An owl has arrived at Luna's hidden sanctuary. It's a surprise. She hasn't heard from another human in weeks. In fact, she doesn't expect to because no one can find their way here.
Except the man who keeps the Observatorium tucked away in his heart. And he never writes.
And yet.
Of course, she has to receive word from the outside world somehow, and though herbs and berries are plentiful, she needs food. For this purpose, she has chosen a mountain peak not too far away. There, she apparates to receive parcels and post.
She should cancel her subscriptions to the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler. Events from the outside world don't seem important anymore, and the pile of unread papers by the fire is getting taller. Enough for kindling for years, and the years just keep piling on.
Luna sighs and turns the scroll over in her hands. No addressee and no sender.
The fireplace sits like a squat troll in the corner of Luna's dimly lit, cluttered room. Golden treasure glints from its heavy braids, and a large fire burns in its belly. Facing it stands a worn leather wingback armchair she brought from Ottery St. Catchpole. A minor miracle rescued from the ruins of Home — a reminder of simpler times when her only concerns were dingbats and wrackspurts.
The chair almost swallows her slender frame when she sits down. She leans back and relaxes in the heat.
"I am safe," Luna says to no one in particular. "This is my home, and no one can find me here."
She breathes in and out slowly.
The time in the dungeon of Malfoy Manner destroyed something inside her. You cannot have your classmate as a jailer and continue naively asserting that invisible creatures cause poor judgment. Malfoy Manor held many such, and they brought about all manner of mischief, but Draco Malfoy did what he did without wrackspurts.
There are nights when Luna wakes and thinks she is back in that cellar. Those nights, she uncharitably thinks that Draco deserves to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban rather than go on to marry and have a child.
After all that, the Quibbler lost relevancy. And the Daily Prophet—well, its society pages hold too many reminders that she is stuck in the past while others have moved on.
The simple times were over when the war began, and its end has brought normalcy back not at all.
An oval window to the left of the fireplace faces a night so dark it's a mirror reflecting Luna's gaunt features and the bookshelves towering over her head. Books, old and new, and odd knickknacks fill every shelf. In the shifting light, creatures seem to scramble from ledge to ledge. Luna either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She's sitting in her heavy chair, clutching the parchment she received in the early afternoon.
It's time to untie, unroll, and read, she knows. She has been putting it off because it can only mean one thing: Percy Weasley, the destroyer of dreams, is coming for a final visit.
Luna shifts in her seat and pulls a quilt over her legs. The fire crackles, and the troll smiles encouragingly.
Dearest Luna,
She shivers.
Dearest Luna,
I hope this letter finds you well. It has come to my attention that a significant amount of time has passed since our last correspondence. I trust that the intervening days have treated you with kindness.
As you may be aware, the duties of the Ministry have persistently monopolized my time, rendering me woefully deficient in the endeavor of social engagement. That said, I am inspired to rectify this lamentable state of affairs.
I am writing because
The matter I wish to make you aware of
I must confess the true purpose of this letter eludes even my comprehensive articulation, but as I do not intend to send it, I will speak my mind. Perhaps I will reach a conclusion.
My Dearest Luna,
You are wondering why I am authoring a missive after so long. Two years have passed since the comet carried us back and a year since our encounter in Galloway Forest. Upon our return, I promised to keep your secret, and I want you to know I have kept it.
Luna, it is with a measure of disquiet that I
I am worried about how my letter will be received
I oscillate between various modes of expression, none of which seem to capture the essence of my intention.
How thoughtless of me! If I were to send this, you would think my owl heralds an intention to tear the Observatorium down. I am not wounded that you would think so little of me. I understand the grief a letter from me would cause.
None of it matters. I will not, cannot, send you a letter. Please forgive me.
I put quill to parchment in the early hours of the morning to
Luna, there are sentiments I have not shared, words I should have uttered when they were still relevant.
I wanted to say, when I proposed I be your Secret Keeper, it was not because it was the right thing to do. I should clarify that it was very much the wrong thing to do. Had I acted appropriately, I would have done as commanded and razed the Observatorium under Edict…
When I proposed to be your Secret Keeper, I hoped to stay
Do you remember the nights we spent in that miserable medieval forest, clutching each other for warmth? Do they come back to you, as they do me, every time the rain patters on your roof? Do you laugh at the drivel you told me about life, the universe, and the stars up above?
Was it a dream, Luna?
Did you feed me Death Caps and hold me while I hallucinated to win me over to your cause?
I have considered the possibilities, and I have found that deceit does not matter. I will keep your secret always; share it only as you direct me to, no matter the cost. And there has been a cost, but I will not tell you. You do not need to know.
Luna, I am writing because I have regretted returning to the Ministry since I threw the Floo-powder into your delightful fireplace. If I asked you to accept my return, would you let me come? I know your kind heart, of course you would, but would you want me to? Would you understand why I ask?
Do I?
Luna puts the unsigned letter down and stares into the fire until the sun rises outside her oval window.