[ Sometimes, you just needed to leave Ottery St. Catchpole.
So Luna had eventually signed on with a magizoology internship, and gone as far abroad as her wandering feet could take her: wanting to see new places and document new creatures, armed with a knife, sturdy boots, handkerchiefs, flint and tinder, good socks, a high-quality camera.
The work placement program in Greece turns out to be a blessing. She unfurls like a plant which had been huddled in on itself for far too long. She gets to stand on the bow of the sailing ship, wind whipping through her already-unruly hair, soaking in the warm sea breeze and rich blue water. The nearby village is cobblestoned lanes and whitewashed walls, buildings teetering on the edge of the cliffs; it's like something out of a picture.
And the others in the program strike up a quick camaraderie, with the older magizoologists mentoring the younger set — some of whom are even younger than she is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students fresh out of Hogwarts. Luna's a little on the older end compared to them, although she doesn't mind; she'd had taken a few years to lick her wounds at home, helping with the Quibbler, trying to decide what to do with herself.
It's turned out to be a rewarding trip. The researchers have been been tromping around Karpathos Island cataloguing the flora and fauna off the beaten path from Muggle tourists, going on boat rides, trying to catch a sight of an elusive hippocampus pod.
The latest buzz, though, is that there's been a dragon sighting nearby. This island isn't its native environment at all — but Bulgaria and Romania are just a stone's throw to the north, and for a flying reptile with a giant wingspan, it's not that far a trip.
Which, of course, makes her wonder.
The researchers are in touch with the dragonologists, which eventually confirms her suspicions that they're from Romania, and Rolf doesn't mind when Luna steals one of their many tiny messenger owls to send a message (just this: fancy a drink when you're done? - 🌙). The open-air bar is wizarding-only, tucked away with concealment charms with a view of the ocean as the sun slowly sinks over the horizon, glowing red like an ember. Luna's sitting with her colleagues, slowly sipping a local beer and only half-paying attention to the conversation, when there's the sound of a new group of people arriving. She twists in her chair and glances at the entrance, unconsciously looking for a familiar face to come in with the rest of the group of men, all muddy boots and reeking of smoke. ]
[ Most of Charlie's life isn't exactly exciting — once you get past the excitement of the dragons, that is — because taking care of any animal means learning to adhere to routine, and routine becomes, by default, routine. Just because he's shoveling dragon dung instead of horse dung doesn't mean he doesn't spend an hour every morning and every evening cleaning up shit.
He doesn't mind so much, really, since living a predictable life isn't the worst thing that's happened to him lately, not by a long shot.
That doesn't mean he isn't thrilled to jump on the chance to head south to investigate rumors that are swirling around of dragon sightings from Greece to Turkey. Dragons haven't been found anywhere near the Agean sea for centuries, but with the way Muggles have been spreading and encroaching on the natural habitat of creatures both magical and not, it's not outside the realm of possibility that a dragon might have snuck its way down far enough to be spotted around the Mediterranean in an attempt to avoid the press of humanity forcing it from its home.
To say he's surprised to come back to their temporary barracks after a fruitless afternoon of hiking to find a little pigmy owl waiting for him, puffed up and cross when he admits he doesn't have treats to hand, would be an understatement. Especially when he unfolds the note and reads it, the little sketch of a crescent moon more than enough to tell him exactly who it's from.
I'll be there with bells on. -CW
He doesn't show up with bells on, in the end. What he does do is show up with four other dragonologists, all of them sweaty and vaguely singed, their spirits high from the excitement of finally being out of freezing cold Romania on a wild goose chase (wild dragon chase), feeling like kids on a school holiday allowed to skive off when all their work's been done.
The bar isn't difficult to find, especially with their local guide to help translate for them, and the moment they pass through the doors, Charlie finds himself looking around for a mass of white-blonde hair, searching for the witch who invited him, eager to see a familiar face. ]
Luna! [ He breaks away from the men he came in with, half-shouting something in Romanian over his shoulder at the one who swiped at his shoulder as he left, and makes a bee-line to where she's sitting so he can hug her like they're old friends and not only tangentially acquainted, going so far as to buss a friendly kiss to her cheek. ] You're looking well. How's your trip going?
