Luna Lovegood

"Oh no, no the truth probably won't set you free at all. That isn't how things work here, no. But don't let that stop you from telling it! Or anything else you want to share. It's all so interesting, don't you think other people deserve to hear it? Oh don't worry, we have ways to convince you to open your mind..."

[luna-skips]

Here to Watch It Burn

[luna-skips]

suturesandstitches:

Draco hadn’t dropped in on the market for his own purchasing needs. It had taken some time, but he had developed relationships with his suppliers on non-Market days. With a reputation for paying a reasonable price and the understanding that the majority of his purchases were used for the benefit of the Caravan, most of the market traders came to him. Afterall, it was one thing to sell a muggle an overpriced healing potion, but another to sell it to Draco who would in turn use it on the Caravan’s most desperate patients.

The reason Draco had dragged himself into this bustling chaos was Dora. Not that he would admit it, he could already imagine her teasing him for his bout of sentimentality simply to embarrass him. Still, it had been a long time and due to the sensitive nature of her mission he wasn’t allowed to look for her. There wasn’t a rule against her finding him. So, he wandered the market quietly, keeping an eye on those around him.

And then there was Luna Lovegood, just as cheerful and curious as she had been the last time they met. She seemed so at ease that he almost forgot that she wasn’t supposed to be here. There was no way anyone associated with Luna Lovegood should be allowed in the market. A cold terror ran through him as he looked around, forgetting his posturing in his rush to see if there were more enemies of the caravan hiding in their midst. She seemed to be alone, but that hardly quelled his growing paranoia. In the end, the best way to figure out what was going on was to ask. He had his wand safely tucked away and they had formed a relationship of sorts, even if he had been a bit rude when he quickly excused himself when he realized who she was. Draco schooled his expression and forced a warm smile to his face before he stepped forward to stand at her side.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he admitted to her question. He leaned forward and into her personal space under the guise of inspecting the whirling orbs. “But I think it’s more curious to see you here. What a happy surprise!” He hesitated for a moment and his next laugh came with considerably more embarrassment as he pulled himself out of her personal space. “Right, you probably don’t remember. Drake Malloy, from the pizza shop. You liked my stitches.” He pulled up his sleeve to show off the long strings of stitches.

Luna turned around cheerfully when somebody spoke to her, even though the answer they gave wasn’t any good to her; admitting ignorance was often the first step to knowledge, as her mother often reminded her! Her dreamy contentment gave way to delighted recognition when she saw who was speaking to her (and if he stepped a little closer than was perhaps polite to do that, Luna didn’t notice; she had never quite grasped the concept of personal space, not even when it came to her own) and her already-wide eyes widened wider.

“Oh no,” she said happily, “of course I remember you and your pretty stitches.” She was perfectly happy to inspect them again though, since he offered, and she leaned in low over the revealed arm and its attendant threads. They were glowing very brightly today -- or perhaps they always looked brighter out in proper sunlight than they did in the neon lights of a cheap pizza parlor.

Luna raised a finger -- without asking; she wasn’t used to asking before she touched people because most of the time the people she was touching weren’t in a position to refuse -- and traced it gently down the line of threads, shivering with delight at how real the seam felt. Not that it was fake, of course; the threads were too solid to be fake, and they had indeed been inserted under his skin; the illusion came from the fact that of course those threads were decorative, and not really there to hold his hands on his wrists. Not even Luna’s mum’s favorite experiments had stitched-together body parts, although there were of course a few Ministry agents who wore magically-living prosthetics; theirs was not always a safe and secure business, after all.

She looked back up at Drake Malloy, met his silver eyes with her own bulbous ones, and grinned. “How nice,” she said, “I’m not sure anybody has ever described seeing me as a happy surprise before -- not in that tone of voice, before. Sometimes,” Luna explained, leaning in close to whisper, “they say things like that sarcastically, though.” She stepped back, twirled to look around the market, and in a more normal tone of voice, said, “It is, though! Meeting you here, I mean -- do you come to the Caravan Market often? This is my first time here! I am quite delighted. Oh--” A thought suddenly occurred to her, and Luna sobered slightly. She might be exactly on the clock, but there were certain responsibilities that she always had to be concerned with, and protecting the public was one of them.

“But you’re not a wix. You had better stick close to me, Mr. Malloy,” Luna told him earnestly, her voice and nod both firm. “Just to be safe.”

[lavenderknows-blog]

Accidents Happen || Lavender & Luna

[luna-skips]

lavenderknows:

The longer Lavender lay in the dirt the more they tried to asses their surroundings. The scent of butter beer and blood filled their nose, dust covered their arms, and their wand was holstered to their thigh; Lavender could only hope it hadn’t been crushed by the falling stall. It had only been a few minutes, perhaps less even, since the explosion, but the pain in their legs was coming on quickly, and Lavender could only hope someone noticed them soon.

Lavender lay back in the dirt, breathing deeply, trying to focus on the tip of their nose rather than the throbbing in their legs.

A voice overhead brought Lavender back to the world before them. Large blue orbs, and smiling pink lips looked down at the enby, the woman above appeared upside down from where Lavender lay. Upside-down or right-side-up, it did not matter to Lavender, a rescue had arrived, soon they would be free from the rubble. Lavender tried not to dwell on what might happen next. They tried to squash the bubbling up of questions like: would they be able to dance tomorrow night? would there be scars? would they loose tips?

The lips above Lavender were moving –  had been moving – words flowing from them like a wild river and Lavender had not been listening. Lavender forced themself to focus, to try and make sense of of it all. Talk of levitation charms, confirmed this was another wix who had come to Lavender’s aid, and healing spells, perhaps hope was not entirely lost after all.

Lavender nodded in agreement before finding the breath for words.

“Yes.” They breathed out, “Please help me.” The words were a plea, gasped out before propping themself up on their elbows to watch. The other wix waved her wand about, shifting the wooden beams of the stall off of Lavender’s lower extremities. Blood rushed back to their legs, and Lavender gave a groan, clutching their left leg.

“Thank you.” Lavender gave a whispered thanks, eyes closed, head hanging down as they allowed themself to adjust to the tingling sensations up their legs. “Oh thank you so much.”

With great caution Lavender lifted the hem of their dress, inspecting their legs. Small cuts and large bruises already beginning to bloom dark purple, littered the length of their thighs. “Oh no.” Lavender moaned. “No, no, no.” Dark fingers gently moved along their legs, as though they could feel for any possible fractures. “You said you were a heal-errrr… doctor?” Lavender asked, looking back up at their rescuer, their memory foggy as to the woman’s previously stated occupation. “It think they’re just bruised, can you tell?” Their eyes pleading.

Luna forced herself to slow down, to think things through before she acted; she looked around for a suitable place to put the removed rubble before she raised her wand and said, “Wingardium Leviosa,” and wafted the broken boards and tangled, stained canvas away from the bloodied person they had been restraining. She waggled her wand, guiding the mess slowly and carefully through the chaos until she could safely let it fall in the gap between the next two stalls over; the people who had been milling about or rushing past through the open space moved quickly out of the way when they saw the rubble coming toward them, which was very convenient and orderly of them. Luna smiled.

Then she gave a little start of surprise and said, “Oh!” turning back to look at the person she had just rescued. Luna wasn’t used to being thanked after she used magic on people, most of the time; most of the time, she was used to being insulted or cursed or threatened or simply sobbed at. Most of the time she was used to people spilling their secrets or telling her to go away (she rarely listened, not when she was at work anyway), not gushing gratitude...and she certainly wasn’t used to them asking her to take a closer look.

