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Dispelled had been together a grand total of six months when Luna Lovegood walked into their rehearsal.
They’d been practising what felt like non-stop since their first live gig was on the books. They had scraped together just enough songs for a complete set list. Antonin was now confident enough to say he wouldn’t be completely mortified to step under the lights and perform.
He had performed in his own way in the past, of course. But that was duelling, a different sort of entertainment than the one that now placed him on his very own throne.
It was from that throne that he watched, mouth agape, the very same chit that had treated Malfoy’s dungeons like an afternoon picnic saunter straight up to Blaise and pull him into an enthusiastic embrace.
Thorfinn turned around to mouth his own disbelief, What the fuck?
Antonin could only shrug in bafflement.
This was the first time he’d ever seen Blaise exhibit a romantic interest in any witch, much less one as remarkable as this one.
“Let’s break for lunch,” said the man himself, who had finally disengaged himself long enough to grin at them in what Antonin decided was far too smug of an expression.
“Hello, Thorfinn. Hello, Antonin.” With fairy-like grace, she curtsied before them.
Antonin fought the urge to spin his seat away. The idea that she would bow to them was preposterous. They’d said and done despicable things under a disgraceful Master and cause to which she had been a witness. They may have not touched a single hair on her head, but Antonin knew, as well as Thorfinn, that the others had ideas, like they had for many of their enemies.
It was Thorfinn who replied while Antonin struggled to pull his mind free of his memories. “You should never bow to us, little witch. We are not deserving of such esteem.”
“I don’t believe that to be true, but if that is what you think, then I am sorry.”
Even her explanation lilted like a melody from one word to the next.
Antonin stood abruptly, a motion he regretted the moment everyone’s eyes swung his way. “If we’re taking a break, then I’m heading out for a bit.” Stepping out from behind the drum kit felt awkward now. He’d have to walk through the others to get to the studio door.
He squared his shoulders and proceeded on his way. He’d nearly made it past the couple when Luna spoke up once more.
“Your aura looks calmer now.”
Antonin almost stumbled. He hadn’t heard such seer-like words in decades. His babushka had been known for her sight; he had loved her dearly and she, him. He still remembered the last time he saw her alive, the prophetic words that had fallen from her lips.
She’d foretold of a storm, great suffering, and regret.
She’d also promised salvation, should he allow himself to see it. Accept it.
She was gone now–last he’d heard, she’d been laid to rest with the rest of his family back home. He doubted he’d ever see that land again, except in his dreams.
He willed himself to turn and look at Luna. Nearly transparent eyes that could be ineffectually classified as blue but were actually closer to the arctic skies of his homeland, so pale as to almost match the silver-blonde tresses that spilled around her shoulders. They saw him and saw through him, just like his babushka.
And, again like hers, Luna’s eyes seemed to hold a vast pool of understanding. She could easily gut him with her words, should she choose to do so. He doubted there was anything that could truly shock her.
“Not quite at peace, yet, but soon,” she said quietly. He wondered if the other two could hear her with how softly she spoke. “She’ll see that for herself, as well.”
He wondered at what sort of expression he wore on his face. Was it the wonder he’d felt in his childhood? Terror? Who was “she”?
Antonin ended up reacting on instinct, inclining his head and murmuring a foreign word of gratitude for the gift of prophecy. He strode out that day without another word, and when he returned, she had already departed.
Luna had spoken true that day, not that he had ever doubted her. Over time, Antonin had built an inner peace that guided him from each day to the next. It was no longer greed or fear that propelled him forward, but the driving beat of the kick drum, the time counted on the high hat, Blaise’s bass pushing through his bloodstream, and Thorfinn’s voice that sounded suspiciously like the cry of Antonin’s heart.
He’d never felt more fulfilled. Surely, life could not be better than this.
Then, two years later, he saw the witch standing alongside Luna at the front of the crowd. Golden curls. Light brown eyes widened in recognition. Scars at her neck that might have been mistaken for tattoos if Dolohov didn’t immediately recognise the span and width of them. Fenrir had bragged of drinking deep that terrible night. While Antonin had dealt his own fair share of death, he had avoided the children as best as he was able.
She was yet another reminder of his failures, of the darkness he had harboured. Enabled. She was beautiful. Frightened, too, by the look of her. She flushed as her attempt to pull away was foiled by the press of the crowd, and he couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of it. A pale rose unfurling.
Where else might that flush bloom?