[ The dashing dragonologists bring a tumult of lively noise with them into the bar, bantering in Romanian, already ordering a round of drinks, the two groups merging like two waves colliding.
All of the naturalists are outdoorsy types, but at the heart of it, their job is to take notes on habitat, sneak photographs of rare creatures, and draw detailed sketches, all striving not to get involved at all. Meanwhile, the dragonologists have a reputation as adventurers, rough and rowdy and intriguing, their line of work more dangerous. Luna can already see the way a couple of the girls and one of the lads perk up, craning for their attention. And so their jaws drop when Charlie carries himself right across the room and presses a scratchy kiss to Luna's cheek.
The quiet, dreamy newbie knows one of them? How in Merlin's name had that happened?
She couldn't really say, herself. They'd been ships passing in the night back in England, carrying on a conversation just long enough for him to give her some tips on travel, then one brief gettogether with the two of them and Ginny before he flew out again after the weekend. Seeing him again, she seems to brighten like a small star. ]
Oh, it's been wonderful. No hippocampi so far, but we'll befriend them yet.
[ She finds herself looking at him, drinking in the details. As an only child, she finds his family clan fascinating — she might know Ginny and Ron best, but there's the echo of all those other Weasleys in the angles of Charlie's face, the familiar constellation of those freckles, although starker on his face from all his time outdoors.
"Loony" Lovegood, on the other hand, older and now kitted for the outdoors, is dressed a bit more sensibly than her reputation might have entailed. No strange hats or dangling earrings this time (they might be seized by stray animals, she had been somberly informed), and her flyaway hair has been scraped into some semblance of a braid, although it's already coming apart. But she hasn't left behind all of her vibrant affectations: there are pink heart-shaped sunglasses tucked into the outside pocket of her light jacket, a piece of cork hanging around her throat as a necklace, and a series of colourful enamel pins attached to her hardy leather satchel.
Her gaze drifts to his own outfit, and the absence of what was promised. There's a smudge of soot on his cheek. She licks her finger, reaches out and unthinkingly swipes it from his skin. ]
No bells? I thought it might be a dragon thing. Perhaps they like the sound of them. [ There's a crinkle at the corner of her eyes, a half-smile. ]
[ Charlie's always had an easy affection to him, casual and carefree, and since he'd remembered who Luna was — the Lovegoods and the Weasleys lived so close together, after all, that it was impossible for them not to run into each other; the only real reason Charlie had needed the reminder was that Luna was his little brother's compatriot and not his own, plus he's spent a good half of his life trying to get out of Ottery St. Catchpole and can't remember the names of half the neighbor's children — it had been quite simple to widen his circle of of course we're friends to include her as well.
He hasn't quite tucked her away in the same corner of his mind that houses Ginny and Ron's and all their friends, more because he hasn't seen them interact much together than for any other reason, but that doesn't mean he won't treat her just the same.
He steals a chair and drags it over to insinuate himself beside her seat, casually introducing himself to the wizard he forces to scoot over with a grin and a firm handshake, before turning his attention back to Luna. ]
Ah, well. [ Her swiping a damp finger over his cheek makes him blink a little in surprise, but he doesn't withdraw or make a face, just holds still and lets her tidy him up. ] Surprisingly enough, I have a hard time pulling them off. Didn't want to embarrass myself in front of all your new friends.
[ He sticks his hand in the pocket of his well-worn jeans, spreading his knees a little to accommodate the stretch of denim across his thighs, and pulls out a Euro coin that he'd found and had intended to send home to his dad. Arthur has plenty of Muggle coins already, though, and Charlie would rather show off than send trinkets home to his father; he closes his palm around the coin and Transfigures it into a little silver and gold bell, the sort that's found on a fancy cat collar. Letting it jingle merrily in his palm as he waggles his hand, he flips it between his fingers and reaches up to tuck it behind her ear like he's picked a flower from the garden. ] You make it look very fetching, though.
