|
||||||||
|
||||||||
Author: Antosha Story: The Wisest Course Rating: Mature Setting: Pre-DH Status: Completed Reviews: 13 Words: 142,408
Don’t let them distract you with their answers, Luna’s father said—said a number of times, actually—keep asking your questions. Which Luna thinks makes a certain kind of sense. The problem, of course, is that the answers are more interesting to her than her questions. She already knows the questions. And the people themselves are infinitely more interesting than either questions or answers. A case in point: She is interviewing Auror Tonks at the Burrow. She has placed herself between Tonks—Luna cannot imagine why she refuses to go by so lovely a name as Nymphadora—and the bright window, so that Tonks cannot focus on Luna. She is forced to focus on the questions. How did you happen to be at Hogwarts on the night of 3rd June? What is your involvement in the Order of the Phoenix? Is the Ministry aware of your activities on 3rd June? Have you been mistreated in any way because of your participation in the activities of 3rd June? When you attended Professor Dumbledore’s memorial, did you notice that Minister Scrimgeour arrived late and left quickly? Did you notice any other evidence that this was in fact a Polyjuiced stand-in, attempting to perpetuate the cover-up of the Minister’s suspected vampirism? But as Luna poses these questions, she finds that what she is focusing on herself isn’t the questions—only some of which she finds interesting. Rather, she is fascinated by the way that Auror Tonks’s hair color slowly shifts, the way that a river shifts color with a passing cloud or a shift of wind. As Tonks jovially sidesteps most of Luna’s journalistic thrusts, the hue is slowly migrating from dusty rose to a pale pink like the color of a Humdinger’s tongue. Then, quite suddenly, as Luna is beginning to ask about attempts to subvert Tonks into the Rotfang Conspiracy, the Auror’s hair turns Ashwinder-egg fuschia, her face flushes and her eyes brighten as she stares out of the window over Luna’s shoulder. The door opens and Tonks springs up, moving across the floor in a manner more quick and fluid than Luna would have anticipated, having watched Tonks with some interest over the course of the previous year as she helped guard Hogwarts. Then again, Luna would not have known that Tonks was a Metamorphmagus if Ginny had not told her; the Auror hardly seemed to inhabit her body through most of last year, let alone manage to transfigure it. Tonks shoves at the chest of a surprisingly unsurprised Professor Lupin, and then grasps his wrists and pulls his arms over his head, pressing her body against his, her mouth against his. “There, there, Nymphadora,” tuts Mrs. Weasley from the sink. She smiles as she disapproves, however, which also surprises Luna. Ginny’s mother usually saves that particular combination of effects for the twins, or occasionally for Harry. “Yes, Tonks,” says Professor Lupin mildly once Tonks has partially released him. “One might think I had been gone far longer than three hours.” “Telling me you didn’t miss me, then?” Tonks pouts. “Hardly,” Professor Lupin says, and kisses her rather less than mildly. Mrs. Weasley looks away. Luna does not. Does he mean that he hardly missed her, or that he can hardly tell her that he missed her? Luna knows that Tonks and Professor Lupin have formed some sort of romantic bond or pact; she was present in the hospital wing on the night of the attack when Tonks made her uncharacteristic declaration. Luna would hardly be shocked to learn that they have become sexually intimate, even before seeing them today. What she does not understand is just why watching the two adults kiss—‘Snog,’ thinks Luna, that’s what Ginny would call this, though how it differs from merely kissing, I’m not sure that I could say—makes her middle feel odd, like a warm, runny blancmange. “How are you, Miss Lovegood?” Professor Lupin asks, his voice rather more animated than usual as he breaks into Luna’s thoughts. “Oh, quite well, thank you, Professor Lupin.” “I do wish I could get you young people to stop calling me that. It makes me feel quite old,” he says with a smile. Tonks has not yet let him go, but he does not seem to mind. Can she change herself to look like a werewolf during the full moon? Luna wonders. “Are the children well, Remus?” Mrs. Weasley asks. “Quite,” he answers, kissing Tonks once more atop the still-fuschia head. “Ron looks as if he might have grown even taller, Hermione is a bit pensive, but steadfastly reading through every book that I can bring her, and Harry’s lessons are going well.” Mrs. Weasley sighs. “That boy of mine—I swear I may have to start borrowing clothes from Hagrid soon enough. You look peaked, Remus.” “A bit of a headache. Something to drink would do the trick, I think.” Mrs. Weasley beams. “Some hot chocolate, perhaps.” “Ah, yes—just the ticket. Thank you. Harry is growing like a weed as well,” Professor Lupin says with a wry smile. “So, Miss