Chapter Text
Harry frowns at his watch. It’s half past nine, and he’s been waiting in this sodding pub for over half an hour for Luna, who is never late. This is something that most people wouldn’t guess about Luna, but for all of Luna’s distractibility, she never seems distracted much from what people need. And it’s stupid, but Harry needs people to be on time. He doesn’t really like to examine why.
The pub that he’s in is a muggle one, but it’s owned by a witch who had been a friend of Luna’s mother. It’s become popular with his friends, because they’re unlikely to be recognized but can also get their hands on a gillywater if they have the patience. It’s just one large, spacious room, that curves around an oak bar, various tables scattered across the hardwood. Harry prefers the booths, which border the windows, and are much cozier. They all have these nicer red tablecloths, one of which he’s currently pulling part due to increasing nerves. It’s the kind of place he always imagine he and his friends would go to, if they had made it that far.
He’s starting to worry a bit. He know that it’s irrational, that it’s been five years since anyone really been out to get him. Or, no, there was that crazy witch up in Yorkshire with the fanmail. In all seriousness, though, it’s not something he generally has to worry about. But. He sips his firewhiskey and chews his lip. He can feel his leg starting to twitch.
Before he can throw himself into a complete fit, Luna walks through the entrance of the pub, wand gripped between her teeth as she pulls her unruly hair up into a bun. She has a bit of dirt smudged across her cheek as well and Harry tenses again, but he reminds himself that it’s Luna and she was probably trying to wrestle some sort of humdinger out of a bush on the street outside.
“Hello, Harry!” she says brightly, sliding across from him in the booth. “I was just ironing out some details with my building manager, he was very irate and kept me much longer than expected.” Her earrings are glittering in the low light. They’re some sort of stone- a geode, he thinks- and they’re actually quite nice, even though he’s become quite fond of her usual kumquats.
“Don’t worry about it,” he tells her, annoyance at her lateness evaporating in the wake of her presence. “Tell me about Lisbon!” Luna laughs. Her laugh is a pretty, tinkling thing. He knows that it’s not always so pretty, grinning at the memory of her snorting on the Hogwarts train at Ron’s jokes. Those Luna laughs are a little harder to get, but not uncommon. She’s been away so much recently though. Harry finds that he misses them quite a lot.
“It was lovely, just fabulous, really. They’ve got these fantastic beetles, you know, that burrow in between the cobblestones, their stings have incredible healing properties. I managed to get a specimen back, actually, and it stung me when I was trying to transfer it to a larger enclosure. I’d had an upset stomach and now I’m feeling absolutely wonderful.”
“You should bring it over to Hermione, I think she’s been down with a cold recently.” Luna rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. Hermione and Luna’s mutual exasperation hasn’t diminished much in the past few years, but the affection seeps through it all the same.
“But how are you doing, Harry?” Luna asks him. “Are you still living with Ron and Hermione?”
“Oh- er, no,” Harry says. He is desperate not to let anything telling slip into his voice. It made sense for Ron and Hermione to get a new place once they could afford to. Their flat has been much too small for the three of them for as long as they’ve had it and he had told them firmly that no, he didn’t want to come with. It didn’t make sense. He can ignore the way a weird chilliness that manifests somewhere in his lower intestine when thinks about it. Grimmauld place has been only faintly grimy and depressing for the past few weeks, even if it’s getting harder to ignore the concerned glances Hermione throws at him every time he goes ‘round for tea.
“Listen, Harry,” Luna is telling him. “I’ve gotten a new flat, since I’m sticking around in London for a bit to work on my thesis. There’s just two of us now and we need a third. I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested.” Harry blinks at her, a surge of affection running through him. But he catches the hesitancy in her voice, the cautiousness. He’s much better at catching those things know.
“But?” Luna purses her lips thoughtfully. Harry thinks that there is another common misconception that Luna doesn’t think before she says things, often because what does come out is rather odd. But he knows better. Luna is deliberate, even in her dreaminess.
“My flatmate. You two don’t have the best history.” Harry ponders for a moment.
“Oh christ, it’s not like Romilda Vane, is it? Or Zacharias Smith? Luna, if it’s Smith, I think I might have to get you out for your own safety. Or at least sanity.” Luna laughs again.
“I rather think sanity is overrated, Harry. But no. Not Smith.”
***
It’s a bad idea. He’s sitting on the couch in Ron and Hermione’s new flat, and he knows it’s a bad idea. Pansy Parkinson, fucking Pansy Parkinson. He had blanched when Luna had told him, had no idea what to even fucking say to that, because why the hell would Luna, would he, ever want to live with Pansy fucking Parkinson. He had asked that, obviously, and Luna had sort of shrugged and said that Pansy hadn’t anyone to live with and Luna was tired of living alone for the time being. This had not at all been the question Harry was asking, which he reminded her quite pointedly. She had launched into some story about how’d they run into each other in Greece last year, which again, wasn’t really what Harry had had in mind. She hadn’t pressed anything though, until they were getting on their coats to leave. Think on it, Luna had told him, and when he’d rounded on her with a ready retort she’d just raised an eyebrow. So.
