Fic + art: "How the Story Goes" for imadra_blue
Title: How the Story Goes
Author/artist: garlandgraves
Recipient: imadra_blue
Rating: PG
Characters: Luna, Hermione
Summary: People always want something from her, Luna has found.
Notes: The request was for art so I decided to try my hand at that; then I made up for my artistic deficiencies by adding a story :-) Beta-read by L. and M., who are absolute stars.
How the Story Goes
Luna Lovegood isn't normally this flustered. Then again, she isn't normally faced with such bizarre situations as being asked to Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day. She wonders if she should be fainting and shrieking right about now; that seems to be the form.
At least, it's the form in Marietta's stories, the kind that are told in whispers and giggles and other foreign languages; the kind that used to feature boys like Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter, before one died and the other was declared insane.
But there's something not quite right, something puzzling: it is Hermione Granger who has asked her, and Hermione is neither a boy nor a Quidditch hero. She's a girl who likes boys, and anyway dates are things that happen to other people.
Luna doesn't know if she likes boys; most of the ones she knows tend to steal her socks, and she suspects that theft is hardly a solid basis for a healthy relationship. Her dad never stole her mum's socks, after all, and they had been very happy together.
This thought reminds her that she has no socks on and she goes to find her favourite green ones. One of them is missing, of course--one is always missing, but that's all right because it always come back. Things always do.
People don't, she reflects as she sweeps her arm under the bed and comes up with nothing but dust; people tend to wander away, sometimes forever.
Socks and quills, though, they always return. Luna knows this, and that's why she thinks nothing of pulling a grey school sock--also mateless--from her trunk and charming it green. The two greens aren't quite the same but there's nothing for it; she sighs and pulls them along feet and legs, turns over the tops, and steps into her shoes.
When she gets to the front door of the castle she can see that Hermione is impatient, arms folded and toe tapping, narrowing her eyes at the badges on Luna's bag. Luna looks down at them; she had forgotten they were there: one from the Stubby Boardman Farewell Tour of 1981, and the other one gold, in the shape of a crown. "Weasley is our King", it reads, and Luna smiles at it and starts humming the tune softly, which only makes Hermione's toe tap faster.
Hermione has a badge on her bag, too; Luna leans closer to inspect it and finds "S.P.E.W." written across an unfortunately orange field.
Luna spends the walk to Hogsmeade wondering what Hermione might want. People always want something from her, she has found -- a bit of sport, an easy laugh at the girl with radish earrings, or to sit next to her in Divination because Professor Trelawney always gives her Outstandings.
They don't want to sit next to her anywhere else, though, in school or in Hogsmeade, and this is how Luna knows that Hermione wants something other than a pleasant afternoon outing. She reflects on this and then decides that that's all right because Hermione's fairly nice and anyway she doesn't seem the type to steal a person's socks. In fact, Ginny says Hermione spends a lot of time knitting socks. Luna approves of this; putting more socks into the world can only be a good thing.
Hermione's legs are shorter than Luna's, but she's taking quick steps and swinging her arms almost in circles. She looks like she's swimming through the air, stroking and kicking madly. Luna wants to keep up, she really does, but the day is so pretty and so are the trees, and there's just too much to look at.
The icicles are dripping their lifeblood onto the ground, which is sad, but the slowly strengthening sun is still prisming through them, little coloured lights striping the faint almost-blue of the snow. And there, beyond the rainbow snow, a patch of bare earth, water-dark and dotted with tiny pale green shoots, struggling upward.
"Crocuses and snowdrops and daffydowndillies," she whispers to herself, and she giggles because it's a funny thing to say. Maybe she heard it from Hagrid, or read it in a book.
Hermione is sounding huffy again, sounding like the exasperated wizards in chalk-striped robes who show up at Luna's house every so often and talk to her dad about "label" and "suits". She's never figured them out because, as far as she knows, Dad's only foray into the garment business happened that one time he published an exposé of Gladrags' shocking labour practices.
But she understands Hermione's snorts and sighs. She understands that Hermione wants something, and is trying breathlessly to explain it, and is annoyed that Luna keeps falling behind, keeps finding pretty things to look at on the side of the road.
Luna reflects that Hermione would probably be a lot happier if she stopped to look at pretty things once in a while.
