Chapter Text
Somewhere between closing the front door of the Burrow, shutting out the clamour of another Sunday roast, and opening the creaky garden gate, Harry realises that he doesn’t want to go home just yet.
It’s a beautiful April day. He tilts his head back and watches the towering clouds drift by, some cottony white, others woolly grey. The air smells divine — sweet apple blossoms and freshly-cut grass, along with the sharper scents of the damp soil of the lane and woodsmoke from the Burrow chimneys.
Normally, Harry would Apparate home and nap through the worst discomforts of the enormous meal he just ate. And while the idea of stretching out on his well-worn sofa with a Quidditch match playing softly on the wireless is tempting, the prospect of being cooped up in his flat is not. The place is a bit uninviting, if he’s honest with himself. That he only has himself to blame for the bare, white walls and sparsely-furnished rooms makes the thought of returning there even less appealing.
A few deep inhalations of spring air decide the matter for Harry. A stroll along the narrow lanes around Ottery St. Catchpole it is.
He sets out in the direction that takes him away from the village and towards the wilder part of the valley, where Ron once mentioned there’s a river that twists its way down from the moorland to the west. Harry’s never ventured beyond the pasture where they play pick-up Quidditch, but he reckons he can always find a quiet spot from which to Apparate if he gets lost.
Harry walks at what he believes is a reasonable pace for someone whose stomach is protesting any kind of movement at all. A bloke who sits at a desk all day probably shouldn’t indulge in second slices of cake, he thinks, running his hand over his abdomen. The occasional jaunt on a broom and a bit of light housekeeping certainly aren’t enough to compensate for those kinds of habits. He picks up his pace, judging there to be about two hours of daylight left.
The lane is lined with chest-high hedgerows alive with new, bright leaves and birdsong. It winds between pastures and meadows, descending gently toward a small forest. There’s no sign of the river until Harry turns down a smaller lane that leads into the trees to the water’s edge. From there, it follows the course of the river, sometimes hugging its edge and other times drifting a few dozen yards away.
Harry hasn’t seen a soul since he left the Burrow, yet the sounds of the forest make it impossible to feel alone. Squirrels bound through the dried leaves still left from the autumn; the water gurgles as it slides over the wide, rocky riverbed; birds call to each other overhead. It’s both soothing and delightful to Harry’s senses. He pauses on a small stone bridge to catch his breath and watches the stream below him flow into the river in a joyous, swirling reunion.
Just when he thinks this little adventure can’t get any better, Harry turns and spots a path—a narrow, crooked stripe of leaf litter cutting through the new undergrowth— that runs up the hill beside the stream. There’s something magical about it (for lack of a better word), something that calls to mind the neglected books from Dudley’s second bedroom that Harry used to smuggle into his cupboard. Narnia and Middle Earth and Sherwood. His post-meal stupor forgotten, he starts up the path, feeling like he’s entering another world.
It’s steeper than the lane, with puddles and fallen branches that Harry has to jump over or detour around. Before long, he’s winded and sweating beneath his woollen jumper. He stops and perches carefully on a mossy boulder to dip his fingers into the icy stream. Up ahead, Harry sees a glimpse of a grassy slope and the open sky above it. He stands up with a groan, hoping for a view at the top that’s worth his sore calf muscles.
Halfway up the slope, Harry realises where he is. The meadow is unfamiliar, but the low, stone house at the top of the hill isn’t. He laughs at himself for imagining he’d found his way to Middle Earth when, in fact, he’d just found Luna.
Seeing smoke rising from the chimney, Harry decides that dropping by to say hello is the only polite thing to do. And he certainly wouldn’t say no to a glass of water, if he’s offered one.
There’s a man with dark hair and broad shoulders digging in the vegetable garden near the house. His back is turned and the rhythm of his spade sliding into the soil doesn’t falter when Harry walks past him and slips through the gate into the area in front of the house enclosed by a low wall.
Xeno and Luna rebuilt their home using the stones from the old one, opting for a rambling, one-storey cottage instead of another tower. The brightly-painted doors and shutters are all Luna, while the protective sigils and runes carved into the stone walkway are Xeno’s work. There’s a Dirigible Plum bush in full bloom beside the door.
Luna answers Harry’s knock with a wide smile. “Hello, Harry. You picked a perfect day to stop by. I made a pie for tea.”
She looks well, Harry thinks as he steps into the dim kitchen. She wears her hair shorter now, just below her shoulders in dark blond waves, but she still favours flowing, patterned skirts and dangling earrings. The cold, flagstone floor doesn’t deter her from going barefoot.
