of metal and firmly attached to the heavy wooden door, the eagle seemed to droop slightly. I knew from experience that his issue arose far less with my being out and about before dawn than his wish to join me. It is rather cruel to be an eagle without wings, permanently fixed to a door and unable to leave. It was both horrible and beautiful in a poetic sort of way. A pang of pity burnt through me - I, too, knew what it was to be confined, after all. Only I was now free to go outside when I felt trapped - poor Ansel never would.
"What was made for the sky, yet will never soar?" his voice creaked with the grinding sound of metal against metal, almost as if it hurt him to speak the words.
Straightening, I ran my finger along the joint where bronze met wood, then glanced over at the small tower window. I could not bring Ansel to the skies, but I had discovered years ago that I could, at least in part, bring the skies to him. The wind was cold and biting this high up, but Ansel still creaked in appreciation as I opened the window, letting the day in to greet him. I supposed he likely couldn't feel cold anyway. Once the window was open, letting in the cool morning wind, I gave him one last stroke, smiling again. "I hope that helps ever so slightly. I'm sorry I cannot do more,"
"The fewer of me you have, the more I am worth. What am I?" he asked in response.
"I am honoured to be your friend, Ansel," I lowered my head in deference before turning and clattering down the stairs. The untied laces of my shoes tapped rhythmically on the stone stairs as I travelled down, down, down. As if the castle could sense my need to be out from within the confinement of its walls, the moving staircases all swung into my path, never forcing me to stop or wait.
"Thank you," I murmured, running my hand gently against the stone wall, and then I was through the doors, breathing in lungfuls of the damp Scottish morning. That was better. As if they had a mind of their own, my feet swiftly took me across the grounds. I had travelled this path so many mornings over the last six years that my body now moved automatically. I watched as they carried me across pavement, then grass, and finally, the worn footpath along the lake's edge. It only took me a few minutes to reach what I privately considered my spot. I had once had two such places, but my other spot was no longer only mine; it was now Draco's as well. I didn't mind that - the poor boy needed a refuge more than I ever had.
As silly as it was, thinking about Draco was painful right now. The nightmare was too fresh, and his eyes were too much like his father's. Of course, I knew that sharing genetics with a person did not mean you were the same, but it was hard to separate them while the ghost of the dream still lingered in the air around me. The hard, grey eyes that showed emotion only when they chose, and seldom the ones they truly felt. The Malfoys told better lies with their eyes than most people did with words, I had noticed.
No, that wasn't entirely fair. Draco was surprisingly bad at lying with his eyes, at least recently. Yesterday, his guard had been down - shattered, really - and the pain, regret, and revulsion I had briefly glimpsed on his face had been quite genuine. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had defended him to Hermione, trying to convince her not to condemn him based on his family, yet here I was doing the same. At least I was self-aware enough to recognize my own hypocrisy. Perhaps that counted for something. Perhaps not.
My hand had come to rest against the rough bark of the enormous weeping willow as I leaned my weight sideways against it. I discovered this place as a second year and have been a frequent visitor ever since. The tree stood several meters from the edge of the Black Lake, far enough to be out of reach of the water yet close enough to hear the gentle lap of small waves against sand. Knarled roots twisted from the base of the trunk out toward the water's edge in a shape reminiscent of a nest, or perhaps a wood nymph's throne, leaving a space perfectly sized for a girl to sit in between them. The tree curled down protectively over the roots, and the roots curled protectively around me as I carefully climbed over them and into my place of refuge. I leaned back against the tree, feeling the sturdy trunk against my back and the rough roots against my fingers. The cool breeze flowed gently through the leaves, and this morning, rather than weeping, the willow seemed to whisper. Wrapped around me as it was, it seemed to be endeavouring to tell me a secret known only to the trees and the wind. We likely made for a lovely picture.
