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Colorful tents in countless heraldry colors stretch as far as the eye can see across the sprawling lawn. The grass is nearly flat against the ground, having been trampled beneath the feet of those either participating in Avalon’s Annual Jousting Tournament or those who are assisting the competitors.
The midmorning sunlight kisses warmly across Lady Luna Lovegood’s face as she walks past one tent after the next. The tournament is set to begin in less than an hour. She refuses to take her seat in the stands until after she’s completed her self-assigned errand.
“Lady Luna,” a wizard bows to her.
She pauses to curtsy and say, “Good day,” before continuing in her hunt for the correct tent.
The handkerchief in her hand feels heavy with the weight of its meaning, even though it’s little more than a square of fabric. She rubs her thumb against the crescent moon she embroidered on the corner of it, the silk threads smooth and soft against her skin. It’s a favor, the first she’s ever created. She’s as excited as she is nervous to offer it to the pureblood wizard she wishes to see emerge victorious in the tournament.
“Luna!” Miss Ginevra Weasley greets with an enthusiastic wave.
“Ginny!” Luna replies with a smile.
They’ve known each other since childhood and grew up together in Ottery St. Catchpole. Even with their differences in interests, they’ve been the best of friends since they met. Not even Sorting into different Houses at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry tore them apart.
Ginny glances at the handkerchief in Luna’s hand and grins. “Don’t let me keep you, Luna. But I fully intend on pestering you for all the details later.”
Luna blushes and replies, “I’m sure you will,” before continuing on her way.
When it comes to things that matter to her, Luna is a fairly private person. She’s yet to tell her own mother the name of the pureblood wizard who’s captured her interest. It’s still new, still fresh, and Luna can’t help but want to protect it.
Three months ago, a duel broke out in the middle of Hogsmeade between two pureblood witches who were too enraged to remove themselves to a location fit for an Honor Duel. Heir Marcus Flint grabbed Luna by the waist and spun her out of the way of a bone-breaking hex before Stupefying the witches and summoning the Aurors.
Ever since then, Luna has been unable to forget how it felt to have Marcus’s hands on her body. If she’s lucky, perhaps it’s something she’ll get to experience again. If she’s very lucky, perhaps he will be the pureblood wizard who touches her even more intimately.
Luna walks past a Carrow-Cerulean tent, a Potter-Crimson tent, and a Longbottom-Evergreen tent.
“Hello, Lady Luna!”
“Hello, Heir Neville,” Luna replies, bobbing a curtsy in response to his bow before continuing on her way.
The shout of “Good luck!” that follows after her makes her blush.
Luna brushes her thumb against the embroidered moon yet again. It— Luna spent a lot of time on the embroidery. She lost count of how many times she practiced on linen before attempting the final favor. Her initials nestle against the bottom curve of the crescent moon. Anyone who sees this will know instantly that it belongs to her.
Her heart skips a beat as she passes a tent with the Pucey family crest. Mister Adrian Pucey is Heir Marcus Flint’s First Vassal. As such, it only makes sense for their tents to be pitched near one another. He’ll be tasked with assisting Marcus into his armor before one of the Pucey family’s Vassals assists him into his own.
A whinny so fierce that it’s almost a battle cry draws Luna’s attention.
Right outside of a tent bearing the Flint family crest is a magnificent dapple gray charger. It’s so tall that her head barely reaches its shoulder. A groom is currently draping banners across the horse’s back, equine armor on a stand to the side.
“Whoa, Atlas. Whoa,” the groom soothes.
Luna glances away from the exquisite horse—that will bear Marcus during today’s jousts—and clutches her Butterbeer cork necklace as she gathers her courage. The light breeze ruffles the skirt of her blue summer dress, sending the embroidered unicorns on it galloping along the hemline at her knees.
“Lady Luna?”
She twirls around, heart pounding, and then relaxes when she realizes it’s just Adrian. “Mister Pucey,” she greets with a curtsy.
Adrian’s eyes lock on the handkerchief in her hand. His mouth drops open, then snaps shut briskly. “Is that for…?” He glances behind her.
Marcus is the Heir of the Victorious and Most Ancient House of Flint. While it’s impossible for someone to win every single match or competition, the odds are overwhelmingly in a Flint’s favor. It’s only now that she’s standing here, mere feet away from Marcus’s tent, that Luna wonders if the handkerchief will be taken as an insult, an implication that he needs additional help to win the tournament.
Her hand shakes. “I didn’t consider—” Luna pauses, marshals her courage again, and glances up at Adrian. “Will he find it offensive?”
“No!” Adrian immediately refutes, eyes wide and voice sharp.
Luna breathes a sigh of relief and loosens her grip on the handkerchief. Without the charms woven into the fabric, it would be horrifically wrinkled. As it is, it looks exactly as it did when she finished embroidering it.
“May I see him?” she inquires.
Adrian nods sharply and walks past her to the tent belonging to the Flint family. She follows him and enters it right as he announces, “Marcus, Lady Luna is here to see you.”
“What?”
Luna steps out from behind Adrian and feels as if her breath has been snatched right out of her lungs. Marcus towers over her, but that same certainty of safety she felt in Hogsmeade remains. He’s fearsome, to be sure, but she’s not afraid of him.
“Heir Flint,” she greets with the deepest curtsy she’s offered anyone all day.
“Lady Luna,” Marcus replies with a bow, confusion in his voice and eyes.
“I—” Luna closes her mouth, heart pounding. It’s harder than she thought it would be. She’s a Ravenclaw; she should be better at speaking than this. But Marcus’s stare is intent and Adrian is practically vibrating with anticipation beside her, and it’s— “For you,” Luna says as she thrusts out the hand holding the handkerchief.
Marcus goes as perfectly still as if he’s been Petrified. Disbelief is naked in his gaze, though it slowly transforms into wonderment when she doesn’t pull her hand back.
“You’re offering me your favor,” Marcus says slowly as if he’s not quite certain that’s what is actually happening.
Luna nods and whispers, “If it doesn’t offend.”
“I’m not offended,” Marcus replies as he accepts the handkerchief from her. His hand shakes. The fabric flutters like a dandelion seed on the wind, blown away by a wish. “I’m honored.”
“If you win,” Luna says, emboldened by his reaction to her gift, “I’ll grant you the traditional champion’s boon.” Her cheeks burn. “If you wish.”
Marcus’s eyes darken and his voice deepens as he rasps, “When I win, I’ll hold you to your word, Lady Luna.”
“As you say, my lord,” Luna replies before curtsying again and quitting the tent.
She walks toward the stands in a daze, unable to hear anything over the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Somehow, it went even better than she dared to hope it would. Marcus accepted her favor and wants— By the Lady Morgana, how is she meant to stay seated and watch the jousts when it feels as if she will float away into the ether?
Luna takes her seat between her mother and father, clasps her hands in her lap, and waits to witness the tournament’s outcome.
Five and a quarter hours later, Heir Marcus Flint emerges victorious in the final joust. Lady Luna Lovegood rewards him with a kiss on the cheek.