[ One of the other dragonologists appears at his shoulder suddenly, a pint of beer in hand that he shoves in Charlie's direction. Accepting the proffered drink, he tears his attention away from Luna and instead sets to introducing his colleagues to the zoologists around the table, figuring since he knew the most people he might as well get the introductions out of the way now and let the alcohol on offer do the rest of the work for him.
After a somewhat chaotic few minutes of hand-shaking and laughing lessons in pronunciation, he lets his attention drift from the group at large and settle back on his countryman. Leaning in to be heard over the hubbub around them, he drapes his arm across the back of Luna's chair for balance and gestures down at her feet. ] I like your boots.
[ The bell chimes with a merry little noise, and Luna glances at the winking metal in his hand with a surprised and delighted little Oh! — she might have grown up with magic like anyone else, but sleight-of-hand is still charming, still sparks that little flutter of warmth in her chest, a fizz like champagne.
Before she can think of what to say, however, then the clamour of names and handshakes begins. It's a mess of voices overlapping and introductions for the newcomers and some glad reunions for the old-timers: Didn't we meet at that conference in Sardinia? and No, it was Salamanca and Did you ever rehabilitate that Ironbelly, two summers ago? Luna finds herself drifting along on those eddies of conversation, committing names to memory, quietly following their tangents. She props her chin in her hand and watches them all, her silvery-grey eyes large and bright. When she cocks her head while listening, a bit like a curious dog, the bell tinkles behind her ear like a reminder.
Once there's enough of a break in the discussion (an impassioned debate about today's progress, ideas and suggestions for where to root out the dragon tomorrow) and Charlie steals a moment to lean towards her, Luna turns her own attention fully back to him. ]
Do you really? I took your advice. [ She raises one leg, foot stuck out for proud display, and then simply props her boot on his knee for better inspection. It turns out she's just as loose and easy with physical contact as he is; unselfconscious and maybe a tad too whimsical about others' personal space. ]
They still need breaking in. Dad said leaving them out on a full moon would help with that, but I have doubts.
[ Once upon a time, she'd blindly accepted everything Xenophilius Lovegood had said as fact. She still took most of it on faith, but some faint dubiousness had started creeping in lately. ]
[ He's not nearly drunk enough or familiar enough with her to rest his broad, rough palm on her ankle when she drops her boot in his lap, but that doesn't stop Charlie from examining her boots properly since she's all but ordered him to.
They really do look nice. Sturdy, solid, nice and sensible leather with strong laces. They also look like they're still more or less brand new, still stiff and uncomfortable after a long day. Not at all like Charlie's dragonhide boots, so old and worn-in that they're starting to edge past comfortable and into scruffy. There's nothing wrong with them, though! Just because he's had to charm the soles once or twice doesn't mean they need replacing just yet.
He hates breaking in shoes. ]
That's where the socks come in, [ he says, deciding to simply move past her father's advice on breaking in footwear. He himself has never tried leaving his shoes out on a full moon, so he doesn't know if it works or not. It might. ] You gotta wear two pairs for a while, so that they rub against each other and not your foot itself, it helps with preventing blisters if cushioning charms won't cut it. Plus it makes the shoes a little bit tighter so the leather stretches more.
[ The socks she did get are thick and insulating, and the pattern is visible where they protrude from the neck of the boot: colourful daisies printed all over them. She is literally incapable of owning plain socks.
The woman beside Luna has her eyebrows climbing into her hairline at the sight of her leg in Charlie's lap, a clear-cut question written all over her face — is there some story here? old friends? amiable exes? — but she presumably wouldn't know what to do with the bit of information that, well, this is only Lovegood's second time meeting him.
Luna, for her part, doesn't even seem to notice or care. If there are any sideways glances, they slide right off her. She wiggles her toes in the boot to flex the stiff and immoveable material, and then, satisfied with Charlie's verdict, swings her leg back down to the floor, which leaves their chairs scooted closer together than they were before. Back to curling her fingers around her pint of beer, the glass sweating with condensation in the warm evening. There's a slice of orange in it. ]
How did today go? You all smell like a campfire. It's nice.
[ Her current socks are very sweet, and based on what little he knows about her, perfectly in line with everything in her wardrobe.