Luna crouched down next to the lovely but battered wix -- and she knew they were a wix, because of the stars next to their pretty brown eyes, which meant they were so much more interesting than an ordinary person would be, and she was furthermore allowed to ask them much more interesting questions than she was permitted to pester non-magical citizens with -- and she gave them a warm, friendly smile before turning her gaze to the two scratched, purpling brown legs outstretched in front of her. She poked, gently, at the abused flesh, not at all self-conscious about touching a stranger; granted most of the strangers that Luna touched regularly were usually screaming at the time, but her experience at work had nonetheless cured her of any hesitancy toward getting her hands dirty, or into other people’s business.

“I’m not sure,” she said brightly in response to the query. “I mean, definitely they are bruised, I can see that quite clearly. What I’m not sure about is whether they’re anything other than bruised.” Luna shrugged and leaned in closer, squinting her bulbous eyes for a better look. “But no, I didn’t say I was a healer, or a doctor, or at least, if I did, then it was an accident and I didn’t mean to, because I’m not.” She smiled cheerfully and explained, “I’m an agent in the Department of Unnatural Interrogation and Information Gathering.” Then she laughed, bright as a bell. “Oh, that always sounds like such a mouthful when I say it out loud! I suppose that’s why mostly people call it the Department of U.I.I.G. instead.”

She tapped her wand lightly against the bruised shins she was examining and said, “But I do do a lot of healing in my job, that much is true. Would you like me to cast a Healing Charm? It won’t do all that much for bruises, but if there’s any other damage it will help fix that, and anyway it definitely won’t hurt whether or not it helps much!” She glanced over her shoulder at the chaos of the market and added off-handedly, “There’s probably somewhere around here we can get you some Bruise Balm, too, provided we find a stall where the shopkeep hasn’t fled already...” Luna was more than happy to help; she didn’t have anything else to do after all, and with luck, this person would have interesting stories to tell her once they were feeling better.

[lavenderknows-blog]

Accidents Happen || Lavender & Luna

Perhaps it was the old notion that distance makes the heart grow fonder, but, Lavender did not realized how much they had loved their caravan upbringing until they had set out on their own. The stars overhead, late night chattering of the house elf troupe, the busy weekends working a market stall, it was the little things that made the mash up of wix and beings that made the place feel like home. Sadly, the morning’s headline did not agree with Lavender.

Stay Home! Scoundrels Abound Beyond Your Door!

But Lavender simply gave a roll of their eyes and dropped the paper on the kitchen table. The headline changed again.

Idiot

“Fear monger” Came Lavender’s muttered reply.

There had been an uptick in messages of doom and gloom this week from the headlines meant only for Lavender’s eyes. But after spending a timid couple of days peering down every dark alley and finding no lurking danger Lavender had tried their best to brush off their worry.

***

The caravan market was bustling by the time Lavender arrived. Their nose filled with the familiar scents of kettle corn, dust, and manure. With these sensations came the warm comfort of a home they no longer called their own. Lavender was a visitor here, but nevertheless, they walked the makeshift aisles of the market with a nod of greeting to those they knew from before.

There was not much extra money in Lavender’s pocket to spend, but they flipped through a book on the zodiac with interest. This was a safe place, a place of peace, this was the last place Lavender had expected to find a warning.

RUN! NOW! RUN!

A sense of alarm rushed over Lavender’s body, and they looked back up at the vendor before them where the panic in Lavender’s eyes was not mirrored. “Run. Run now before they come.” Lavender whispered, the words coming unbidden to their lips before they turned to look for the impending… something.

A flash. A bang. The world went silent as Lavender was thrown to the ground.

Ears ringing, Lavender watched the pandemonium that unfolded from where they lay. Throngs of people rushed in every direction, it seemed no one knew where to go, or even what had happened. There was a large gash on the side of lavender’s face cutting from forehead to ear. Lavender tried to push themself up, but cried out with the movement, their leg pinned under a collapsed stall.

“Help! Help me!”

[luna-skips]

When Luna heard the explosion, she abandoned her ambling tour of the market and skipped rapidly in the direction of the sound. It was both simple and difficult to get to the source of the chaos rapidly spreading through the impromptu marketplace: people ran in every direction, often shoving Luna off-balance and away from her path, but the epicenter of the disarray was easy to pinpoint and for once Luna was too interested in investigating the source to be distracted by tangents along the way.

All in all, it didn’t take her very long to weave her way through the crowd -- everyone seemed to have more important things to worry about than one wide-eyed woman with dirty blonde hair and an eager smile -- and so the place was still in mass confusion when Luna arrived at the source of the blast. She wasn’t sure if the damage she saw around her -- not enough to justify the level of panic engulfing the crowd, if Luna was going to judge, which she wasn’t -- was all a direct result of the bomb itself, or if the frantic and fleeing people had not been a major contributing factor in the mess. Certainly they were causing more straight-up mayhem than the little blast itself had engendered -- but it was such interesting mayhem that Luna wasn’t at all disappointed.

She stood for a moment in a small eddy of calm between two stalls, watching the mass of panicking people -- non-magical and wix alike, at least if the lack of stars meant anything in a place like this, which Luna supposed perhaps it didn’t -- a small smile on her face, her protuberant eyes glittering with delight. Of course, straight-up chaos like this did not offer the sort of long-term fascination that more investigative curiosity garnered, but it certainly wasn’t boring and for the moment, Luna was transfixed.

Her stillness ended when her ears picked-up a cry of distinct words amidst the tumult and shrieks and screams and hexes: “Help! Help me!” The source was a person quite close to Lavender, their face cut and bleeding and their lower-half trapped beneath the fallen wreckage of what had once been a stall. Luna wondered what it had been selling, before it collapsed. Everything was too disheveled for her to tell; there was no indication of whether the scattered cared-stone jewelry had come from its shattered wooden counter, or whether it had been the source of the multi-colored beads rolling underfoot, or perhaps of the odd-looking colorful sugar-candies that fluttered and flailed about weakly on the ground until they were trampled into bright, glittering rainbow dust underfoot.

Luna skipped over to the fallen wix and the fallen stall on top of them -- hopping nimbly and absently over a barrel that was leaking something foamy and buttery-smelling on the way -- and smiled at the hapless victim. “Hello,” she said, drawing her wand and holding it loosely by her thigh while she raked her eyes across the scene. “I hope you weren’t calling for somebody specific to come and help you? I would hate to be rude and interrupt if you were, although I can always go away again if you’d rather wait for someone else...” She trailed-off hopefully, eager to participate in current events, and maybe to find someone new who would be willing to talk to her and tell stories and secrets of their life in exchange for her assistance; it seemed a fair deal, in Luna’s eyes...

“Let’s see,” she continued, as much to herself as to the wix on the ground, “I think probably a Levitation Charm to lift that up, move it over there were it won’t be in your way...that should be first, probably, and then if you want I can heal your cuts afterward? You might be injured underneath there,” she added, waving at the rubble, “so it would make more sense to do all the healing at once...wouldn’t it?” Luna shrugged, semi-apologetically but smiling all the while. “I am not always the best at determining sensible courses of action, I’m afraid -- or so people tell me, anyway...” She thought about it, shrugged again, and finished brightly, “I am quite good at healing spells, though. I mean, I’m not a professional, but I do a lot of healing magic in my job, so I’m pretty good.”