This was good. Straightening my spine, I flipped my palms up on my knees, took a deep breath, and released it audibly. Slowly, I slipped into a rhythm of breaths that seemed to fill me and then rush back out with the sound of the ocean. The morning was beginning to come alive around me: birds twittered their morning conversations, small animals poked their noses out of their dens to start their days' foraging, and I heard the Caladrius that lived in the branches of my willow return to his nest. The wind still smelled of petrichor and kissed my face as if it, too, was trying to impart whatever secret the willow wished to tell me. All around me, the forest, the lake, and all their creatures were at peace. The world was at peace; at least, I lived in a little corner of it that was. It was a lovely thought. The nightmare slipped further away as the peaceful magic of this place seeped into my bones. Softly, I began to sing.
I wish I could have been surprised when my shoelaces tied themselves together. Naively, it seemed, I had hoped that the end of the war might also end the foolish fears my classmates seemed to hold of people unlike themselves. Alas, it had not. How odd that we could have survived a war, many of us fighting within these very walls, and yet, within months, slip back into childish bullying.
"WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" rang out loudly across the corridor. One moment, I was watching the grey stone of the floor rush toward my face; the next, I was back on my feet, blinking at the furious figure of Ginny Weasley as she bore down on a smirking Eddie McWorth - A Gryffindor boy in my year who had always made a point to inform me of my oddities, with varying degrees of rudeness. He was the sort of boy who sought to combat his own feelings of insecurity by focusing on - or creating - insecurity in others. Such behaviour usually stemmed from feelings of inadequacy in childhood, so I never too deeply resented him his little ego trip. After all, if he left me alone, he would likely target someone else, only that person would probably take his actions personally rather than seeing them for the sad reality they were. It didn't much bother me, anyway. It simply wasn't important enough to quibble over. Now, as he stood squarely in the Head Girl's path of destruction, his adam's apple bobbed, and he took half a step back. After six years in the same house, he knew to wince as she opened her mouth.
"HOW DARE YOU!" She all but roared, "GRYFFINDORS DO NOT STOOP TO BULLYING, MCWORTH!" If she were a kettle, she would undoubtedly have been boiling over and making a mess of the stove.
McWorth grinned weakly at her as he shoved his mousy brown hair back. "Honestly, Ginny, it's not bullying if she doesn't even notice. You saw, I don't think she even realized she was falling." Under his breath, I heard a mumbled addition of "Freak," I sighed. This wasn't going to end well. Ginny's face was a near match to her hair now. T
he bullying of anyone was unacceptable to her, but the bullying of her friends turned her into the fierce, protective lioness that Gryffindor was supposed to be. It was quite a thing to behold, really. "You pathetic little git!" The tone of her voice truly was abrasive almost to the point of pain as she launched into an angry tirade that was, for the second time in two days, oddly reminiscent of her mother.
I caught a whiff of expensive cologne a split second before I felt his presence next to me. "Pathetic," Draco muttered so only I could hear, before raising his voice loud enough to be heard over Ginny's torrent of angry words. "Honestly, Weasley, for Head Girl you seem to have forgotten that you actually have the authority to do something other than howl like a banshee. Unless you hold your own house to a lower standard than what you expect of Slytherin. You can simply remove points and move on. It's far more dignified." He leaned lazily against the corridor wall, hands in his pockets, all relaxed grace and cold condescension. Well then, he was at least recovered enough to once again project his preferred image, though whether that was a good thing or a bad one, I wasn't sure.
Ginny froze mid-word. When she whipped around to face him, I saw what was about to happen. She would lash out, transferring her anger at McWorth to Draco, only it would be worse because she already didn't like him. All the times in the past few weeks she had swallowed her dislike and treated him somewhat civilly would overflow, and she would slip back into the years of animosity, hitting him with all of her famous Weasley temper. He would stay as he was, leaning with one shoulder against the corridor wall, raising one challenging eyebrow at her, tossing back sneers and barbs that were calculated enough to fan her flame, but calm enough to retain plausible deniability. Or, rather, plausible deniability with anyone unfamiliar with his tactics, which meant almost no one in the school would fall for it. He would insist on his old habits. For such an intelligent boy, he seemed rather slow to realize that no one really believed he would be the innocent victim in an argument.