Charlie is used to being looked at askance, mostly because he's severely underdressed for whatever it is that's going on, or because he's still nursing a fresh burn or some article of his clothing is lightly charred. Usually he's charming enough to make up for it, though, and when he's not he's perfectly capable of simply pretending not to notice. The scrutiny they get over her leg in his lap gets no reaction from him.
Presumably he's going to get gently hassled by his coworkers and friends for the comfortable way Luna has with him, but he doesn't mind the future ribbing.
The orange in her beer looks refreshing. Charlie's is a darker brew, foam clinging to the edges of the glass, the hops sharp and bitter on his tongue as he takes a casual swig. ]
I always smell a bit like a campfire, I think, [ he admits with a laugh. ] It went well. We've mapped out its territory, found where it's been feeding, and plotted where we think it's going to nest. Now we just wait to see if we're proven correct.
Oh, that's good. I think Rolf will be staying in touch with your group, to make sure we stay out of the way? We'll be grounded for a little bit. Until you find it.
[ The naturalists' excursions will have to veer away from the dragonologists' territory, at least until the hazard is safely rounded up and cleared out. One path to instant litigation would be the dewy-eyed Hogwarts grads being eaten by a dragon because they went to the wrong place, and roamed too close to a known danger. ]
And in the meantime, you all get to enjoy Karpathos. You should join us on the boat later, if there's time. We've been going all around the islands. [ Leaning conspiratiorially closer, Luna pitches her voice low in a stage whisper over the edge of her glass, ] I know I'm working, but this is also the nicest holiday I've ever been on.
[ Selfishly, she hopes the dragonologists find reason to stick around a little longer, before they wrap up their assignment here. She treats everyone alike whether she knows them or not, but that there's this additional tenuous thread of history which makes Charles Weasley feel more familiar than not; more like home than not. Perhaps it's the Devonshire accent, occasionally rounded by Eastern European vowels. There's an antique Muggle camera sitting heavy in the bottom of her satchel, which hangs on the edge of her chair — Luna's fingers are already itching to take a picture of him at some point tonight, preserving that single image. Portrait of a dragonkeeper at rest. Arm curved over the back of her chair, knees confidently spread, boots planted squarely against the floor. She's always wanting to bottle moments with new friends like this, like trapping the visual in amber.
She tamps down the urge for now, although once she hits the bottom of her next beer, probably all bets will be off. ]
Hopefully it won't take more than a couple days. We've got a solid lead on the poor thing, now we just need to trap it and take it away, get it out of your hair.
[ Only someone as absolutely mad as Charlie would look at a rampaging, fire-breathing, livestock-devouring creature and think poor thing. But it's true! It's not the dragon's fault that they bumped up against Muggle settlements, or that in their fear and fury they pose a threat to humans around them. Once upon a time, humanity would blink first and simply relocate themselves out of the dragon's way, but now that's no longer the way of the world. Now, it's the dragons that need to be relocated, and few of them who grew up wild and free take too kindly to the notion of captivity, no matter how humane the dragonologists make it.
Charlie can sympathize. The thought of captivity, of being forced into a quiet little life trapped behind walls not of his own making, makes his skin crawl. He's always been made for wide-open spaces, it's why he loves flying so much, why he seriously considered a career in professional sports, why he's built his life in the wild mountains of Romania instead of staying closer to home and finding himself a wife like all his brothers.
And yet, in all his wild and free life, he's yet to spend any time at all in Greece. ] I'd like that. How long have you been here? You can be my guide.
[ He knows enough about Luna to know that, with her as his tour guide, he'll get to see some truly bizarre parts of the islands and almost nothing of the more prosaic tourist destinations. He can't wait.
His beer finished, and hers nearly there, he sets his glass down on the bar and motions to the bartender, ordering in a confusion pidgin of English and Bulgarian for a bottle of spirits, please, as well as a few plates of things to nibble on; he hasn't had dinner yet, and doesn't quite feel like having a full meal, but drinking on an empty stomach is not a good idea. Thankfully, the bartender seems to know exactly what to do, and it's barely a few minutes later when he returns with a chilled bottle of tsipouro and two small glasses that he plonks down in front of them, a heavily-accented slow his only instruction before he disappears back through the doors to the kitchen.