Lovegood, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Tonks smiles. “She’s doing interviews for an article for her dad’s, er, magazine. About… that night.” “Ah,” says the werewolf, his smile dimming only slightly. “Yes, Mercury.” “If you’re teaching Harry,” Luna muses, “perhaps it’s still most appropriate for us to call you by your title.” He sighs, nodding slightly. “If you wish.” “May I know what lessons you are teaching Harry, Professor?” Luna asks. His mild smile turns to a frown. “I’m afraid not, Miss Lovegood. It is Harry’s secret to tell.” Luna considers this gravely. “If it’s any consolation, Luna,” says Tonks, “he won’t tell any of us either.” Luna wonders just what it is that Harry could be studying. Nonetheless, it is Harry’s secret… “Professor, I was just asking Tonks about the progress of the Rotfang—” The hearth belches green flame, and Luna turns quickly to see a redheaded man with a scarred face stepping out of the Floo. “Bill!” cries Mrs. Weasley running to her eldest son and wrapping him in a rather energetic hug. “Merlin, Mum!” Bilius splutters, clearing his mouth of ash and his mother’s hair. “I only left this morning!” “But I was worried, dear—you’re still weak…” “Strong enough,” grumbles Ron and Ginny’s eldest brother. “You’re Bilius Weasley. You’re the one who’s getting married,” Luna says. Comment s’appelle-t-elle? Flaque? Flambée? “Er, yeah,” Bilius says, prying himself from his mother’s grasp. “Bill, please. Otherwise it sounds like an intestinal problem. And I know you, don’t I? Ginny’s friend?” “I’m Luna Lovegood.” He flashes the odd grin that people often get when Luna tells them who she is. Notoriety is nice, Luna supposes, but she sometimes sympathizes with Harry, wishing that she and her father and his newspaper were somewhat less widely known among British wizards. That motivates their frequent holidays in Scandinavia as much as the desire to track down the elusive Swedish herd of Snorkacks. “If it weren’t for Luna,” Tonks says, her hair now settled back to Humdinger-tongue pink, “Ron and Ginny would have bought it at the Ministry last year.” “Oh,” Bill says. “That was you. Well, it’s a pleasure.” He extends his hand. His smile reminds Luna of Ginny’s, and so of course she cannot help but smile back and take his hand. “Yes,” she says, “it is.” This provokes laughter from all of the adults, though for what reason, Luna is entirely at a loss. “Here you go,” Molly Weasley says, serving up mugs of chocolate to Bill and to Professor Lupin, who still looks pale. (Headache. Pale.) “So, you got her safely there, Bill?” Bill suddenly looks quite a bit like Ronald: one part worried about whatever it is that Ronald worries about, one part pleased with himself and one part obsessed with Hermione Granger. Only in Bilius’s case Luna presumes that it is not Hermione but his fiancée that provides the point of obsession. (Flippotte? Flange?) “Yeah,” Bill says. “I wish she’d stayed in England.” “A girl wants to be with her family before a wedding,” Mrs. Weasley states, giving her eldest a pat on the marked cheek. “But a month? And a half?” Bill sighs. “You’ll live, Billy,” Tonks says with a smirk, taking a sip from Professor Lupin’s chocolate. “Easy for you to say,” Bill grumbles back, and lifts his own mug to his lips. He and Tonks are sharing some unspoken joke, but it doesn’t seem to be a very funny one, since neither laugh. “Oh, speaking of gone for a month—I have letters from our young friends in Sussex.” Professor Lupin draws a sheaf of papers from his robes. “A letter from Ron for you, Molly. And one for Ginny from… Hermione.” The room gets very quiet for a moment, and Luna wonders why. It isn’t as if Hermione would need to write Ron or Harry—who is she more likely to write at the Burrow other than Ginny? “I’ll take that up to her,” she offers. “Thank you, Luna,” Professor Lupin murmurs, handing over not one but two envelopes. “There’s one there for you too, from Harry.” “From… Harry?” She takes the letters and sees that the one on the top has her name on it in blocky writing: To Luna Lovegood. From Harry. She has never got a letter from him. Really, she has never got a letter from anyone other than Ginny, Neville, the fourth-year Ravenclaw, Artemisia Jones, and, last summer, a party invitation from Terry Boot that arrived two days after the party. “Thank you,” Luna says. “You’re welcome,” answers Professor Lupin. “Ron thought it would be safer and faster for me to bring them, since I was coming here.” “Yes,” says Luna, but she is turning the envelope in her hand, considering whether to open it. It interests Luna that whenever she thinks of Harry, she thinks of his scars—the one on his forehead, of course, and the scarred look in his eye, as if he’s spent too long around Dementors, and, in this moment, the scarred back of his writing hand, like a personal motto: I must not tell lies. Observations: Luna Lovegood is fidgeting. Luna Lovegood does not generally fidget. Her heart rate is somewhere around two hundred beats per minute; her hands