“Shall we just get takeaway again?” Hermione asked, walking into the room. A few curls are escaping from the towel she has wrapped around her head and the bathrobe she’s wearing is decidedly un-Hermione, pink and floral and very, very ruffly. He opens his mouth, already smiling.
“Oh, shut up,” she says before he can get a word in. “Molly gave it to me for my birthday and really, it’s quite comfortable. Now, do you want Indian or Thai?”
“Indian,” Harry answers, right as Ron barrels through the door. He’s soaking wet, clothes and hair plastered to his skin which has seemingly, if it’s even possible, become more freckled in the weeks he’s been doing field training with the Aurors.
“Hey, Hermione,” he says, shaking his head back and forth like a dog. His gaze sweeps over the room until it lands on Harry, and then he bounds over and sits across from him on the couch. “Harry! I forgot you were coming to dinner. Blimey, have I got things to tell you. D’you know that bloke that Seamus was partnered with, you know, the Welsh one with the dodgy eye, well guess what, now we’ve all come to find out that he’s also the bloke that Padma Patil has been going on about at pub night, and how we all found out was–”
Harry settles back into the couch, watching Ron animatedly tell his story, which involves Padma Patil and a fellow trainee getting caught snogging in the Head Auror’s office and various ensuing shenanigans. He watches Hermione watch Ron, as she gasps and laughs in the right places. Even when neither reaction is appropriate, she watches him with something that is part amusement and part something deeper, a consistent, unconditional fondness. He’s so happy for them, he really is. If anyone deserved a love like this, it’s them.
“Harry?” Hermione asks him, snapping him out of it. “Listen, er, I was wondering, have you given any more thought about moving out of Grimmauld Place?” Ron groans and flings himself back into the couch.
“Lay off, Hermione, please. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t have to.” He shoots Harry a commiserating smile. Harry’s heart clenches a little, but he forces a smile quickly.
“Actually, I had lunch with Luna today,” he finds himself telling them, if for nothing but to wipe the tentative concerned look off Hermione’s face. “And she’s just got a flat and is looking for a flatmate. So you know, I was considering that.”
It totally works.
“Oh Harry! I think that’s a wonderful idea!” Hermione is practically clapping her with glee, and even Ron is smiling hopefully in a way that it’s clear he doesn’t want Harry to notice. “You know I feel like Grimmauld Place is just so– well you know, it’s just– doesn’t seem like it should be permanent,” she finishes lamely.
“Yeah, no, I know,” Harry tells her. He pats the seat between himself and Ron on the couch and she plops down, throwing an arm around both their shoulders.
“Do you think you’ll do it then?” Ron asks him, shifting under Hermione to face Harry. Harry shrugs.
“I dunno. Maybe.” Ron and Hermione share a look, one Harry knows he’s not meant to see, and it annoys him enough that he adds an addendum. “Probably.”
Hermione smiles. Harry doesn’t know why he doesn’t mention Pansy fucking Parkinson. Christ. Probably to keep that smile on her face a moment longer.
***
Later that night, Harry stares at the ceiling in Grimmauld place. Kreacher is at Hogwarts now, has been the the almost four years since the Battle. This has left the dust to accumulate, and Harry never sweeps. This had been a major fight leading up to his and Ginny’s final breakup. She had made a comment about not being Molly and that she wouldn’t clean up after him and he had exploded, said he didn’t expect her to, said he would never expect her to, how could she think that, after he had been forced to clean up after other people for his entire childhood. She had gone very white and then very red and told him that if she had to get him shouting to talk about anything about his childhood, then maybe Hermione had a point about therapy. That night, in bed, she had reached for him and he’d rolled over and pretended to be asleep. He wasn’t very convincing, evidently, because a week later Ginny had left.
They’re friends now and they see each other occasionally. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. She’d been dating, last he heard. He's happy for her.
A spider ambles slowly across the ceiling and Harry raises his wand to knock it away. When it lands on the carpet, a tiny cloud of dust blooms around it. Harry sighs. In the morning, he thinks, he’ll send Luna an owl. Just to see.
***
He goes round to Luna’s just past noon the next day, while she’s making lunch. She bustles him in quickly, before he can get his bearings or a word in, and tells him, just wait a moment, she’ll be finished soon and here's a cuppa until then and they can all talk while they eat. And then drops him off in the den with Parkinson.
They’re sitting on the couch while Luna boils pasta, because this, apparently, is what they just do now. He can feel Parkinson staring at him, even though his eyes are quite fixed on the cup of tea. It’s peppermint, which he likes.
“I-” He looks up, and Parkinson has her mouth open, but there is nothing coming out. She closes it again, with an audible smack. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look nervous before, but she definitely does now. They are making eye contact now, and he notices that there is some sort of black smudge—some sort of makeup—under her eyes. Thinking about it now, she looks quite disheveled. She is dressed in joggers and a t shirt that’s much too big for her, and he thinks she must not have brushed her hair in a while. Honestly, she looks pretty bad.