Raising his eyebrows at Luna in amusement, Charlie pours them both a shot and then holds out her glass to her. ]
Just two weeks so far, but there's plenty to show off. I found a nest of Coco Rumsey Catchers. [ Unsurprising to anyone who's known her for longer than fifteen minutes, Luna had a tendency to wander off from the group, taking everything in her own time and her own pace, finding out-of-the-way spots to sketch the animals. She had a favourite place on the island to view the sunrise, and another for the sunset. Another for afternoon siestas. (It was starting to be a point of mild frustration for the man assigned to her as mentor and supervisor, considering how often she could simply vanish — but he was getting accustomed to her, too. She more than made up for it with the drawings she came back with.)
Luna listens to the hodgepodge of the order being agreed upon: tsipouro, plus the decision for the kitchen to just haul out their own recommendations of tapas, a random and improvised assortment of food for the foreigners. As Charlie holds out the second glass, she takes it with delicate fingers (her nails are painted robin's egg blue but chipped and worn at the edges, the colour fading). Slow, she reminds herself. She could, sometimes, follow instruction.
She takes a slow sip and her face pinches. The drink is chilled and refreshing, but it's also like being socked in the eye with potency; this one doesn't taste overwhelmingly of anise like ouzo, so it's different from what she's had earlier in the trip. She presses her lips contemplatively against the edge of the glass, savouring the flavour, trying to make up her mind. ]
Really? You'll have to show me, I don't know if I've ever seen those up close.
[ Charlie's not going to make any comments about her nail polish; it's a pretty color, and he's sure it was lovely when it was fresh, but considering how much work he does with his hands and the state they're currently in — there's always a bit of dirt wedged under his nails no matter how well he scrubs them, and his palms are rough with callouses and healing nicks and cuts — he's in no position to throw stones.
He takes a hesitant first sip, letting the potent flavor seep across his tongue, reminiscent of țuică. Like țuică, he's apparently supposed to sip at his shot glass slowly; Charlie knocks back the full glass and coughs a little as the burn seeps down his throat. ]
Don't tell anyone, [ he tells her, winking as he reaches for the chilled bottle and pours himself another measure before anyone notices that he was so uncouth as to down his drink like a shot of tequila. ] It's not bad, eh? Reminds me of some of the things we distill at the sanctuary.
[ There's a flash of amusement at his little act of rebellion, and Luna snorts an undignified laugh which makes one of the other dragonologists glance over — by the time they've looked at the pair, though, she's already hidden her expression behind the glass as she takes another long, slow sip. ]
Your secret's safe with me. I hear it'll put hair on your chest.
[ She's tiny; she doesn't have anything to prove in trying to keep up with him, so she doesn't. Having already started drinking before the other parties got here, too, that gentle tipsiness is already nipping at the edges of Luna's awareness — it makes her even looser and mellower, even more affectionate, smoothing the evening into a pleasant blur and simply dialing up her qualities. Where some drunks are loud and boisterous, Luna gets contentedly sleepy and giggly. When he mentions a distillery, her curiosity's immediately piqued again. ]
Do you all make your own moonshine, then? I tried to teach myself when I was just out of Hogwarts — I must have gotten the mash mixture wrong, though, because Neville was up all night vomiting after he tried it. Poor thing.
[ That little snort of hers is very cute, and it just eggs Charlie on. He doesn't shoot the next shot he pours because he does have some manners, but the fact that she laughed at him means he looks regrettably smug as he pours himself another glass. ]
Will it? [ He sets his glass down and hooks a finger in the stretched-out collar of the thermal shirt he's wearing, tugging it away from his neck and glancing down at himself like he's actually checking for chest hair. ] Most of mine's been singed off, maybe I should keep drinking.
[ Despite what he's just said, he's much slower as he drinks his next glass, sipping it like he's supposed to and waiting for the bartender to send someone out with some meze plates for them to nibble on. ]
Not always. We also buy a fair amount, but when you're sequestered in the wilderness with the nearest town miles and miles away, it's sort of expected that you make your own fun. Andrei's been distilling țuică for decades now, he's the one who taught me. [ He chuckles lowly, shaking his head a little in sympathy for poor Neville. ] Poor bloke. Maybe he just doesn't have the stomach for it.