are sweaty and shaking slightly. Luna Lovegood is turning the envelope addressed to her by Harry Potter around and around and thinking about Harry Potter’s body. It is early July. Hypotheses: A) Luna Lovegood is agitated. B) Luna Lovegood is sexually excited. C) Luna Lovegood is suffering from a Nargle infestation. Inferences: Luna Lovegood is rarely agitated. Luna Lovegood is showing none of the primary signs of sexual arousal. It is far too late for Luna Lovegood to be suffering from the effects of last winter’s Nargles and far too early for this year’s batch to have hatched out. Deduction: However unlikely the case, Luna Lovegood is agitated, possibly due to sexual attraction to Harry Potter, and possibly due to causes as yet undetermined. Possible responses: A) Ask Ginny Weasley for advice. B) Run back home. C) Read the letter. The last seems the most efficacious course, and so she pursues it, sliding her still-shaking finger beneath the seal and opening the envelope. The whole letter—and it is not long—is in the same square, stark print as the address. (I must not tell lies.) Harry Potter July 2, 1997 Dear Luna, I know I’ve never written you but I really wanted to say some things. It hasn’t been particularly safe this year and last summer I didn’t really write anyone, but I wanted you to know that you are one of my very, very best friends, so I’m finally writing you now. Hermione would probably say it’s about time. Well, there you are. When you were joking on the train ride back about, you know, being sexually attracted (at least, I think you were joking anyway), I realized how much you make me laugh and remind me of what Ron calls “seeing the whole board.” Hermione goes on and on about looking at the big picture and you make me do it without even seeming to try or anything and so even though sometimes I think you aren’t trying you do that and that’s one of the things that makes you such a good friend, so thank you. I hope that made sense. I My relatives are being relatively okay, though I have to say I would much rather be spending the whole summer there. Hermione and Ron are great though, they spend a ridiculously huge amount of time not looking at each other, if you know what I mean. I am always studying with Remus. I think I’m really wearing him out—it certainly wears me out—but what he’s teaching me is really helpful though I wish I had a Pensieve because by the time I’m done my head is so full! You don’t have one, do you? (That was a joke.) I think it’s really great that you’re writing an article for The Quibbler. Hermione Ron and I all would be really happy to talk to you. We will be coming right at the end of the month. Please tell everyone there Harry P.S. One thing for your article that no one ever seems to know but I thought you might possibly find interesting—Voldemort is a half-blood. His father was a Muggle named Tom Riddle and his mother was a witch named Merope Gaunt who used Amortentia to make him love her. Voldemort is really named Tom Riddle too—Tom Marvolo Riddle because Marvolo was Merope’s father’s name. They lived in a town called Little Hangleton—the place where he took me and Cedric two years ago. Tom M Riddle was a Slytherin Head Boy a couple of years ahead of Hagrid, during the war against Grindelwald. I think it’s amazingly funny that the Death Eaters are so crazy about blood purity when he’s a half-blood just like me. P.P.S. Tell everyone I really really miss them. Putting the letter down with a somewhat steadier hand, Luna considers several things. First, Harry Potter does seem inordinately fond of adverbs. Luna has no problem with this, since it is a fault of which Luna knows herself to be guilty. Second, he said that Luna is one of his very, very best friends, which shocked Luna rather more than she thinks that it should, and has managed to leave her feeling both more and less agitated than she had been before. Some of the indications lean more towards sexual arousal than simple agitation now. (Pale. Headache.) Luna is also uncertain why he was so insistent that she tell everyone that he really, really misses them, but does not consider it her place to judge. “Harry says he really, really misses everyone,” she calls to the room at large. The room at large nod and say things along the lines of “Oh, how nice,” or “Uh-huh,” or “I just bet.” And the post-script… “Did you know that You-Know-Who is actually a half-blood wizard named Tom Riddle?” The room falls silent. Professor Lupin switches seats with Tonks, who has been chatting with Bill—apparently they were at school together—and, when conversation starts up again, he says quietly, “Yes, as a matter of fact I did know that, though not many do.” “Oh. Perhaps we shouldn't call him You-Know-Who then, since not many people seem actually to know who he is,” she muses. “It seems as if that would be likely to lead to confusion.” (Pale. Headache. Pensieve.) “Perhaps you are right, Luna,” he says with his wry smile. “I had forgotten how astonishing your observations could