“Listen, Potter.” Harry starts a little when she speaks again, a little dazed from actually having focused so hard on Parkinson, who he actually hasn’t thought about very much since school. Or since. Well. “I suppose I should apologize to you for the, ah, incident. At the battle.”
“Oh you suppose, do you?” Harry says through gritted teeth. Parkinson purses her lips. She kind of looks like she wants to roll her eyes, which makes him even angrier.
“Merlin, Potter,” she drawls, looking up toward the ceiling in what is most definitely not an eyeroll. “You really are going to make this difficult.”
Harry opens his mouth to retort, but she cuts him off.
“Fine, Potter. I’m terribly sorry about trying to give you about to Lord- to You-Know-Who during the battle, and being rude to you through school, and all those things I told Rita Skeeter about you and Granger and all that. Does that cover everything?”
For a moment, Harry doesn’t know what to say.
“You were rude to Ron and Hermione, too,” he says finally. Parkinson huffs a laugh.
“Yeah, I suppose I was. Well, sorry about that, too.”
For a long time, neither of them say anything.
“Listen, Potter. Lovegood really wants you to be move in, I can tell, and I shouldn’t be the reason you don’t. We don’t have to like each other, or talk to each other, or anything.”
Harry again, doesn’t know what to say. He really, really can’t fathom a world where Pansy Parkinson gives a shit about Luna Lovegood, but if she’s willing to live with him for Luna’s sake, then apparently this was that world. Which, okay. Okay.
Luna calls to them that lunch is ready and they go in to eat. It’s fine, if a little quiet. Mostly Luna talks about her work and Harry and Parkinson hum in agreement when she says anything interesting. Afterward, Luna walks Harry out. As he puts on his coat, she raises her eyebrows at him. He smiles. Shit.
***
The next few days are a blur of packing and Hermione and Ron promising to come by when things are a little less hectic. He doesn’t tell them about Parkinson. They’re so excited about this for him, he really, really doesn’t want to spoil it. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
***
Things are largely uneventful. It’s not like Parkinson is sharing a room with him, and she works during the day. Harry doesn’t, obviously, but sitting around in their flat is distinctly unappealing. He walks in the park and visits shops, or museums, or really anything that strikes his fancy and makes a sent in the long hours of his day. He’s still thinking about what Hermione said, all the time really. Getting back to work sounds like a fine idea and everything, but he still has absolutely no idea what he wants to do. He doesn’t even remember what he really liked in school, beyond what he had to. So he just does this, cutting down alleys of his new neighborhood until he knows it like he’s lived there all his life. The ladies at the shops get to know him as well, start peppering him with compliments and advice about the state of his hair or clothes. They also constantly ask after his young lady, who they surmise to be Luna after she visits with Harry on weekends and days off. Harry doesn’t bother to correct them. He thinks that what he and Luna have is special, unblemished by dishonesty and the eggshells all his other friends seem to walking on. It’s not romantic, not at all, but it it seems like using the word friendship would be selling it short, somehow. He feels the same way about Ron and Hermione, albeit for different reasons. It’s just easier to smile when the shopkeepers look pointedly at their linked arms. He loves living with her, even enough, or at least probably enough, to excuse Parkinson’s presence.
They sometimes spend time together, the three of them, when Luna has carefully orchestrated their company. She’ll cook dinner and call them both in, and they’ll sit across the soft yellow tablecloth and carefully answer Luna’s questions and nod appropriately at her commentary on her day. Parkinson laughs at Luna constantly, calling her mad over her trips, but it has none of the barb that her hurled insults did at school. Harry often wonders whether they’ve ever discussed their history, and he thinks they must have, because Luna isn’t one to shy away from sharp things. Sometimes, he thinks that Parkinson softens a little when she doesn’t really notice he’s looking and he sees a little of this different girl, the one that Luna seems to like and even trust with astonishing ease. But the moments she notices his eyes on her, she hardens up again. It’s strange. He doesn’t know.
Some of the weirdest things, for both of them, he thinks, is when they almost forget. Like, Luna will be telling a story about something that happened to her in Senegal, and Parkinson will say something like, Oh, that reminds me of Hogwarts when Theodore Nott fell in the Great Lake, and tell a brilliant story about a narrow escape from the giant squid that’s almost certainly embellished. Even though she’s really talking to Luna, not him, he’ll start to laugh and she’ll look over at him and start laughing too, and they’ll all three be laughing, and then she’ll say, Oh, god and then Draco was so upset about being left out that he tried to– and then stop abruptly, avoiding Harry’s eye completely. And Harry will get a flash in his mind of a hippogriff, someone yelling “mudblood”, a shaky hand on top of the Astronomy tower, and just like that, the moment will be gone.
But usually, things are just all right. He doesn’t think he can ever be friends with Parkinson, not really, but he finds himself spending more time around her and Luna than anyone else. Ron and Hermione are busy with work and school, respectively, and he avoids bringing them round the flat. He’ll deal with it, eventually, but for now, he’s just compartmentalizing. It’ll work itself out, it always does.