She grinned and raised her wand expectantly, hoping to be granted permission to act. It would be terribly rude to rescue someone who didn’t want her help, after all, and Luna would hate to be rude no matter how intrigued she was.

[incre-et-painture]

Discomfort } Luna and Dean

[luna-skips]

incre-et-painture:

Dean was somewhat transfixed by the portrait on the wall in front of him. There was no name on the plaque, but the couple looked so genuinely happy that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

And so, it came as something of a shock when the portrait of the old man spoke. He’d heard of talking wixen portraits obviously, but he had never seen one. They were all far too carefully monitored.

“Holy fuck,” he said, not terribly loudly, but still loudly enough. “I mean… sorry. I just… I wasn’t expecting, is all.”

He looked up at the portrait. “Erm. H’llo. Sorry. About the… the gawking, I mean. I’m sorry that’s what happening to you. Sir.”

He didn’t really know what else to say.

Luna burst into great gales of laughter at Dean’s words. She didn’t mind that almost everyone -- living and painted alike -- turned to gape at the source of the noise. When she had finished, at least enough that she could straighten up again and unclench her arms from around her torso, she turned to him and asked, “What were you expecting?”

From the confines of his frame, Phineas Nigellus was glowering at her as though she had just committed a terrible breach of etiquette. Luna smiled at him too. “Are you really not happy, getting to watch all of these people?” She waved at the room at large. “I would think that a museum would be a wonderful place for a living portrait, everyone coming to see you ‘specially, parading past all day...”

His eyes narrowed as he glared between the two wix, then narrowed still tighter when he noticed the wands they carried (Luna’s was particularly indiscreet, with its glittery purple holster). “Blood-traitors,” he hissed, “worst of all filth, to consort readily with mud and muck and Muggles. You’ll all pay, I promise you that! My line still lives, and remains loyal to magic and magical blood!” His whisper rose to a shrill, nasally bellow that had many of the viewers flinching and shrinking away; only a few, like Luna, wandered closer in fascination. “Magic will rise again and at their hands, their wands, you will regret your disrespect!”

Luna was a little taken aback by the painted man’s vehemence, but she turned to Dean with a grin and whispered, “Isn’t this fascinating?”

[luna-skips]

Blood in the Drains

[luna-skips]

theinvisibleboi:

“When I turned out to be wixen,” Harry responded, and his brow furrowed a little as he said it. He couldn’t blame her for not knowing what he’d meant. “Well, specifically one of the Ministry’s poster boys. I knew I had to come and work for the Ministry then, so football wasn’t really an option.” He tried not to sound bitter about it. He was grateful for the opportunities he’d had in life, and the fact that he wasn’t living in a dirty caravan constantly on the run from the government. Still, better to leave that subject alone and move on.

“There are a lot of ways to look at it,” Harry agreed. He didn’t necessarily disagree with her, but it was his job to think like rebels and unregistered wix, to figure out why they did what they did so that he could find them and follow them. That often meant thinking about these issues in less black-and-white terms than the Ministry suggested. “No, I don’t think hiding provides them with any freedoms,” he agreed. “I can’t imagine living out there like they do. I wouldn’t give up my job and apartment for what they consider freedom.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at her reaction to his comment about being in trouble. He really was helplessly fond her, even when he was trying not to think about how good she was at her particular job. The fact that she would immediately offer help, especially given her position as the bosses’ daughter, gave him a little fluttering in his chest. It was always nice to know you had friends. “It was an exaggeration, I promise,” he tried to assure her. “Not real trouble.” He wasn’t in danger of losing his job or anything, just being assigned to his desk so he would actually get all the paperwork done. And to keep him from running into dangerous situations without backup. “I’ll just get a slap on the wrist for not following protocol.” He laughed, then quickly added. “A metaphorical slap on the wrist. You know how they are about admin.” He’d thought it was clear that he wasn’t being literal, but you could never be too sure with Luna. Better to explain it now than fall down a whirlpool of misunderstandings and find themselves turned around and unsure of what the original subect was.

Her cooperation about the jacket was appreciated, but he’d thought that the reason for the offer was obvious. Then again, he happened to miss things that other people thought of as obvious, and it was likely that Luna wouldn’t think twice about walking around the office with a blood-stained shirt, no matter that they weren’t as dark and prominent as before. Harry tilted his head from side to side, considering. “There’s still – a fair bit of blood,” he started to explain. “I’m just thinking it’s best not to go walking around in the corridors like you’ve just – er, interrogated someone. It might make people – uncomfortable.” He hoped that didn’t sound horrible. “Not me,” he amended quickly. “But some people.”

"Ohhhh,” Luna breathed, nodding slowly, “of course. I can imagine that; I suppose it must have been odd?” She shrugged, having never really thought about what such a revelation would feel like from the inside; as the daughter of two wix who were themselves the children of wix, Luna had never expected herself to be anything else. Not many children were lucky enough to escape a lineage like that -- and while Luna knew that being wixen was of course a terrible thing, a tragedy, she had never really wanted to be non-magical either. It might have been a better life, but it would also probably have been less interesting, and Luna would rather have interesting misery than happy boredom. “I never really thought about what it would feel like to be non-magical. Or to think that one was non-magical at least, I suppose. How interesting that must have been, to cross that line. What did it feel like, when you first realized?”

It wasn’t often that she got the chance to question anyone was wasn’t a wix; on the rare occasion when she did, it was usually a result of a misunderstanding, and once it became clear that the subject was non-magical they were whisked away from her. Even when the Department of Unnatural Interrogation and Information Gathering did have just cause to question a non-magical person -- someone who was aiding and abetting underground rebels, perhaps, although there weren’t many non-magical people interested in doing that sort of thing deliberately -- they had to be much more gentle about the process, and gentle was not Luna’s forte. Hiding who she was was even less, so she nodded enthusiastically and said, “Oh yes, I love my job too. I’m sure there are other lives I would enjoy as well, but not if they involved pretending to be something I’m not.” She smiled at Harry. “I’m glad you like your life, too. You would tell me if you didn’t, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh,” she said after he explained, “that’s good. I have trouble picturing you ever deserving to be in real trouble. And I don’t expect that whoever tried to slap your wrist would get away with it easily,” she giggled. Then she wrinkled her face up into a frown of annoyance and said fervently, “I do know how they are about following protocol. Sometimes I think they’re more interested in making sure that all of the ‘proper steps’ are followed than they are in the results you’ve gotten at the end -- but only sometimes. If they felt that way always, I’d be getting in a lot more trouble than some light wrist-slapping metaphors.” She laughed again, a bright and cheerful sound of unabashed and full-throated amusement; it was a noise guaranteed to strike fear into any poor soul waiting in one of the whitewashed interrogation cells down below.

Luna looked down at her shirt, at the faded smears of red across the pale blue, and then back up at Harry. “Why would that bother them?” she asked, genuinely curious. Before Harry could answer her eyes lit-up with revelation and she said, “Germs, of course! I forgot, people can be squeamish about blood sometimes. It’s really not as dirty as they think honestly,” she explained, shrugging into the offered jacket, “but you’re right, and the last thing I would want to do is make people uncomfortable. You are a very nice person, you know,” she added as she adjusted the fit. Harry’s shoulders were broader than hers but it wasn’t as though she was swimming in the jacket once she got it on, and the excess fabric wrapped nicely to hide her damp and bloodied shirt. Anyone who looked at her would know very clearly that the jacket had not been sized with her in mind, but given the oddities that consisted of Luna’s usual fashion, the borrowed jacket would probably draw little comment -- and certainly less distressed comments than the blood. “Always so concerned with making sure people are comfortable, are happy. It’s lovely of you. Probably one of my favorite things about you, in fact. I wish more people were so concerned about others. Everything would probably be so much pleasanter if more people did that.” She checked her hands to make sure that any blood they had picked up from the washing had been washed away in the same process; now that Harry had reminded her, she didn’t want to upset anyone by making them think she was spreading germs around the office.