Harry pauses after pulling the door closed behind him. “Er, I should take off my trainers. They’re pretty wet. I walked up from the Burrow,” he explains, when Luna tilts her head at him.
“All that way? The weather is lovely today,” Luna replies, watching Harry slip out of his shoes. “I didn’t know you knew the way. Ginny always uses the Floo.”
“Well, it was rather by accident, you see. I decided to take a stroll and I found the path along the stream, so I just followed it to the top to where your meadow starts. And then I saw your house.”
Luna looks delighted by Harry’s story. “That doesn’t sound like an accident at all. Perhaps you were led here by fate.”
Harry laughs. “By indigestion, more like. Teddy’s birthday party was yesterday, then Molly’s Sunday roast today. I felt like I was going to—”
The words die in Harry’s mouth when he glances away from Luna and belatedly notices that she’s not alone. Two other visitors are seated at the table in the shadowy kitchen, perfectly motionless and silent since Harry stepped into the room. He stares at them, utterly gobsmacked to find himself face-to-face with Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. There are mugs of tea and half-finished plates of pie in front of them. Harry suddenly has the feeling that he’s in the middle of a strange, jumbled-up dream.
“I’m sorry, Luna. I didn’t realise you had company,” Harry says when he finds his voice again. “I should come back another time.”
“Of course not,” Luna says, taking Harry’s arm and guiding him to the table. “We don’t mind at all, do we?”
Parkinson and Malfoy look up at Luna blankly for a moment, then Parkinson shrugs. “We’d likely be here if you came on a different weekend, anyway. No point in putting it off.”
Harry gives into Luna’s nudging and sinks into a chair. He looks up at her in surprise.
“Oh, yes. Draco, Pansy, Greg, and I are quite inseparable these days,” Luna says with a beatific smile for the two across the table.
Pansy looks at Harry defiantly, while Malfoy stares into his mug with a stony expression.
“Greg… Goyle?” Harry asks faintly. It’s hard enough to imagine Luna hanging around with Malfoy, much less his hulking, glowering shadow. “Ah, that’s who I saw working outside.”
“Yes, Greg is a very talented gardener. Dad and I have a wonderful supply of flowers and vegetables now, thanks to his help. Would you like some pie, by the way? It’s rhubarb, chive, and banana custard.”
Harry’s stomach lurches unpleasantly. “I really couldn’t eat another bite today, honestly. You know how Molly is. A glass of water would be great, though.”
Luna rises to fill a glass for him. Harry looks around the kitchen so that he doesn’t have to meet Parkinson’s gorgon glare. It’s cozy and cluttered, but in a way that’s very different from the busy kitchen at the Burrow. Wicker baskets and cages are piled in a corner; strings of dried flowers and fruit of some kind—possibly the plums again—adorn the heavy ceiling beams; and a row of Fanged Geraniums sits on the window ledge above the sink.
“Neville gave me those,” Luna says as she hands the glass of water to Harry. “The ground-up fangs are a lovely addition to jams. How’s your job going in Magical Games and Sports?”
“Oh, fine. It’s mostly just… filing and opening post,” Harry winces. He darts a glance across the table and regrets it immediately when he sees Parkinson’s mouth twist into a faint smirk. “Got to meet Alan Kettering last week,” he adds, attempting more enthusiasm. “The Keeper for the Wasps.”
“Oh, how nice,” Luna says, resting her chin in her palm. “I haven’t seen a Quidditch match since school. They’re rather exciting.”
“Mmm,” Harry agrees, sipping his water and eyeing the dish of Floo Powder on the fireplace mantel. He’s ready to escape this awkward gathering and have that kip on his sofa now, as soon as he can take his leave without seeming rude.
“You should come back next Saturday,” Luna says, as if she’s been contemplating the idea since Harry’s arrival and just made the decision. “We usually gather on Saturdays, but Pansy had a social commitment yesterday.”
Harry sees Parkinson looking at Luna with imploring eyes. Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest, not even attempting to hide his disgust. Harry’s clearly not wanted here.
“I’m not sure if I… I usually spend Saturday mornings with Teddy,” he says lamely, wishing for the first time that he could bring himself to lie to Luna so that he could tell her that he’s busy all day.
“Wonderful. Come over when you’re done. We’ll have lunch outside, if the weather’s fine. You can use the Floo, unless you’d rather walk again. The primroses are in bloom along the stream.”
