- Luna -

Am I the ugly little man or the miller's beautiful daughter? What have I sacrificed, what have I sold, to be able to spin yarn from the poisoned fibres in their hearts? The vile balls are hidden under the floorboards lest my father knit a truly dreadful Christmas jumper.

I wish… What do I want?

I wish my heart hadn't been full of Draco's pain before I saw the obscurus growing in Astoria's bones.

I wish the wrackspurts and nargles hadn't distracted me. If I had noticed the insidious creature eating away at Astoria, I would have… I could have… But none of us were lucky. By the time I saw her sallow cheeks for what they were, the yellowed-eyed centipede had been nibbling away at the very core of her magic for years and years. The curse struck her long before we entered Hogwarts.

Astoria will lose her abilities first; her beautiful wand will turn useless, and once her magic is gone, the pain will start. And once her body is void of nutrition, the creature will starve and, in desperate search of something to sustain it, a million panicked legs will scrape at her insides, stinging and stabbing her heart and lungs, chewing and gnawing and vomiting acid bile. It will become frantic for escape and, in its attempts, consume Draco's dearest until only her screams are left. She will beg Draco to kill her, and he'll arrange it because he won't be able to lift his wand.

I chose Draco before I knew there were other choices. Before I realised what he would ask of me.

It wasn't a choice at all, you see. You may think my mind is full only of Astoria, but he was there first, and when she came back to lie down with me among the anemones, I wanted everything. I wanted them both. I wanted him since I saw him sitting across the Great Hall after the battle since I realised there was no difference between love and forgiveness. It's all giving and letting go. If I could have made a bargain with a petty little creature, I might have ruined everything by bartering away the spindle for them. Who knows how the trials would have ended if I had.

When I found Astoria's stowaway, she insisted I wear her wedding dress. I admit I imagined I married them both, that I could hold them within me and shield them from harm. I didn't imagine that I would be harm.

Today, they will come here to sit down together. They think… I have sent Dad away to discover an implausible but so scandalous a story he won't be able to help but believe it. It'll take days to investigate, and he'll refuse the truth of it. He'll never know how many of the stories I tell are just stories. Dreaminess is a veil to hide my ambitions, shenanigans, and hidden plots. I am far too odd to fit in, and as tangential, I am free to spin yarn and, with a riddle or two, push events in the right direction. I stand outside the bell jar, yet close enough to nudge the child soldiers toward happiness.

They call me aloof, but I am nothing of the sort. It's just that in order to help, I cannot… You cannot nudge someone in the right direction if you want to keep them just where they are. Close. So I stay just close enough, but not so close as to need a friend's shoulder to cry on or be the one someone relies on.

Except.

I have been wanton in my selfishness. I let the facade crack and crumble and stole another's affection. Twice. It has to be put to right. They are for each other; the old man's phoenix said so. Its riddle was obnoxious but didn't punish my conclusion, so it must be correct.

I've made tea, Earl Grey. It's possible to avoid Dad's vile concoction now he's not here. He's terrible to deal with when hurt, and he'd sulk for days if he knew, but he won't be back until Sunday. The scent of bergamot will have dissipated by then.

Once, I found it odd how much I care to delight Draco and Astoria. Now, I have accepted that their smiles compel me. If they came here under other circumstances, they'd laugh if I admitted to vanishing Dad's herbal infusion rather than drinking it.

If only they could turn their bright lights on each other and leave me in the dark.

Astoria arrives first. I don't bother putting up the airy front, even though she enjoys disassembling it. It's part of the game of seduction we play, a mental as well as physical disrobing.

She can tell something's wrong, and it makes me nervous. The obscuro is slowly stealing the youthful loveliness from her face, and a cold beauty is emerging in its place.

The extra tea cup and my position on the other side of the kitchen table are noted with pursed lips. Instead of asking what's going on, Astoria twirls on the spot and adjusts her skirt over her hips, makes a fuss about how hot and humid it is, undoes a button in her blouse, slips a hand in, and fans the silk to let the air underneath. I stare at the shimmering shapes of her hidden fingers. Only enchanted fabric can give off such a pearlescent glow.