[incre-et-painture]

Discomfort } Luna and Dean

[luna-skips]

incre-et-painture:

Dean shrugged, shook his head, and tried not to cringe. “I’m nearly finished, really. I can just drop it into the trash on the way to the entrance.”

He nearly flinched at the sight of the protesters. It was always a harsh reminder that aspects of his actual being were a crime. He figured that there probably weren’t many people who could honestly say that wouldn’t bother them. Of course, Luna was, naturally, the exception to the rule. Nothing bothered Luna.

Still, they made their way through the herd with no real incidents, though. Angry though they might be, he supposed that an exposed wand was still too scary to them for them to do much.

The portraits weren’t particularly hard to find. Most of the people who had pushed their way through the small-minded picket line outside were crammed into the space that stored them.

“Whoa,” Dean said, momentarily thrown off-track at the sight of the portraits. “They really are beautiful, aren’t they?”

Luna nodded in cheerful agreement and fell into step alongside Dean. It wasn’t difficult to pass through the small crowd outside the entrance; while Luna craned her neck to read the signs as they passed, Dean kept them moving so she couldn’t stop to dawdle -- which was probably for the best, as she would have been compelled to ask questions, and Luna Lovegood was not someone whom the Ministry wanted representing their magical agents to the public at large.

The guard inside the door spotted her and Dean and made a beeline for them, ready to demand that they check their wands for the duration of their visit, but Luna flashed her badge and he retreated, albeit not without shooting her a sour glare. Luna didn’t notice; she had already flounced over to the special exhibit.

It was -- perhaps unsurprisingly, given the mingled fascination and horror which much of the populace held magic in -- crowded, although not to the point of overflowing. Some of that tightness was due to the fact that no one seemed to want to get too close to the portraits, leaving the viewers clustered together in the center of each partitioned set of walls with a foot or two of empty space between them and the paintings.

Those were fascinating, filled with people in a wide range of dress -- much of it recognizably historical, but others garbed in things that would never have let their subjects pass for non-magical people, even if they hadn’t been moving. And they were, each and every one of them, moving. Some were merely shifting, staring stoically out of their frames or into the distance. Others were talking with their neighbors, dancing, reading, eating or drinking, even fighting or brewing or flying. While magical photographs had become commonplace enough that people no longer flinched when they saw them (and indeed, there were wide-ranging debates about whether color-but-still photographs were superior or inferior to the black-and-white-but-living photographs that one could develop with wixen supplies), paintings were something else altogether.

Luna was entranced. “What?” she asked vaguely, having not really heard Dean. “Oh yes, yes very much. Look, some of them have names on their frames. Hello Mister Phineas Nigellus!” she said in a louder voice, waving cheerfully to the nearest portrait who scowled back at her. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” the grumpy-looking wizard snapped, making several people jump and one man scream. “Locked in our frames, gawked at by muddy filth...huh!”

[luna-skips]

Here to Watch It Burn

Luna wasn’t there officially. She wasn’t the sort of agent who got assigned to raids and riots; her purpose was the gathering of questions and answers, not curse-slinging and hex-wielding. But she was curious by nature, curious about anything and everything without scruple or hesitation, and she had gotten the phone call; all of the Ministry’s active agents had. So of course she had to be there. Luna had been curious about the Caravan’s infamous black market for ages; the fact that for once, everyone at the Ministry of Magical Regulation seemed to know where and when and how to find the underground market -- well, that just made it possible to finally satisfy her curiosity. The attack, the warning attached to the message, was secondary really; it was the market that she wanted to explore.

And it was just as she had thought; there was plenty to study and observe and take in. Luna ambled though the impromptu lanes between shabby tents and shabbier tables and makeshift booths constructed of rubbish -- whatever people could cobble together, find, borrow, conjure, or make to display their goods upon. It wasn’t like anywhere she had ever been before; wix like Luna Lovegood were not generally considered welcome customers at the Caravan’s market, and she had never before gotten the chance to attend. This was an invitation only sort of shopping opportunity, and Luna wasn’t on the approved guest list -- usually. But today wasn’t a usual market day, although the Caravan hadn’t known that until after the explosion.

As for Luna, she was delighted, and she stared around at everything with evident enjoyment. It didn’t occur to her to worry that somebody there might recognize her, or more importantly recognize who her parents were, and take exception to her presence. It didn’t occur to her that any scenario that involved the words bomb and raid was inherently dangerous. It didn’t occur to her that there was safety in numbers and that maybe the daughter of two of the unregistered community’s least favorite wix shouldn’t be wandering around a place like this alone, with her head lost in the clouds -- especially not when the Ministry was about to start stealing children. Not that Luna thought of it that way, of course; it was just about finding out what would happen -- a chance to get some questions answered. There was no higher goal than that, in her mind. If a few children got snatched-up along the way, well, sacrifices were sometimes a necessity of investigation.

Happily enough, there were plenty of other questions that could be answered in the meantime, such as-- “What is that?” Luna exclaimed, pointing to the center of a most interesting collection of goods displayed on a nearby piece of board balanced atop two shabby crates.

She wasn’t asking anyone in particular, but her delighted question was loud enough to draw the attention of anyone passing by. Luna was not the sort of person who had ever been abashed about asking questions. It was one of the things that made her so terribly good at her job.

[thunderblts]

That Seat is Taken | Luna & Draco

[thunderblts]

Draco watched her consider and gave her a kind smile when she rambled on about whether or not she was one to lecture. “I don’t mind it if you talk, it’s refreshing to have someone interested without being disgusted for once. But I swear to tell you should you start to lecture. Let me know if I start to bore you as well.” Without warning she moved and Draco did flinch, but thankfully he did not reach for his wand. He laughed off his knee jerk reaction and even went so far as to wiggle his ears as she inspected him.

“He was the best I ever found. It’s a shame, I probably would have gotten more if I didn’t hold every other artist to the same standards. Everything else just looks cheap in comparison.” When she pushed for more information he let out a sad sigh. “I went back to find him when I was legally allowed to get more work done and he had died. His apprentice only does tattoos and piercings. It’s a shame, there’s a small amount of acceptance for body modification now, but back then it wasn’t something that was put in museums or art galleries. Lucas Martin, if you ever get down there.” It was a cheap jab at her. Registered Wix never moved or holidayed unless they were in trouble. It was too easy for them to hide away while in transport or for the Caravan to liberate them. Maybe it was different for the truly loyal mudlovers. He liked to think it wasn’t and that they were just as trapped as the rest of them.

“You know how there’s a bloke who will do moving tattoos with magic?” He asked quietly and double checked to see that no one was eavesdropping. “I think it’s a similar concept, I think at least. Sometimes they glow, sometimes they don’t.” Between him, her and the ambient magic of London, Draco was secure in his trust of the stitches. They would stay this bright while she was still at the table. From there on they would fade, but he would have to explain the change in light if another magical entity joined them. “I didn’t realize that was the type of thread he was using, but I couldn’t have only one set glowing,” he laughed again. “Mother nearly had a fit when she found out. Father merely remarked that I had lost a lot of job opportunities with my foolishness, which is fair considering.” Draco paused for a moment and considered her. “What about you? Do you get to be yourself at your job?”