“Would be a bit of a hike from Andromeda’s house in Cornwall,” Harry mumbles, causing Luna to break into a startling peal of laughter. Harry smiles at her, even though he’s still mentally scrambling for an excuse to turn down the invitation. He knows it’s no good; denying Luna anything is next to impossible.
Harry stands and places his empty glass in the sink. He tries not to flinch when the Fanged Geraniums twitch in their pots. “I’ll be off then,” he says. “Thanks for the water.”
“We’ll see you next weekend,” Luna replies, standing on tiptoe to kiss Harry on the cheek. “I really do believe that fate brought you to us, Harry. Best wear some wellies next time, though.”
“Right,” Harry says, giving Parkinson and Malfoy what he hopes is an apologetic look. He retrieves his trainers and carries them to the fireplace. “See you then.”
After a nauseating spin through the Floo Network, Harry stumbles into his lounge and collapses on the sofa. He spends the rest of the evening there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the everloving fuck he’s got himself into.
There’s no reply to his knock when Harry Apparates to Luna’s front garden the following Saturday. The second, louder knock goes unanswered as well, and he’s beginning to wonder if the Slytherins are snickering at him somewhere inside the house. Using the Floo might have been a better choice, but Harry didn’t relish the idea of crashing into the kitchen, dizzy from the journey and clumsy in his wellies, in front of an audience.
Just as he’s about to knock again, Luna’s hare Patronus comes bounding into the garden to inform him that they’re gathered on the other side of the house. Harry heads through the gate and hears Luna’s distinctive laughter before he turns the last corner. Goyle is working in the vegetable garden again, while the other three are clustered further away from the house in a small clearing surrounded on three sides by trees.
Goyle looks up but doesn’t acknowledge Harry as he strides through the wet grass towards the clearing. Luna waves as he approaches, then returns to her conversation with Malfoy and Parkinson. It seems to involve lots of pointing and pacing off distances.
“If we put it here,” Parkinson says, “it will be more sheltered from the wind and we won’t need as many protective charms. Not that I doubt your charmwork, dear.” She loops her arm through Luna’s with a fond smile.
“We’ll just have to build a platform, since the ground gets softer there when it rains. Greg can do that, I’m sure,” Luna replies. “Hello, Harry. We’re very glad you came.”
Given that Parkinson looks like she’s sucking a lemon and Malfoy immediately turns away to walk over to Goyle, Harry doubts that Luna’s sentiment is shared even a little.
“What are you planning?” he asks.
“We’re going to build a camp,” Luna explains. “We’ll have a tent here, a table and chairs for meals on the other side, and a place for a fire in the middle. We want to be able to spend as much time outside as we can, even when it’s raining.”
“That sounds really nice,” Harry says sincerely. The Lovegoods have a pretty spot here on their hilltop. He can see the appeal of being out in the fresh air, surrounded by the rustling sounds of the wind in the grass and trees, even on an overcast day like today.
“We made a few benches last year for bonfires, but we want to build a proper camp so we have our own home base for adventures. Not that Dad minds us in the house. It’s just a bit cramped in there.”
“What kind of adventures?” Harry asks. The Slytherins don’t seem like the type for larks in the great outdoors, whereas Luna might be up for… well, just about anything. Harry has a difficult time fathoming how Luna’s mind works for mundane activities. Merlin only knows what she would come up with for adventure.
“Picnics, hikes, messing about with cooking over the fire, that sort of thing,” Parkinson says.
She’s still standing close to Luna in a way that strikes Harry as protective, and she has her chin tilted up as if she anticipates that Harry will mock the idea.
“That sounds fun,” he says, meeting Parkinson’s eyes. She looks just the same as she did at Hogwarts, with her pin-straight bob and stylish clothes. Her crimson lipstick matches her boots, Harry notices. She and Luna make for an unlikely friendship, that’s for certain.
“I’m sure you’re going to love it, Harry,” Luna smiles. “You’ve been in the city too much and it’s affecting your aura. Not to mention those dreadful artificial sunlight charms at the Ministry.”
“I am?” Harry asks in confusion. “Going to enjoy it?”
“Has your desk job managed to kill your Gryffindor derring-do, Potter?” Parkinson grins, sharklike. “Not that I care, of course, but Luna seems to have it in her lovely head that we need to include you in our little scheme, and none of us has the heart to disappoint her.”
“Yeah, I know how that is,” Harry mumbles. “Luna, you really don’t have to. I mean, it’s sweet of you to ask, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’m pretty sure Malfoy would rather tie me to a board and float me back down the river than spend five minutes with me.”