It sounds like we should all be training ourselves with— tweaka? [ Luna carefully sounds out the Romanian word, then adjusts her pronunciation with Charlie's guidance a moment later. ] Țuică. Țu-i-că.
[ The cold tapas don't have to be cooked, so a burly waiter comes slouching out soon enough carrying their small platters, to be placed in the center of the table for sharing: house-made salted mackerel, sour pickled beans, smoked feta cheese with tomato paste and olive oil. They're all bold and brassy flavours, salty and briney to offset the tsipouro. Beside her, Rolf's hand sneaks in from an entirely different conversation and steals some feta. She smacks his wrist mock-chidingly, but it's barely a light tap; the food's meant for sharing, although most of the others are putting their heads together to order something else. The other side of the table is absorbed in an amiable argument — hippocampi migration patterns and some unseasonable weather and whether or not the aquatic horses might have moved on from this island entirely — but it doesn't catch Luna's attention, which meanders back to her drinking partner instead.
After Charlie's playful bit with the shirt, the neck of his shirt is now hanging looser around his throat than before. Which is very rude, because now she simply cannot help but wonder what he does look like underneath. She distracts herself by inhaling some salted mackerel. ]
How long have you been in Romania, miles and miles away? It seems you'd been gone a whi— oh, this is good, try this one.
[ In answer to her question, he's just as freckled on his chest and shoulders as he is on his face; while he does wear protection when actively dealing with the dragons, most of what he does around the sanctuary is simply maintenance, and when it gets too hot to bother with clothing, off it comes. Which, when shoving dragon dung and repairing storage barns during the high summer, tends to happen quite often.
How Andrei would laugh at him teaching Luna the proper way to pronounce the name of Romanian alcohol, considering how poor his own accent is considered among natives. Still, the fact that she's making an effort endears her to some of his colleagues, who helpfully lean in to correct them both, and it certainly endears her to Charlie even more, leaving him smiling widely enough at her that the creases around his eyes become far more pronounced. ]
Those Slavs love their plum brandy, [ he agrees. ] It's your luck that there's no Slivovice here.
[ Much like any other man who makes a living doing manual labor and living more or less communally, Charlie isn't fussy at all about what he eats, and the tapas plates that are brought out are all approached with the same eager hunger, bits of fish and cheese and heavily pickled vegetables put away with the same enthusiasm. ]
Hm? Oh, er. Coming up to twelve years now, I think. Maybe thirteen. [ He accepts the small triangle of pita with some pinkish taramasalata scooped up on the edge and pops it fearlessly into his mouth without asking what it is he's eating, trusting. ] Oh that is nice. What do you think it is, fish? It's quite salty.
Ground-up fish, maybe? [ She tries another scoop of the paste, a quizzical look on her face as she stares into the empty air as if searching for cosmic inspiration. ] Or... it's a little sharper. Maybe roe.
[ She's content to dig cheerfully into the food, wolfing down this mix-and-match dinner after an active day out on the island, helping blunt the effect of that potent liquor so it doesn't go straight to her head and knock her off her chair. When she reaches the dolmades — grape leaves stuffed with rice, herbs, pine nuts, and a bit of feta — she makes a delighted little noise. They're wrapped like tiny burritos, which means it's easy for her to pluck another one up and offer it to him. ]
I have decided I will trust this chef with my life. Here, you've got to have one of these.
[ There's that cheerfully crossing boundaries again — Luna always slipping into a presumptive intimacy which could always be awkward at best, rude at worst — but truly, she doesn't think twice about it before she's holding out the wrapped grape leaf for Charlie to eat it straight from her fingers. ]
Maybe roe, [ he agrees, like he has any fucking clue what fish roe tastes like. Growing up, his mum wasn't exactly an adventurous cook, concerned more with quantity than with broadening her sons' gastronomical horizons, and food at Hogwarts was similarly filling and hearty stick-to-your-ribs British fare, not exactly anything that could be considered exotic or unusual.