[luna-skips]

“Disgusted?” Luna repeated, uncommonly taken aback. “Oh no, no I’m not disgusted. I don’t see how anyone could be. Disgusted with your stitching, I mean? But it’s so pretty. I don’t see how anyone could possibly dislike it, let alone be disgusted.” She shook her head, wide-eyed (more wide-eyed than usual, at least) and uncomprehending. “And I doubt you’re going to bore me,” she added sincerely, “I don’t know that I ever get bored talking to people. Even the ones who think they don’t have anything interesting to say generally do, if you can just entice them to open-up more.” Of course, a cheery pizza place in the middle of London wasn’t a good place for Luna’s traditional methods of encouraging people to share more, but the principle was valid regardless.

“Oh how sad,” Luna said, when the man told her that his artist had died. “That is awful, when artists die. They seem to do it a lot, too -- more than most other people, I mean. Or maybe it just seems that way because people pay more attention to artists than they do to ordinary people, could that be it?” She tilted her head thoughtfully and stared off into some invisible distance, momentarily distracted from the beautiful glowing threads in front of her, then her eyes slowly tightened in focus to resume their bug-eyed staring at the stitched-up man. “Oh no I don’t travel much. My parents say that we have too much duty to take care of around here to spare time for traveling just now, and anyway daddy’s right: there are more than enough interesting things to discover here first, it would be quite illogical to go traveling in order to find other things when we’re so busy at home.” She smiled cheerfully and added, “We all work for the Ministry of Magical Regulation, you see.”

When the stitched-up man started talking about Dean -- and he had to be talking about Dean, when people talked about someone doing magical moving tattoos, they were always talking about Dean, Luna had learned -- she sat up sharply in her chair and exclaimed, “Oh! You mean Dean. Dean Thomas. Yes, yes I know him very well, I think we’re friends probably. That is, he’s never said we are so I can’t be sure, but he acts like we are, so I think it’s likely. He’s lovely. So are his tattoos, yes! My mum gave him his first ones, you know,” she said proudly, beaming with warm-hearted delight at Dean, her mother, and those wonderful tattoos. Her smile faded only a little when her companion talked about his own parents being upset with his beautiful stitching. “Oh, but how could they possibly not be delighted with your stitches?” she asked, meaning it wholeheartedly. “And I don’t see where they could possibly interfere with any job at all.” Her brow furrowed with thought and she added, “Maybe a night watchman, or something where you have to be unobtrusive in the dark -- but other than than...”

Luna shook her head then paused, head half-tilted, face drawn tight in curious confusion. “Yes, of course I am myself at work. Who else would I be? I mean, I suppose I could pretend to be someone else sometimes if I wanted to; we have a boy in the office who does that...but I’m not sure yet why he does, although I suppose he must enjoy it.” She shrugged. “I’ve never tried to pretend to be anybody but myself, though. I’m not sure it would work if I tried to do it at work anyway, since my parents both work there too, and I know everyone else. I’m Luna Lovegood, by the way,” she said, extending a hand across the table. “There,” she smiled, “now you know me too."

[incre-et-painture]

Discomfort } Luna and Dean

@luna-skips

Dean found himself waiting at the Tate at 12:50, nearly-empty coffee in hand. He was tapping his foot restlessly, and wondering why in the hell he had agreed to this.

The absolute last thing that he really wanted to do was spend a day with Luna. Luna who seemed to understand nothing of what his experience in the Department was like. Luna who thought that they were friends or something. She popped into the bar on a semi-regular basis to discuss something she’d heard about the art world.

It drove Dean insane. And yet, here he was.

Why the fuck did he do this to himself?

Partly because he didn’t want to totally burn such a potentially useful bridge. But, apart from that, he had no idea.

[luna-skips]

Luna liked the Tate, with its ridiculously large chimney, tall ceilings, and blocky windows. This afternoon the sun was blazing off the glass, making her eyes sting and water when she looked too long. Luna smiled, absently wiped her cheeks dry, and ambled across the bridge toward the entrance. She skipped a little while she walked, without thinking about it -- or about the small but grumb ling crowd of protestors gathered near the front doors.

When she spotted Dean, her dreamy smile didn’t change but her eyes widened. “Hello!” she called, skipping up to him. “How lovely, you made it.”

Luna had dressed for the occasion: in sparkly blue tights, acid-washed denim shorts, glittery trainers, a purple peasant blouse, and bright yellow suspenders to match the belt where her wand was holstered. Her long dirty-blonde hair was pulled back in a big orange scrunchie that caused her ponytail to bounce against her shoulder blades and suspenders whenever she skipped. It might have been more prudent, given the protests going on outside, to take a more incognito tack -- but Luna had never learned the art of hiding herself.

“Shall we go in?” she asked. “Oh -- you probably want to finish your drink first, don’t you? There’s no rush. The portraits aren’t going anywhere -- daddy’s secretary checked for me this morning.”

[luna-skips]

Blood in the Drains

[luna-skips]

theinvisibleboi:

“Er - my hobbies?” Harry made a face. He wasn’t good at talking about himself, especially under pressure. As the question left Luna’s lips, Harry immediately forgot every hobby he had and everything that he liked outside of work. “I – run.” Well, that was stupid, but he couldn’t exactly tell her that he liked to practice combat magic, search for dogs that may have followed him during his childhood, and run around under his invisibility cloak in his free time. He liked Luna, but she would definitely have to report that. “I’m crazy for football,” he added. “Might have ended up playing it if I hadn’t turned out to be – well, you know.” He laughed and reached back to mess up his hair nervously. “Just imagine that. Better that I’m not though; I’d have nothing to wind down with.” He was going to kick himself later for not mentioning something more interesting, like how he’d started kickboxing, or that he was really enjoying the current season of Masterchef and liked to curl up on the couch with takeout and a beer to watch it.

“I don’t think they have to be declared rebels to want off the system,” Harry replied, as he watched her pull her dripping shirt out of the sink. His instinct was always to grab for his wand, and he’d wanted to cast a cleaning charm the moment he’d seen her shirt, but not everyone thought like that. Casual uses of magic weren’t even really acceptable around other wix, let alone around the office. “Once they’re registered; that’s it. They’re on the system forever and they can be traced. Many of them, especially wix on the street, want to avoid that as long as possible. It’s a kind of freedom to them.” Whether he agreed with them or not, Harry was paid to think like rebels and other unregistered wix. It was his job to observe them and consider why they did what they did, and how to find others that did the same. “There are plenty of reasons; I’m sure you hear a lot of them when you’re working.”

Harry’s face split into a grin. Her offer was not unappreciated. It was no secret that being cooped up made him antsy but even if it was, Luna was trained to look for people’s tells, especially when under pressure. That only made her offer more appreciated. The truth was, he had to get that damn paperwork done today. He knew that he could wait until she finished her report. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But I’m in enough trouble already without you enabling me.” He said it with a bright smile, to indicate that he was joking. “I’ll have a look at your report when you’re done and see if it warrants going back out there. I do like reading your reports.” Another truth.

There was the small matter of her ruined shirt though, which jarred Harry out of his grin. “Hey, you should borrow this.” He slipped out of his brown jacket and offered it to her. It would be a bit too big on her frame, but it would cover either her naked top half or her blood-stained shirt long enough to get back to her office. He didn’t want her walking out there half-clothed or covered in blood, despite the possibility that no one would blink an eye. “Don’t argue with me, now. I’m determined.”