They go into the Three Broomsticks and pull off their layers of damp wool. Hermione brings over two drinks and Luna charms her straw so it's curly. She wants to do the same for Hermione's straw, but Hermione has folded herself into a chair, arms and legs crossed, and Luna deems it better not to offer; she sucks on a cocktail onion instead. Hermione's eyes travel in a circuit: door, clock, onion, curly straw, heavenward.
It's not long before a ghastly woman in acid green turns up, and then Harry soon after, which would be a pleasant surprise if he didn't look so hopeless. Luna checks quickly behind him for Pogrebins and then closes her eyes and begins to hum again, because it's all getting rather boring. That is, until someone mentions the Daily Prophet; she opens her eyes and pays attention.
She doesn't know what hold Hermione has over this bedraggled green woman with rhinestones missing from her glasses, but it's fascinating to watch: Hermione is clearly in command and the three of them know it. The green woman looks resentful and Harry bewildered, but then Harry begins to speak and the woman to write, and Hermione's triumphant smile grows bigger, except when Harry starts talking about a graveyard. That's when she fights back tears.
The story is giggle-free and over far too soon; Luna likes it very much and wants to know how it ends. But the sun is falling low in the sky and the green woman has run, squealing with glee, to the post office, and so the layers of wool go back on.
Hermione stops mid-buttoning and reaches over to squeeze Luna's gloved hand in her own, all impatience gone and a wide smile lighting her face with something like beauty. Thank yous fall from her lips in an effusive stream but Luna's not quite sure why; after all, she doesn't know whether she can get her dad to postpone the Snorkack article, and after that there's the Wizengamot sex scandal, not to mention the follow-up on Fudge's goblin pies -- "He's threatening to bake the centaurs into pasties if they don't co-operate, you know, and...."
Hermione drops Luna's hand and purses her lips. "This is important," she says tersely, knotting her scarf and sighing.
The smile returns, though, as they walk the road back to the castle; Hermione can't seem to stop delight stealing slowly over her face like springtime through February. Soon she is fairly beaming with pleasure and she turns it on Harry and on Luna and on the shrinking icicles and lengthening shoots.
Luna smiles back; she likes where this story is going.
Author/artist: garlandgraves
Recipient: imadra_blue
Rating: PG
Characters: Luna, Hermione
Summary: People always want something from her, Luna has found.
Notes: The request was for art so I decided to try my hand at that; then I made up for my artistic deficiencies by adding a story :-) Beta-read by L. and M., who are absolute stars.
How the Story Goes
Luna Lovegood isn't normally this flustered. Then again, she isn't normally faced with such bizarre situations as being asked to Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day. She wonders if she should be fainting and shrieking right about now; that seems to be the form.
At least, it's the form in Marietta's stories, the kind that are told in whispers and giggles and other foreign languages; the kind that used to feature boys like Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter, before one died and the other was declared insane.
But there's something not quite right, something puzzling: it is Hermione Granger who has asked her, and Hermione is neither a boy nor a Quidditch hero. She's a girl who likes boys, and anyway dates are things that happen to other people.
Luna doesn't know if she likes boys; most of the ones she knows tend to steal her socks, and she suspects that theft is hardly a solid basis for a healthy relationship. Her dad never stole her mum's socks, after all, and they had been very happy together.
This thought reminds her that she has no socks on and she goes to find her favourite green ones. One of them is missing, of course--one is always missing, but that's all right because it always come back. Things always do.
People don't, she reflects as she sweeps her arm under the bed and comes up with nothing but dust; people tend to wander away, sometimes forever.
Socks and quills, though, they always return. Luna knows this, and that's why she thinks nothing of pulling a grey school sock--also mateless--from her trunk and charming it green. The two greens aren't quite the same but there's nothing for it; she sighs and pulls them along feet and legs, turns over the tops, and steps into her shoes.
When she gets to the front door of the castle she can see that Hermione is impatient, arms folded and toe tapping, narrowing her eyes at the badges on Luna's bag. Luna looks down at them; she had forgotten they were there: one from the Stubby Boardman Farewell Tour of 1981, and the other one gold, in the shape of a crown. "Weasley is our King", it reads, and Luna smiles at it and starts humming the tune softly, which only makes Hermione's toe tap faster.