“Oh, don’t mind him,” Luna laughs. “He’ll come around. And don’t be surprised if Greg is quiet at first. He’s just not the chatty type, but you’ll find he’s very kind once you get to know him.”
Harry silently wonders how someone who used to pick up first-year students by the back of their uniforms and threaten to toss them over the staircase bannisters for fun could turn out to be kind. But he’s willing to keep an open mind, not only for Luna’s sake, but for post-war reconciliation. He’d be a hypocrite if he refused the invitation solely on the basis of former rivalries.
“So Potter, I’m rather curious to know how you ended up shuffling parchment instead of saving us all from the forces of darkness again as an Auror,” Parkinson asks, her red lips curling sardonically. “The Prophet insinuated that you thought the training program was rubbish.”
“No, that wasn’t it at all!” Harry glances at Luna and wills himself not to take Parkinson’s bait. “The Auror program is fine. It’s just that… well, I’m not very good at trusting the judgement of authority figures. And I have a tendency to rush headlong into situations without thinking, it turns out. The instructors got a bit exasperated with me,” Harry explains, grinning sheepishly. “I just decided it wasn’t right for me, in the end.”
“So you decided to lend your many talents to Magical Games and Sports? Is that really the best the Ministry could offer you, our golden boy?”
“They offered plenty of other positions,” Harry says, dropping his easy smile but keeping a level voice. He detests when people assume that he’s leveraging his deeds during the war for favours or special treatment. “I didn’t want one that required qualifications that I don’t have, like NEWTs. And there’s nothing wrong with shuffling parchment if it’s a job that needs doing.”
“Of course not,” Parkinson smiles with a careless shrug. “I’m merely a socialite myself, unemployed and decorative. Who am I to judge?”
“Pansy, you’re more than that! You’re so very talented,” Luna protests, then turns back to Harry. “She’s a brilliant writer and I’m certain she’ll be a famous one someday.”
Parkinson looks genuinely touched. The wry expression that she wore when addressing Harry falls away and she unwinds her arm from Luna’s to wrap it around her waist instead. “Thank you. You’re too sweet, really. Who knows if my little scribblings will ever see the light of day? Mother is determined to marry me off and Father has about as much appreciation for literature as a walnut, so don’t wager a single Knut on my publishing a novel just yet.”
“I know you’ll do it,” Luna says serenely. “Let’s go see what Draco and Greg are doing, shall we? It’s almost time for lunch.”
Harry follows the girls towards the garden, where Goyle is smoothing over a freshly-turned planting bed with the back of a rake and Malfoy is seated on a bench with a notebook and quill. The air smells of compost-rich soil, and it takes Harry right back to Petunia’s flower beds and the sun burning the back of his neck. He wonders if she hires someone to do that task now that her free labour is gone.
“Let’s see it, Draco,” Luna says, sitting beside him on the bench.
Parkinson leans down to look with one hand on each of her friends’ shoulders. “You need that Muggle paper that’s marked off in a grid, darling,” she remarks. “I’m not sure the scale is quite right.”
“You’re welcome to go back over there and use a measuring spell, if you want it to be more precise,” Malfoy answers sharply. “It’s just a sketch to help us remember what we decided when it’s time to start building.”
Harry realises that this is the first time he’s heard Malfoy speak, either today or on his previous visit. It’s the same voice he remembers from school, posh and precise. He’s dressed casually, but Harry can practically smell the starchy scent of ironing charms when he looks at Malfoy’s crisp, button-down shirt.
As if he senses Harry watching, Malfoy looks over his shoulder with a frown. “Shall we start preparing lunch, Luna?” he asks, without breaking eye contact with Harry.
“That’s a good idea,” Luna says. “It’s going to start raining soon anyway.”
“How long?” Goyle asks without looking up from his raking.
“Less than an hour, I think,” Luna answers, peering up at the clouds. “Maybe Harry could help you until then.”
“Um, okay. If he doesn’t mind.” Harry looks at Goyle, but all he gets is a grunt and a shrug that he can’t interpret.
“That’s settled, then. I’ll send down my Patronus for you boys when lunch is ready.”
Harry watches Luna, Parkinson, and Malfoy as they head towards the house, their voices carrying back to him on the wind. Malfoy’s sounds sharp and bitter, but he falls silent when Luna pats him on the shoulder and replies in her soothing tone.
“So, what needs to be done?” Harry asks. “Do you want me to start turning another bed or spread the manure on that one?”