Luna listened attentively as Harry talked about running and football, enjoying his recitation of his hobbies -- not that they were much of a surprise, Luna knew Harry liked to move around a lot -- but as he wound down she shook her head and said, “I don’t know, actually. When you turned out to be what?” She stared at him unblinkingly, unabashed at admitting to ignorance. Luna had never understood why people so often pretended to know things they didn’t; didn’t that get in the way of them actually learning the answers? “I would like ti imagine it I’m sure, if you don’t mind explaining.” She smiled dreamily.

Her smile faded into a distressed, confused frown as he talked about unregistered wix and rebels -- two groups that Luna had always understood were not necessarily the same people, but who certainly overlapped. The main difference, to her eyes, had always been that unregistered wix were people who had made a mistake -- often several -- while rebels chose their actions deliberately. “But if someone wants to not be registered -- on purpose, you know -- then that makes them a rebel. It’s the choice that makes the difference, Harry. People can’t be blamed for things they don’t understand, but making a choice -- that’s what decides what kind of a person a person is going to be.” She shook her head, still frowning -- not at him; at the ideas -- and added kindly, “Of course I hear lots of reasons, and some of them are even true, but when someone gives a reason like, ‘I chose not to,’ or ‘I didn’t want to,’ or ‘I decided not to,’ that’s when we know they didn’t just make a mistake, or forget, or get scared or confused. That’s when we know they’re a problem.” She shrugged, then smiled again. “Besides, I don’t see where hiding what you are is any kind of freedom.”

Her gentle smile widened in response to his grin -- Luna knew that it was a purely biological response: that seeing other people happy, especially when they were people one liked, had a tendency to make one happy as well, but that knowledge didn’t make her appreciate the feelings any less -- and she nodded eager agreement, keen to get started on assembling the assortment of details Harry would need to justify a prompt return to the streets. When he refused the offer her smile faded, but not because she was offended; in fact, she was delighted to hear that Harry liked her reports, even though they were full of tiny little boxed-in facts that had no room to breahte. “Why are you in trouble?” she asked. “I didn’t know you were in trouble. Whatever happened? Is there anything I can do to help?” She didn’t say that she was sure it was all just a misunderstanding; she knew better than that -- but she was still sure that whatever it is, it could be fixed so that Harry could promptly go back to doing the kind of work he liked instead of the kind he didn’t, as much. Just because Luna understood the necessity of doing even the unpleasant parts of a job -- like writing reports and cruelly pinning-down narrow facts -- didn’t mean she wanted anyone else that she liked to endure the parts they didn’t like, as well. Especially if they’d gotten in trouble.

(One nice thing about being the bosses’ daughter: while trouble landed on her head a lot, it was usually a lighter weight than that suffered by most people, and certainly lighter than she earned. Not that Luna had noticed that -- she thought that everyone shrugged off scoldings that easily.)

Luna stared, nonplussed, at the jacket he held out to her. “All right,” she said obediently, taking it one-handed by the collar, “I won’t argue. But what am I supposed to do with it? I already have a shirt. It’s nearly dry too, look.”

[luna-skips]

vita-mutari:

“You are maybe thinking of the Magdalene–its a separate situation from Saint Justina’s.” Seamus offered but did not provide any additional information. If Luna wanted to know more, Seamus  had every expectation she could seek out the information herself–and get it. Or, well, she’d get something. Something was probably sanitized because she had no business asking but nonetheless…

“People will shout prayers if they are afraid or upset but typically people are not that afraid or upset in churches.” That was an easier question to answer, although Seamus was starting to fiddle with his glass again. People actually were often upset in churches but for reasons other than interrogation–interpersonal or personal. Something like that. Harmless. Luna was probably anything but harmless.

“Just because someone is magical and therefore inherently sinful doesn’t mean that person doesn’t have value and can’t work to be saved.” It, or something like it, had been provided to Seamus any time he had asked himself that very question. It was suggested, implied, provided so often that he now said it without question. This was how things were–how things would be. “And no one hates babies, really. Just some need additional care.”

Although there were tales… well, Seamus felt better not thinking about those.

“I don’t think I’m thinking of the Magdalene,” Luna replied, “because I don’t know what that is, and it would be very difficult to think of something without knowing it is first -- but not, I suppose, impossible.” Her gaze unfocused as her mind drifted away briefly, intrigued by that possibility. With a visible effort, she shook herself by the shoulders and pulled her attention back to the Seamus and the present, fixing her unblinking gray gaze once more on his face.

“I’m glad there isn’t much yelling in the churches,” she told him. “That doesn’t seem like it would fit the mood very well, at least not what I imagine the mood to be which, since you said people aren’t often upset in there, I suppose I may be correct about. I always thought it would be more like an art museum, although not as interesting because they’re much smaller, and while the windows are pretty there aren’t usually very many of them, and most people get bored just looking at the same thing for a long time. Personally I can go back to the same museum over and over again and not find it boring at all, but most people don’t seem to feel that way. I suppose there aren’t a lot of repeat visitors to the churches? On account of there not being that many different hings to look at, I mean.”

“I don’t know what you mean about people without value who can’t be saved. That sounds horrible. Who would think there are people who haven’t any value? I mean, I know that sometimes somebody can’t be saved, if they’re hurt too badly or they’re ill or something, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t any value. What an awful idea. And what does ‘sinful’ have to do with anything? You know, I don’t know that I’ve ever really stopped to think about what that word means, and isn’t that odd? People use it to describe wix a lot, but I suppose it just becomes part of the background, you know? Not something to be noticed or commented on particularly. How strange!”

Luna frowned, trying to sort Seamus’s words into a meaning that made sense in her head in the context of their conversation, but they kept sliding loose. “So do you need an invitation to enter a church or not? Or is it just that babies are allowed in no matter what, but it’s rude when somebody is older? That seems strange, since babies don’t really know where they are, and other people do. A baby isn’t very good at appreciating things like pretty windows or colored glass or light beams -- although maybe they are, and we just don’t know it because they can’t talk to us yet, and we forget by the time we’re grown up. Do you think that could be true? That babies know more than we remember ourselves knowing?”

[thunderblts]

That Seat is Taken | Luna & Draco

[luna-skips]

suturesandstitches:

She seemed so deeply fascinated that he was nearly taken in for a moment. Eager and happy at the prospect of knowing his secret. It was fairly interesting to watch her dissect his short statement like that. He wondered why she would tear apart his every word and explain it to him, as if it were a puzzle. What kind of person did that? “I tell adults and coworkers a story about them like I made a mistake. Most people don’t understand.” His smile became a bit more confident as she spoke. “You don’t seem like you’re going to give me a lecture about it, so I don’t mind explaining.”

He paused to take a bite out of his pizza and a sip of his drink. He needed to be careful, but half the fun of telling this version of the story was playing it up, as if it were a dark secret between new friends. “They told me it would be permanent before hand. The artist who worked on me, my friends, people I talked about it with, they all warned me. To be fair, I was sixteen. People make a lot of mistakes at sixteen.” He considered her words, nodding along in agreement as she went on about decay. “I could have them taken out, but the marks would remain. The stitches themselves are synthetic, so they’ll last longer than me, but not as long as a building or most governments.” Draco chuckled and ran his finger over the fine stitches.