Between bites, Charlie continues to sip at his liquor, refilling his glass when it empties and doing the same for Luna's, ensuring they both have a steady stream of cool, sharp spirits to cleanse the palate between each dish.
When she holds out a dolma to him, the grape leaf starkly green against the rice and herbs inside, he doesn't hesitate to lean forward, the hand not resting on the back of her chair lifting between them as if to cup any stray grains of rice that might tumble from the little parcel as she feeds it to him.
Is it weird, perhaps, that she's feeding him the second half of an appetizer she'd already bitten into? Yeah, maybe. Not weird enough for him to refuse the food, though, or to lean out of her personal space, or to stop looking at her with fondly amused blue-green eyes. ] Yeah, s'nice.
[ There is going to be so much gossip after tonight, buzzing through both of the work-social groups like wildfire. But having been one of Harry Potter's closest friends, weathering the barbs of Rita Skeeter's gossip about everyone in Dumbledore's Army over the years, even when she was too young and shouldn't have been in the cross-hairs — well, it took the sting out of regular gossip, which Luna had never paid much mind to begin with. War, too, had a way of rewiring your priorities. So as long as Charlie himself didn't mind, then as far as she was concerned, there's no problem. And she drifts along in their conversation, picking up their earlier thread as if the brief distraction had never happened: ]
Twelve years. I'm obviously much earlier on, just getting started, but I'd been thinking about going into magizoology for a while. All this. I like this.
[ A vague and dreamy gesture of her hand at everything around them: the bar, the people, but it's more than that. ]
Dad was always telling me about all these different creatures and animals, and I want to prove that they exist. Just because no one's seen a Snorkack yet doesn't mean they're not out there.
[ The years to come would slowly start to winnow the wheat from the chaff, and she'd start to untangle which of her fathers' conspiracy theories were fake vs which ones had some grain of truth to them — but that was the whole point of it. The discovery. ]
Not quite the same as what you do. But the same field, ish. Why dragons? Out of all of the creatures?
[ Twelve years ago, Luna was probably just starting Hogwarts, or thereabout. It's a thought that should make Charlie want to lean back, that should make him feel a sort of paternalistic sibling-like concern for her wellbeing and that's it, but it doesn't. In a profession like dragonology, how old you are has very little bearing on how well you can do your job. Sure, with experience comes wisdom and all that, but a large part of dealing with dragons is mindset, and the ability to feel empathy for a living creature whose mind is so different from your own. He works alongside wizards who're nearing sixty as well as those who are barely old enough to drink, and they're all considered his friends.
The fact that Luna is the same age as his baby brother doesn't mean anything to him, not at this stage of their lives.
This could mean anything, really, but he's choosing to believe she means the camaraderie of being removed from your home and thrown in with a bunch of like-minded people, all with a common goal. It's an invigorating feeling, as well Charlie knows. ]
New species are discovered every day, [ he agrees encouragingly, though he personally has doubts about Snorkacks and some of the other things he's seen mentioned in the Quibbler. ] Even Muggles are discovering new tropical frogs all the time. If they're out there, you'll find them eventually.
[ He tops up her glass again, and rubs his fingertips together to smooth out the condensation lingering there from the bottle. ]
I dunno, really. I've just always loved them. I'm lucky, that way. I've known since I was a kid what I've wanted to do and I'm able to do it. Not everyone has that. Lucky that my mum and dad were so supportive, too. Sure, there were quite a lot of tears when I first left home, and dire warnings about my inevitable demise — [ the infamous Weasley clock that kept tabs on what every single member of the family was doing came into being shortly after Charlie left for his dragonology training at nineteen ] — but they've been great about it, all told.