Hermione has a badge on her bag, too; Luna leans closer to inspect it and finds "S.P.E.W." written across an unfortunately orange field.
Luna spends the walk to Hogsmeade wondering what Hermione might want. People always want something from her, she has found -- a bit of sport, an easy laugh at the girl with radish earrings, or to sit next to her in Divination because Professor Trelawney always gives her Outstandings.
They don't want to sit next to her anywhere else, though, in school or in Hogsmeade, and this is how Luna knows that Hermione wants something other than a pleasant afternoon outing. She reflects on this and then decides that that's all right because Hermione's fairly nice and anyway she doesn't seem the type to steal a person's socks. In fact, Ginny says Hermione spends a lot of time knitting socks. Luna approves of this; putting more socks into the world can only be a good thing.
Hermione's legs are shorter than Luna's, but she's taking quick steps and swinging her arms almost in circles. She looks like she's swimming through the air, stroking and kicking madly. Luna wants to keep up, she really does, but the day is so pretty and so are the trees, and there's just too much to look at.
The icicles are dripping their lifeblood onto the ground, which is sad, but the slowly strengthening sun is still prisming through them, little coloured lights striping the faint almost-blue of the snow. And there, beyond the rainbow snow, a patch of bare earth, water-dark and dotted with tiny pale green shoots, struggling upward.
"Crocuses and snowdrops and daffydowndillies," she whispers to herself, and she giggles because it's a funny thing to say. Maybe she heard it from Hagrid, or read it in a book.
Hermione is sounding huffy again, sounding like the exasperated wizards in chalk-striped robes who show up at Luna's house every so often and talk to her dad about "label" and "suits". She's never figured them out because, as far as she knows, Dad's only foray into the garment business happened that one time he published an exposé of Gladrags' shocking labour practices.
But she understands Hermione's snorts and sighs. She understands that Hermione wants something, and is trying breathlessly to explain it, and is annoyed that Luna keeps falling behind, keeps finding pretty things to look at on the side of the road.
Luna reflects that Hermione would probably be a lot happier if she stopped to look at pretty things once in a while.
They go into the Three Broomsticks and pull off their layers of damp wool. Hermione brings over two drinks and Luna charms her straw so it's curly. She wants to do the same for Hermione's straw, but Hermione has folded herself into a chair, arms and legs crossed, and Luna deems it better not to offer; she sucks on a cocktail onion instead. Hermione's eyes travel in a circuit: door, clock, onion, curly straw, heavenward.
It's not long before a ghastly woman in acid green turns up, and then Harry soon after, which would be a pleasant surprise if he didn't look so hopeless. Luna checks quickly behind him for Pogrebins and then closes her eyes and begins to hum again, because it's all getting rather boring. That is, until someone mentions the Daily Prophet; she opens her eyes and pays attention.
She doesn't know what hold Hermione has over this bedraggled green woman with rhinestones missing from her glasses, but it's fascinating to watch: Hermione is clearly in command and the three of them know it. The green woman looks resentful and Harry bewildered, but then Harry begins to speak and the woman to write, and Hermione's triumphant smile grows bigger, except when Harry starts talking about a graveyard. That's when she fights back tears.
The story is giggle-free and over far too soon; Luna likes it very much and wants to know how it ends. But the sun is falling low in the sky and the green woman has run, squealing with glee, to the post office, and so the layers of wool go back on.
Hermione stops mid-buttoning and reaches over to squeeze Luna's gloved hand in her own, all impatience gone and a wide smile lighting her face with something like beauty. Thank yous fall from her lips in an effusive stream but Luna's not quite sure why; after all, she doesn't know whether she can get her dad to postpone the Snorkack article, and after that there's the Wizengamot sex scandal, not to mention the follow-up on Fudge's goblin pies -- "He's threatening to bake the centaurs into pasties if they don't co-operate, you know, and...."
Hermione drops Luna's hand and purses her lips. "This is important," she says tersely, knotting her scarf and sighing.
The smile returns, though, as they walk the road back to the castle; Hermione can't seem to stop delight stealing slowly over her face like springtime through February. Soon she is fairly beaming with pleasure and she turns it on Harry and on Luna and on the shrinking icicles and lengthening shoots.
Luna smiles back; she likes where this story is going.