“I can’t imagine my life without them,” he admitted. The truth of the statement rang through, not being pieced together was something he contemplated from time to time and wound up feeling disgusted by the idea of it. “I made some acquaintances in a small town in France and they took me along when they wanted to get tattoos. I wanted something different. The artist was so surprised he did my ears for free.“

Luna tapped her fingers against her lips thoughtfully, turning her curious gaze inward -- metaphorically -- for a few moments. Once she thought she had an answer she said, “I don’t think I’m prone to lecturing people. I’ve been accused of babbling and rambling several times by lots of different people, but I don’t think anyone has ever told me I was lecturing.” She shrugged blankly and added, “If I start to, please stop me. I don’t find lectures interesting to listen to myself most of the time; I was forever getting in trouble for not paying enough attention to lectures in school. I don’t think I would like to become the kind of person who gives other people lectures, probably.”

She waited patiently, not interrupting, while the man with the stitches told his story. When he drew her attention to his ears, though, she couldn’t help herself: she jumped out of her chair and skipped around to his side of the table so she could peer at the aforementioned organs. Luna didn’t wait for an invitation; her sense of personal space was an artificial, arbitrary construction taught to her by others rather than an instinctive dislike of getting too close to people she didn’t know, and when she got excited she forgot that it was rude to put one’s nose in an inch from someone else’s skin. Her job didn’t help with those manners; in the interrogation rooms, personal space became just one more thing to take away from someone to make them feel uncomfortable enough to talk.

“Oh how lovely,” she said, leaning back slightly as she spoke more to keep her words from being muffled in his shoulders than because she had remembered her sense of propriety, “they look almost as though they were sewn on completely -- like they were someone else’s ears, once.” She giggled and turned to look closer at his neck, his wrists. “Actually if you look quite closely, it all looks that way. Isn’t that wonderful? That artist did a very good job. What was his name? Has he ever exhibited in England, do you know?” France was not somewhere that registered British wix went lightly, and Luna did not belong to a department that dispatched missions like that. She would have liked to travel more, someday, but she understood that duty had to come first. Daddy and mummy had explained that quite clearly years ago.

She moved back a little further, gliding slowly in the direction of her abandoned chair without once taking her unblinking, fascinated eyes from the stitches in front of her. “What makes them glow like that?” she asked.

[luna-skips]

vita-mutari:

“It’s a safe place to leave your children if that’s what you’re going to do.” Seamus explained, not entirely certain where Luna was going at first. “So that is where I was, you know, before Saint Justine’s.”

Seamus was ready to agree with Luna about the gardens. He liked those the best–both the gardens and the areas with real animals. There was something quite calming about both and comforting–and, of course, the grounds were fine for footie and other games when they were allowed them.

He choked on his tea, though, as she continued. Seamus supposed he should have expected it–her continuing, even if not in the direction she landed. “Um, what?” And then. “No. I don’t know what you heard about… about what happened in… but it wasn’t…”

Seamus took a deep breath, “Church service is typically at least an hour long, it includes religious lectures, singing, and praying. Often we had to clean the church, too, and, well, spend quite a lot of time praying. Which is… sitting on your knees… reciting prayers or …otherwise.”

Telling Luna Lovegood people sat on their knees and talked to God seemed like a really bad idea.

Her brow furrowed at the idea of people just leaving thei children -- what, for good? -- but before she could ask a follow-up questions Seamus was choking on his tea and sputtering at her. “Oh,” Luna said when he was done and shrugged, abashed neither by her comment not by Seamus’s rather wet reaction to it. That sort of response was something she had gotten used to years ago; for some reason, people she was talking to often had trouble with whatever they were drinking.

“I’m not sure what I heard, honestly,” she told him. “I can’t remember. I just thought I heard something about the two things together, so I thought maybe that was what you meant. I’ve never heard about any kind of servicing like what you said. Well, excepting for the cleaning part, that sounds like most service industry jobs that I’ve heard about. They don’t usually make you sing though, I don’t think. Maybe I’m wrong.” She shrugged. “I’ve never worked anywhere but at the Ministry of Magical regulation. Do people pray a lot in churches?” she asked with her usual lack of segue. “Sometimes our subjects pray during interrogations. That’s what Mr. Shacklebolt told me they were doing anyway, when they yell those things. It seems strange that they would yell the same things in churches, which are usually quite pretty, aren’t they? I like the glass they use in their windows anyway, although I guess I’ve never really gone inside. Mum told me that they don’t like wix in most churches and that it would be impolite to go snooping inside without an invitation. But that doesn’t make sense,” she said, suddenly realizing a flaw in familiar arguments, “not if churches are where people leave babies to be safe and sometimes those babies are magical like you.” She looked at Seamus expectantly.

[thunderblts]

That Seat is Taken | Luna & Draco

[luna-skips]

suturesandstitches:

Draco paused. His gaze shifted from the trash muggles called news to the his wrist where, sure enough, his shirt sleeve had shifted down just low enough to reveal the delicate stitches high on his wrist. More concerning, they were letting off a soft glow. Over the years he and his family had concocted a few ways to explain them away to muggles and the Registered. They ranged from the simple to the grotesque. The only question now was which one would work best on this nosey interloper.
 With a sigh, he folded up the paper and looked up to face this nosey lady who had inserted herself into his space. It was rare to find someone with hair as fair as his own. Yet, while he carried himself with quiet dignity, she seemed excited and maybe a bit childish. Too excited to be ashamed for asking if he gave her a sad tale about a terrible accident in France. And then there were the stars by her eyes and the gaudy holster for her wand which changed everything.


A traitorous wix, from a strong compliant family with no fear of being dragged to torture and brainwashing. He could spit. Instead he ran his hand through his hair and glanced up to make eye contact with her. Draco let out a nervous chuckle and a hesitant grin, like he was unsure how she was going to react. “Thank you, but no, I didn’t.” He glanced around, checking to make sure that no one was really paying attention to them. He bit his lip, like he was stuck making a dangerous, but exciting choice. “They’re not recent,” he said as he curled his left cuff up just enough to expose the connected stitches. “This is normally where I tell you I was going through a phase as a kid and I didn’t realize how permanent this would be.”

Luna waited, patient and eager all at once, with a complacent and dreamy smile on her face while the man decided what to say. It didn’t occur to her to wonder if he was dissembling; some people just took longer to choose their words than others and there was nothing wrong with that. It was just a fact, and facts rarely carried connotations of judgement in Luna’s world -- or at least not in her mind. Maybe he was nervous, or maybe he was just curious like her and wanted to see everything all the time. Ordinarily Luna would have been looking around as well, her gaze drawn to every flicker of interest in her vicinity, but right now she was too fascinated by the stitched-up man in front of her to blink let alone turn.

“Normally?” she asked, somehow even more intrigued by that statement than she was already by the pretty blue glow sewn into his pallid skin. “That means you aren’t going to say that this time, doesn’t it?” Luna nodded thoughtfully as she spoke, a career of interrogations making-up -- at least in part -- for the stunted socialization of a girl who had never had very many friends and giving her the tools she needed to draw the appropriate -- it seemed appropriate, anyway, she thought it was -- inference from his words. “Oh good,” she said, voice bright and smile widening, “that means you’re going to tell me the real story, right? Because that’s what you say to deflect people who aren’t really interested, probably.” She beamed, inordinately pleased with herself. Wait until she told Ginny how well she had done today at conversational subtext!