The sum of it is that it would be unpleasant and would end with two of my friends disliking each other even more, and using me as the fuel for their conflict. I simply didn't have the patience or courage for that - there was, after all, a reason the Sorting Hat refrained from placing me in Gryffindor. Bravery was not my strongest attribute. Though, I supposed, it took a sort of bravery to knowingly cultivate friendships with people who so vehemently disliked each other, and to step between them when they seemed mere words away from drawing wands. I knew Ginny at least to be rather quick to resort to hexes when her temper was involved, and the fingers of her right hand were already inching toward her left forearm, where I knew her wand to be sheathed. It was fascinating to me how she and her family so readily fell into the stereotype their hair colour was famous for. I always rather preferred to turn stereotypes on their head, if I could manage it. It was far more interesting.
Hoping to avoid the impending explosion, I let my head fall to the side as I reached out and placed a hand on Ginny's arm. Gentle physical contact is often an effective tool for the redirection of anger, as are confusion and simple distraction. So I smiled softly, feeling the knot of my hair fall from one side of my head to the other with a soft thudding sensation. "Don't be too harsh with Eddie McWorth. After all, he isn't fully to blame. I believe he was heavily influenced by Nargles. I don't think he knows how to properly ward them off."
Exactly as I'd hoped, twin sighs echoed from my companions. Behind me, I just knew Malloy had slouched down infinitesimally, raising his hand to briefly cover his eyes. He always did, after all, when I chose this method of conflict aversion. In front of me, Ginny deflated, some of her anger leeching out of her as she looked at me in confused exasperation. It had worked, however, and the worst she did was send Draco one more glare that made me grateful that she had no Gorgon ancestors before turning back to McWorth.
He was quite comical to look at just then, cowering against the wall like a first year confronted with Professor Snape, torn between shooting angry stares at both myself and Ginny and ones of absolute disbelief at me. He straightened up when Ginny's eyes locked on him, and really, I was almost tempted to owl Mrs. Weasley, for she really would be quite proud. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for bullying, Mr. McWorth. Nargles or not, we are better than that. And another 10 for making me take points from my own house."
He opened his mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it when he glanced at the Head Girl again. With a not-very-subtle roll of his eyes, he shouldered his bag and slouched off down the hall toward the greenhouses. Ginny sent me one more tight-lipped glance, narrowed her eyes at Draco, and with a parting injunction of "Git," which I was reasonably sure was aimed at my companion rather than myself, followed.
"A pleasure, as always, Weasley," his acerbic comment was too quiet for her to hear as she was already moving away. I believe that was for the best.
Draco was smirking at me when I turned to face him. Hair falling gently across his forehead, robes impeccable, and the relaxed grace returned to his body; he truly did seem recovered from yesterday's turmoil. Had I not been witness to it, I never would have guessed. I had seen him yesterday, though, and besides, I knew him. So the mask he had donned didn't fool me. His hands were still in his pockets, so he inclined his head, gesturing for me to walk with him; we both had Defense in 5 minutes.
"Honestly, Lovegood," he said conversationally, "McWorthless might have been out of line, but he was right about one thing: What kind of witch forgets that she can stop her fall? You didn't even try. I believe you are a bit touched in the head." He snorted quietly, "If you could even have gotten to it in time. Ever heard of a wand holster?" This was said with a nasty look at my hair, where I had, as usual, stored my wand.
His tone was condescending and acidic, typical Draco. I'm sure, in this case, it was meant to distract me from his actions. It would have worked, too, if I hadn't already been paying attention. It would have been easy to miss the tip of his wand sticking ever so slightly out of the pocket of his robes and the tiny, wordless flick he gave it. A few seconds later, a clattering bang sounded down the hall, followed by a curse as McWorth landed facedown in the corridor, mysteriously tripped by his own shoelaces.
A/N: What did y'all think? More of Luna's POV, and I know its a little heavier than her previous chapter was. Balancing her whimsy with the trauma that she absolutely has to carry after what she went through is a bit of a challenge. But for all her head-in-the-clouds persona, which is largely genuine, I do think Luna is one of the most self-aware people out there. She knows that in order to remain her normal, cheery self, she has to sort through these sorts of emotion when they come up. This felt important to me. Let me know what y'all thought.
Anyway, if there is any interest in me continuing this story, please let me know. I promise not to go two years between updates again.