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Rain falls on her face—warm streams sliding down her cheeks. She no longer knows whether they’re still her tears or not.
She wipes them away with the back of her hand and sneezes.
The night’s chill has stealthily overtaken the day, and darkness settled in practically in the blink of an eye.
But Luna doesn’t care.
She has never cared about conventions, never bothered with rules.
The only rule was to live and enjoy the day. Dad always told her that, and she trusted him completely.
Luna shivers and wonders if she should turn around and head back to Shell Cottage. But that doesn’t seem like the wisest choice in her current situation.
Her return would be met with a million questions, with Bill’s stare, with Hermione’s concerned voice, maybe even a warm cup of tea.
And she doesn’t want questions. She doesn’t want to keep answering the same ones over and over again, the ones to which she has only one honest answer.
I don’t know.
So she decides to sit on the wet, cold beach and stare at the sea. The waves hit the shore lazily, completely unbothered by the falling rain.
Maybe she shouldn’t care about it either? The thought crosses her mind just as a shiver runs through her body.
It dawns on her that she shouldn’t be sitting here, that it’s foolish.
Luna lets out a long sigh, slowly releasing the air from her lungs as she closes her eyes.
The rain is starting to intensify, but it’s still not cold.
Today had been unbearably hot, so the rain was needed. But does she need it?
No, she definitely doesn’t need the rain to be happy. The same can’t be said for Charlie.
Charlie, oh Charlie.
She bites her lip when his name surfaces in her mind, and only stops when she tastes blood.
And somewhere off to the side, far away, she hears Molly Weasley whisper to Hermione, asking if she knows anything more. Whether Charlie intends to propose. Whether he’ll finally settle down.
And Hermione’s evasive reply that perhaps she should ask her son.
Luna brushes a wet strand of hair from her face and shivers again.
She needs to make a decision about what comes next. And she doesn’t mean running from the beach back to the Cottage.
“Luna.”
She thinks she hears her name, but it could just be an echo in her own head. She ignores it, the same way she ignores most of those voices.
After a moment, the voice returns:
“Luna, for Merlin’s sake.”
She opens her eyes, and that’s when two hands pull her up from the wet sand and set her on her feet.
Luna recognizes the familiar scent and doesn’t even bother to lift her head. She licks her lips and takes a deep breath.
And then a heavy jacket lands on her shoulders—smelling of tobacco, cedar, and dragons. And at her eye level appear familiar eyes. She sees fear in them, a flicker of panic, and a touch of uncertainty that quickly hardens into anger.
But Luna knows this is the kind of anger that appears when you care. It’s not destructive anger—it’s anger born of… love.
Anger that you can’t ignore something. That you can’t walk away. And stay gone.
“Why are you still sitting on the beach? It’s raining.” More words fall out of him, and she tilts her head to the side and shrugs.
“I didn’t want to go back to the Cottage,” she mutters, though she knows it’s not a very good reason. Besides, she doesn’t want to explain herself.
And she probably doesn’t have to, because Charlie pulls her into a tight embrace and buries his face in her wet, tangled hair.
“Luna, Luna, Luna…” He repeats her name like an incantation, and she closes her eyes. Only now does it hit her how cold she really is. Charlie whispers something, and suddenly she feels warmer.
After a moment, he steps back and takes her hand. He squeezes her fingers and runs his thumb over them. It’s such a personal, intimate gesture that Luna manages a faint smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says as they slowly walk toward Shell Cottage. “I shouldn’t have said that, or left you alone.”
Luna sways a little and nods, but says nothing.
“It’s all just… tangled, like your hair. I don’t even know…” He cuts himself off because Bill appears in the doorway of the cottage. “I’m sorry, Luna,” he whispers, and says something to Bill.
But Luna no longer hears it—she feels as if she’s been stunned.
Charlie came back.
He apologized.
Everything will be all right now, won’t it?
The next scenes reach her as if through a fog. Bill’s voice cuts through the air, and somewhere in the background she can hear Hermione as well. Someone guides her into the living room and presses a warm cup of tea into her hands.
But Luna is still frozen. Her soul is still wrapped in rain that, despite the warmth, refuses to evaporate.
Charlie is somewhere nearby—she can feel him, hear him in the distance—but none of the questions reach her.
Luna feels as though her soul has separated from her body and is drifting high, high up into the sky.
“Luna?” This time it’s Hermione, and she can’t ignore her.
She lifts her eyes toward her and gives a faint smile. Hermione is not her enemy and never has been.
“Yes?” she manages, only to realize the question has already been asked. “Sorry, Hermione, what did you say?”
Hermione blinks a few times and repeats the question to which Luna knows the answer, so she gives it.
But the question has no real significance—it’s as trivial as every other one she has heard since returning.
Charlie flickers somewhere behind her, slipping past like a ghost on purpose.
Luna takes a sip of her tea and realizes it has rum in it. Spiced with cloves and cinnamon, it’s a very exotic choice for a summer evening.
Only summer is already fading into memory, and today’s rain is proof of that.
A summer full of pain.
Luna blinks several times and notices that Molly has appeared in Shell Cottage. She’s brought an entire basket of food and, in her loud commanding voice, is directing everyone around.
Nothing new—Molly has always been possessive, always liked to take charge and push the boundaries of propriety.
“Luna?” Her name reaches her ears again, and she looks away. She sees Bill, who takes her hand and squeezes it.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
No, she doesn’t need anything.
Another simple answer.
Bill accepts it and steps away.
Charlie has disappeared, and a thought slips through Luna’s mind that maybe he won’t come back. Charlie and running away are practically synonymous words.
She closes her eyes and, finishing her tea, wonders about her next step.
Staying here is the last thing she wants, but returning to her father’s house feels even worse. Like a tail-tucked dog—though her father would never call her that. Xenophilius saw much, but his mind often drifted far above the ground, even more than hers.
She sets the cup down—and to her surprise notices that Charlie has returned.
He’s sitting across from her, his eyes fixed on her. Dark, deep, full of emotions Luna cannot decipher.
Or maybe she doesn’t want to.
Luna licks her lips and tilts her head, her tangled hair falling messily over her shoulder. Charlie’s eyes trail over it, and she sees him swallow.
A mix of emotions radiates from him, and Luna wonders if it will ever be different.
If Charlie decides to propose, will anything actually change? Will it get better?
She has her doubts, but—as with most things in her life—she keeps them to herself.
“You should eat something,” she hears his low voice say, and she nods blindly.
She should, indeed. But she has no appetite, no desire at all, so she shakes her head and murmurs a thank you.
She knows the answer doesn’t satisfy Charlie, but she has no strength for a discussion.
They’ve already said everything earlier.
Luna loves Charlie, and he loves her.
Only… she has the sense that sometimes love isn’t enough. And she knows it sounds like a cliché, repeated in every possible situation, but she has nothing else to offer.
Charlie takes a step toward her, but stops halfway when Luna lifts her gaze.
He notices her eyes are glassy, that she’s seconds away from crying.
“Everything will be all right, Luna.” His eyes say otherwise—and they both recognize the truth of it.
Luna nods and takes a deep breath.
Everything should be all right by now.
But it isn’t.