Goyle straightens his back and finally gives Harry his full attention. He looks Harry up and down, as if he’s deciding if such a scrawny person can be of any use. Or maybe he’s thinking about sticking Harry head-first into the soil like a seedling. It’s hard to tell.
“Ever work in a garden before?” Goyle asks.
“Yeah, I used to do my aunt’s flower beds for her. Spreading manure, weeding, planting. Things like that.”
Goyle nods toward a wheelbarrow of compost and a shovel. “Spread all of that on the bed behind you, then work it in with the pitchfork.”
Harry moves the wheelbarrow where he needs it and gets to work. If it was almost anyone else working beside him, he’d try to strike up a conversation. It’s difficult to imagine Goyle having a conversation with anyone, to be honest. Harry gives up on the idea and tries to concentrate on his task, glancing up at the clouds every few minutes. They’re a uniform, steely grey, just as they’ve been since he arrived, and he’s mystified by Luna’s very specific prediction of rain.
Just as he finishes the last corner of the bed, Luna’s Patronus summons them to lunch. Harry follows Goyle first to a garden shed, where they use their wands to clean off the tools, then to the house.
Harry feels confident enough about his performance in the garden to venture a question.
“So, have you been gardening for a long time?”
Goyle glances down at Harry before replying. “Since the war. I got a job with a bloke who needed an assistant. It’s mostly landscaping and formal gardens, but he loaned me books about growing vegetables. It helps me and my mum out to grow some of our own food.”
Harry’s not sure how to reply. He knows the elder Goyle is serving a long sentence in Azkaban. The burden of the heavy reparations that were also a part of his sentence have fallen on his wife and son, it would appear. It’s likely the same for many of the families of the Death Eaters.
The smell of food greets them when they kick off their boots by the door. Parkinson is slicing bread while Luna fills bowls with soup from an enormous pot on the old-fashioned range. Malfoy is tucked into an armchair in the corner, back at work on his sketch. It’s going to be a tight squeeze for five people around the table, Harry thinks. He crosses to the sink to wash his hands after Goyle’s done and tries not to think about having to eat while sandwiched between Slytherins.
Thankfully, he ends up between Luna and Parkinson, from whom he accepts a slice of bread that Harry’s almost certain came from the fancy bakery in Diagon Alley. He often picks up a baguette or loaf of ciabatta there on his way to have dinner at Ron and Hermione’s flat, and he always takes his time making his selection so that he can enjoy the wonderful smell of warm bread as long as possible.
“Well,” Luna says, when everyone’s seated, “it looks like we’ll have to have some games in here after lunch. I hope we finished everything we wanted to do outside this morning.”
It’s only then that Harry notices the patter of raindrops against the kitchen window. He smiles at Luna in wonder and starts on his soup. Remembering the unusual combination of ingredients in the pie last weekend, he decides against asking what’s in it. He’s probably better off not knowing.
The broth looks rich and tomato-based, but the first sip from his spoon has Harry reaching hastily for his water glass. He has no idea what the flavour is, but it’s sour and spicy at the same time, with a surprising aftertaste that could possibly be cinnamon. He continues eating with determination, finding that he can manage it if he gets a higher ratio of vegetables to broth.
“The soup is delicious, Luna,” Parkinson says. She meets Harry’s eyes after she speaks.
“Yes, it is,” he chimes in. “Very… flavourful.”
Parkinson makes what Harry thinks is a hum of approval. He looks across the table to see Goyle and Malfoy soldiering through their bowls with a focus worthy of NEWT-level Potions. Malfoy is dabbing his eyes with his napkin between bites, while Goyle’s cheeks are even redder than when he was working outside. Harry feels a strange solidarity with them as fellow devotees of Luna. It’s yet another testament to her gentle, wise spirit that she can bring together such an unlikely group of people.
“How is the garden coming?” Luna asks. “Did you manage to get some work done with the extra pair of hands?”
Harry looks at the palm of his left hand and winces at the places that are rubbed raw from the wooden handles. Goyle notices what he’s doing.
“Bring gloves next time,” he says to Harry. When the others look at him in surprise, he adds, “He knows what he’s doing.”
An unexpected surge of pride warms the inside of Harry’s chest. He catches Malfoy watching him with raised eyebrows and returns the look confidently. Now that he seems to have won the approval—albeit muted—of two out of three Slytherins, he doesn’t feel quite so on the back foot. Harry works his way to the bottom of his bowl of soup, believing that he’s ready for anything they can throw his way.
“So, Potter,” Parkinson says once the table is cleared and the dishes are washing themselves in the sink, “how are you at anagrams?”
Well, almost anything.