“Did you know all along it would be permanent, then? Permanent,” she repeated vaguely, “that’s an interesting word. People use it a lot when they don’t really mean it, I think. There are so few things that really are permanent, not if you try properly to end them. Even big things like buildings and governments and statues, none of those things are really permanent. We just mean they’ll last a long time and be hard to tear down, but that doesn’t make them permanent.” She shook her head, still cheerful despite talking about the potential ruins of civilization and nodded at the man’s glowing stitches again. “I’m not sure if those are ‘permanent’ or not, but they’re far too pretty to get rid of, I think. I do hope you’ll keep them. Where did they come from, again?” she asked, suddenly remembering her original question.

[luna-skips]

vita-mutari:

“Church, of course.” Seamus wasn’t sure what to make of Luna Lovegood but he had heard enough to know to be a little weary. Still, he could keep some humor in his voice like of course it was church–because where else would people leave their kids if they didn’t want to murder them? 

“I didn’t mind it.” It hadn’t been fun, exactly, but there were always things to do and Seamus had always liked visiting the countryside before then. Farming could be interesting–and the food was pretty good. Proper magic tutelage never truly began until the kids were eleven, anyway, so the first few years were mostly maths and spelling. “I have a feeling you would have found it dreadfully dull.” Luna probably would have gotten up to ask a dozen questions during service and he couldn’t imagine that going over well. He had to stifle a laugh, trying not to be rude. “Its all countryside as far as the eye can see and when you’re not in class you’re helping in the gardens or at church service.” 

“‘Church of course,’“ Luna repeated obediently, as though saying the words herself might give her insight into Seamus’s meaning. It didn’t so she asked, “Church of course what? Those are those places were people sing dull songs in pretty rooms with colorful windows,” she added, wanting to prove that she wasn’t as out-of-touch as people sometimes claimed, “I know what church is. But how can church happen to someone? It’s just buildings.”

“Did you really not?” Luna asked, more rhetorically than because she thought Seamus was lying; for someone whose job was interrogating people, she had never been much for thinking about untruths anyway. There was just what people said, and what they meant, and the gaps in between. She nodded in presumptive agreement when he told her should would have found it dull; she had certainly found her school dull. However, his description didn’t sound nearly as bland as her recollections of The Royal Academy’s lessons. “You’re probably right, but I’m not sure; gardens can be a lot of fun, certainly more fun than sitting in classes where you aren’t supposed to think about anything but what the teacher says. I help out in my parents’ garden a lot, we grow all sorts of lovely and interesting things. How do you service a church?” she asked, changing tacks without so much as a breath between. “Is it like table service? Or customer service? Or do you mean prostitution? I think I remember hearing people talking about the church and prostitution before, maybe that’s it...” She frowned, wracking her brain for the fragmented memories of that long ago half-heard conversation.

[thunderblts]

That Seat is Taken | Luna & Draco

Public transport was quite possibly the worst muggle invention Draco was forced to deal with when he ventured into the rest of the world.  At the very least the bus was nowhere near as crowded at the Tube.  He could sit, read up on the propaganda these rags were putting out and no one would give him a second look.  He could find the plant dealer or exchange information at the bar and be home within a reasonable amount of time, with less suspicion, and at the cost of a handful of borrowed pounds.  All he had to do was keep calm and make sure that if the stitches glowed no one would notice.  

The bus slowed to a stop and Draco quickly and quietly left the bus.  He was a bit early, the bar should not have opened yet, and hanging around in alleys was about as conspicuous as a person could get.  So instead Draco changed course.  He had enough money that he could tack on a sandwich or at least some chips before getting drinks. Draco bypassed his first choice, the coffee shop where a registered wix had dumped a cuppa on him “by accident.”  A shame, that place had great scones.  Instead, he settled for a pizza shop.  He grabbed a slice and then a small table by the door where he could spread out the newspaper and bide his time.

The whole point of reading in public is not talking to other people, so when someone stood close enough to cast a shadow on him, he didn’t bother to look up.  It was always best not to engage with strangers.  Don’t look up, stay quiet, and nine times out of ten they’ll fuck off.  Or they’ll take a swing because you’re acting like an arrogant prat.  Still, the odds for this one were in his favor, so he kept his head down and tried to pretend he cared about sports.

@luna-skips

[luna-skips]

No one had ever taught Luna that it was rude to stare. That is, a great many people had attempted to drive the idea into her head, but it hadn’t taken hold. She stared at everything: people, things, buildings, animals, clouds, empty spaces in the air that were too interesting to not hold something, even if she couldn’t see what it was yet. Staring gave a person the chance to see more things than politely averting one’s eyes or looking down at one’s feet or otherwise pretending that the world wasn’t there, just waiting to be looked it. Luna stared everywhere she went, and stared at everything she saw there.

Right now she was staring at a man. He was oddly pale and pretty and most interesting of all, his skin was serrated by very fine, delicate lines of stitching as though someone had wanted to highlight his joints and curves with thread -- or to sew the world’s most adroitly-assembled rag doll. Luna could not make out a lot of stitching from where she stood, of course -- the man was wearing clothes, more clothes than most people wore in London in the summer although “most people” was another idea that had always given Luna trouble when she tried to grasp it -- but she could see it glowing around his wrists when he lifted his pizza or turned the pages of his newspaper; could see it at the edges of his neck and the backs of his ears and -- was that a faint line of stitching along one eye, or was that just a stray eyelash catching the light?

Luna couldn’t be sure, so she stared.

The man didn’t look up from his paper, not even when she stepped in between him and the light from the window -- not a calculated move, but a convenient one once she noticed what she had done, or at least it should have been convenient if he had looked up to scowl at what was blocking his light; she could have seen his face better then, could have seen if there was more of that pretty stitching there. She wondered if he had been in a car accident or if the stitching was like the tattoos that some people got -- not like the stars by her eye, that marked her as magical, but the ones that were just for pretty, just for show. Since he wasn’t obliging her by offering an answer on his own, she decided to ask:

“Those are pretty.” She pointed to his wrists. “Did you do them yourself?” Since there was no one else sitting at his table and more chairs than could be filled by one person, she sat down. She figured it was only polite, if they were going to talk.

[alphard-blxxxck]

Seamus was fiddling with a pin, tap, tap, tapping it on the table and shifting in his seat. Generally just being a menace at a table in an outside cafe, “I just don’t understand whats the big deal?” 

He wasn’t trying to play devils advocate. He honestly didn’t see the issue. “Ireland’s had something similar for years–it keeps kids from being dropped on the street or killed or some’fing.” He didn’t add that he was one of them, even if he had almost been old enough to go to school in his own right. He hd still been left. 

[luna-skips]

“Is that what happened to you?” Luna asked. “You were dropped on the street -- no, because you’re from Ireland, aren’t you?” She shook her head, as if that might wrest her attention away from the million and twelve things distracting her all up and down the street. If Luna had been a less languid woman she would have looked like she was twitching, the way she kept looking back and forth between Seamus and the people passing by. Her tea had long gone cold; she hadn’t noticed.

“Did you like going away to school so young?” She turned back to Seamus and tilted her head, as though examining him from a different angle might garner her better answers. “I don’t think I should have liked it. School was much less interesting than being at home, or in the offices with mummy and daddy. I came to work with them most days.” Her eyes unfocused, misting over with happy memories. “It was lovely. So much nicer than the academy. A lot of the things they had us do were so dreadfully dull.” She shook her head again, this time in remembered aggravation rather than an attempt to focus. “Was St. Justina’s dull, sometimes? Or did they do things more interesting there?”