Astoria has developed a taste for the striking. I'd love to take credit, but I think it might be fast approaching death. She stares me straight in the eye, and her hand moves under the fabric.

"Luna," she mumbles, "whichever secret you plan to reveal, none of them is yours to tell. Now come…"

I would have helped her undo the rest of the buttons, such is my resolve. But Draco arrives just then.

We sit as far from each other as possible, each occupying an edge of Dad's large, heavy oak table. Never have three people busied themselves quite so intently with crumbling biscuits into their tea.

I don't know what I have done, bringing them together like this. The two who care for each other the most but who can't seem to allow it to show. How can they raise the child Pavarti's cards foretell if they can't even look the other in the eye? How can I be the one to obscure the view?

It would be so easy to check out, to relinquish responsibility, to give in to Hermione's diagnosis of dissociation and PTSD, and to dreamily murmur, "No one's to blame." But how can I mend this if I use illness, the illness that broke every one of us, as an excuse? I could sit here and trace the grooves on Dad's cracked kitchen table and talk about the need for intimacy. I could say: I, we, we all need so much closeness to keep the war at bay, more than a single person can give. It doesn't mean…

"I have done wrong," I say. "I have done you wrong."

Draco is the fastest, but my Silencio is faster. If I let him talk, there will be crying, and I will lose my nerve. They must both understand the vastness of my betrayal.

"I didn't plan it," I continue lamely.

Draco is unreadable, and the way Astoria is folded in on herself, she's ashamed, not of the affair, but rather that she didn't end the marriage. She talked about it often enough and was upset when I discouraged it. I'd tell her we don't belong together and watch the wild passion in her eyes die. I am her swan song, the last hurrah, her last, best chance at happiness. That's what she thinks. But she's wrong.

Whenever Draco was here, Astoria thought his absence was a petty punishment for hers. She could tell he suspected she wasn't entirely his. She liked to pretend she didn't care, but she would have left him not to hurt him anymore.

If she had paid more attention, she'd have realised he'd known since that last spring at Hogwarts that she could never be his. He knew and was willing to bear the pain if he only knew who. That was his condition; that's what he said.

"Astoria," I say, "I met Draco by chance in Diagon Alley."

There would have been commotion, but my Immobulus was faster. Draco's face is raw in the face of Astoria's silenced tears.

Draco treated his own duplicity as if it was something else entirely, and he talked often about trust and the cold place on the pillow where her cheek should be.

"If she is seeing someone," he said, "I don't think I could ever trust her again, but.."

Because I was easy, the less complicated partner and asked for nothing but just a body to hold, I didn't ask him why he was in my bed. Draco, I thought, go home and ask Astoria where she goes.

"Draco," I say, "I never meant for any of this to happen..."

Where are my words? Why is it only stammering uselessness coming out of my mouth? When they came here, they talked about each other, their fear, longing, and hurt. Fawkes, the tarot, and the stars speak of them, their love, and the great tragedy that can only be averted at significant cost. And I want to pay it. Let me. I'll give the spindle up.

Astoria isn't the only one crying. Because I have released them, I can hear Draco try to swallow his sobs. Trust has been broken.

I'm on my way now. The big old clock on the wall is ticking. I have stepped over the ledge, and I force myself to look at her and him, to study their faces. This is my swan song, the last vestiges of happiness, my last, best chance to memorise their features. Her long, dark hair cascades down the shimmering blouse.

Draco isn't looking at me, nor is he looking at her; he's looking away, staring at the pendulum swinging from side to side.

Tick tock.

"I'm sorry," I say.

Astoria rises.

"I'm not done."

And before she can go, I tell him all her secrets. I tell him about the monster inside her and the child that might die.

They both leave me in a silent rush to be away from such… From me. Trust has been broken.

I stay sitting in the kitchen until the fire in the cast-iron stove dies. Then I get up, wash the teapot and cups, and put the tin away in the cupboard.

I'm neither Rumpelstiltskin nor the hapless little girl. You see, they're the same. They are greedy for things that are not theirs, just like I am.