be.” “You mean how odd.” “No,” he says steadily. “No, that’s not what I mean at all. You astonish continually, but all of your observations seem perfectly sensible—if one has the insight and intelligence to follow them.” “Thank you, Professor.” Luna does not blush as a rule, but feels that she might be getting close. Observations: Pale. Headache. Pensieve. Scar. Harry complaining on the train to London of his lack of skill at Occlumency. “Professor, are you teaching Harry Legilimency?” Professor Lupin chokes on his chocolate. Tonks pats him on the back. “Okay, Moony?” “Yes,” he coughs. “Luna simply proved in her own inimitable fashion a point that I’d just been trying to make.” Tonks winks at Luna; Luna smiles back. “Luna,” says Lupin, “please don’t share that hypothesis.” “Of course not, Professor.” Molly Weasley bustles over. “Can I get you anything, Luna, dear?” “No, Mrs. Weasley.” Luna stands. “I’m going to bring Ginny’s letter up if you don’t mind. Oh—and Harry says that they’ll be coming here around the end of the month.” “Just in time for his coming-of-age birthday, I hope.” Molly Weasley runs her fingers through her eldest son’s hair. “Well, tell Ginny that I expect her down to help with dinner in an hour.” “Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” Luna says, and walks to the stairs. Before she goes up, she turns back. It is as if there is a hum in the room, a sound that she cannot quite hear. She looks: Auror Tonks, bright, and Professor Lupin, muted, sit side by side, not saying anything, barely touching. Bilius Weasley is staring intently into his now-empty mug while his mother embraces him from behind. Luna tries to identify the source of the sound-that-isn’t, but can’t. Ginny is lying on her bed, a book abandoned by her feet. She looks as if she has been holding a cold compress to her eyes in a not quite successful attempt to reduce the inflammation from what Luna assumes to have been a bout of tears. Ginny seems rather more prone than usual to bouts of tears. “Hey, Loony,” she says, attempting to smirk with something like her usual spirit. “Hello,” Luna answers. “Your mother wants you to help with dinner in an hour. Did I really tell Harry that I find him sexually attractive?” “Yes, as a matter of fact, you did.” Ginny gives a mock scowl, and this has something more of Ginny in it. “Oh.” Luna sits beside her friend, and Luna has to look away so as not to be mesmerized by the myriad-colored play of her hair across her cheek and the bedding. “Would it help,” she says before she has a moment to consider, “if I told you that I find you sexually attractive too?” Ginny moves behind Luna, sitting up. “You do?” “Oh, yes. You are very pretty, you know. And very nice.” “I guess. Not everyone thinks so.” “Well, I do.” “You said. At the Quidditch match.” “That’s right,” Luna says. “I meant it too.” “Oh. Thanks.” Ginny’s hand comes feather-light to rest between Luna’s shoulder blades. The blancmange-y feeling gurgles around in Luna’s middle again, which reminds Luna of earlier. “Hermione sent you a letter,” she says, holding the envelope up. “Thanks.” Ginny reaches over Luna’s shoulder, takes it and lies down, to the sound of tearing parchment. The runny-pudding feeling settles somewhat, though not entirely. “And Harry says to tell everyone that he misses them.” “He does?” Luna can hear Ginny turning over the parchment of Hermione’s letter. “Yes. In the letter he sent me.” In the silence, Luna feels Ginny’s thigh tense against her own hip. “In the letter he sent you?” “Yes. He was very emphatic that I tell everyone that he misses them, but no one else seemed to care.” “Oh.” Luna can almost hear that hum starting up again. “No,” says Ginny, “I suppose they wouldn’t.” Her leg relaxes again and she goes back to reading Hermione’s letter. Luna stares towards Ginny’s window, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. She does not like to dance, but she likes to watch this—it reminds Luna of the sound that she did not hear in the Burrow’s kitchen earlier. After they have sat this way for some minutes—Ginny reading, Luna watching—Ginny asks, “So… you find me sexually attractive?” “Yes.” “And you find Harry sexually attractive?” Luna does not look, but it sounds as if Ginny is resting her head on her arms and speaking into her elbow. “Yes.” “Is there anyone else you find sexually attractive?” Luna considers this. “I found your brother Ronald attractive for a while. And George.” “But not Fred?” “Oh, no,” Luna says and Ginny giggles, which brings back the blancmange-y feeling for some reason. “In any case, in the end even they weren’t terribly nice.” “No,” Ginny says rather thoughtfully. They revert to silence for a while. Then, as tends to happen, Ginny bounces up again. “Luna?” “Yes?” “Do you really not believe in love?” Again, Luna considers. (Focus on the questions.) She looks down at the letter in her hand and over at Ginny, whose dragonberry-tea brown eyes are fixed on Luna. “I’m still thinking about it,” she answers at last.
|