[ Luna's shifted slightly in her seat until she's leaning back in her chair and against his arm, one leg curled under her, contemplatively surveying the man over a piece of grilled octopus. It's endearing, hearing Charlie talk so firmly and passionately about what he does. He knows exactly what he wants. It's a charming difference from her own post-school existence: he's a steady lodestone compared to the way she meanders through life, picking up hobbies, dropping them, drifting back to them after a while, trying to sort herself out. ]
That's lovely. It must be nice, knowing right from the start. I took a few years before I could decide. For a time it was the Quibbler, then art, then photography, then maybe I could go into teaching because a few of the others did, you know, but then I saw the syllabuses and decided I would simply rather not. I don't think the Ministry would be for me, either. [ Her nose wrinkles. ] Too many rules.
I do think the journey is part of it, though, so I don't mind taking a while.
[ Sometimes he wonders if his desire to chase dragons was a lingering childhood escape mechanism, if growing up under the threat of He Who Must Not Be Named left any scars on his psyche, if spending the first decade or so of his life constantly worried that someone might come and murder his family for being blood traitors meant all he wanted was to get away and hide out in the forest where nobody could find him.
One morning, when he was home for Christmas and had spent half the night awake with nightmares lingering, he'd been sitting in the kitchen near dawn and Hermione had appeared at his elbow; they'd sat together at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and not really chatting about much of consequence for so long that when she'd suggested he try seeing a therapist, he'd been floored.
A therapist? For what?
No. He's fine. He's got a good life and he's happy with it, and all that unpleasantness is in the past where it belongs.
Right now, he has other things to focus on, like the tickling of her hair against his arm as Luna leans back, the gentle lilt of her voice as she rambles on about her life post-Hogwarts. Post-war. Post-fear.
He has to resist the urge to turn his wrist and fiddle with her hair. ]
Yeah, my brother Percy is still with the Ministry. I could never do what he does. [ He shudders theatrically, wanting to make her smile again. ] I think you have the right of it, love. You're young yet, you've all the time in the world to decide.
You say that like you're an aged hermit. [ She affects a deeper voice, her most playful imitation of him: ] Oh me, I am wise old grizzled dragonkeeper, living away on the mild moors. You're not that much older, Charles.
[ On the list of things that Luna cared about, an eight-year age difference was right at the very bottom. Between her odd personality, being an only child, and being her father's best friend, it meant associating with all his friends rather than children her own age — she had peered in on dinners, sat in on the adults' conversations, chatted amiably to seventy-year-old wizards. Sometimes people looked at her wide eyes and distracted demeanour and saw innocent naiveté; other times, people could realise she was wise beyond her years. (Twelve years old and standing by the carriages with her hand against the warm, leathery neck of a thestral, the animal pressing its bony nose into her palm.)
But, still— ]
You are right though. Maybe I'll change my mind entirely a few years from now and decide to become a competitive Gobstones player. You could, too — though something tells me you're rather happy where you are.
[ He laughs at her impression of him, loud and uninhibited, like she'd really done something special and not just mocked him for feeling his age.
One would think, maybe, that getting teased on and off his whole life would make him a little more sensitive to the subject, but the opposite has been true. Growing up with Fred and George dogging his every steps meant Charlie had to grow a thick skin in sheer self-defense, and Luna's gentle mimicry was hardly insulting. He's certainly had much worse. ]
Too right! [ he laughs, giving in to the urge and tweaking her braid where it lies right beside his hand. ] I am wise and old, and I feel it every time I have to stand up from a crouch.
[ He finishes his glass of tsipouro and pours himself another, tilting the glass gently this way and that to watch the clear liquor slide along the edges. ] I am happy where I am. And you seem fairly happy where you are, too. You really do look well, Luna.
Ach, my bones, my poor bones. [ Luna flashes him a mischievous smile, but abandons the imitation schtick before they can both grow tired of it. That light tug at her braid sends an answering shiver down her spine, a little ripple of warmth bubbling up; she restlessly readjusts her position again, now sitting comfortably cross-legged in the chair. She's bad at sitting still and usually feels the need to fidget, and does so now: absentmindedly nudging a rogue olive around the edges of her share plate. ]
Thank you, Charlie. I'm glad you're here, too — it's nice having a familiar face around, my first time out of the country.
[ She takes another sip of the tsiporou. It's settled into her stomach and her head, and there's a pink tinge to her pale cheeks; her alcohol tolerance isn't the highest and she can already feel it buzzing in her fingertips, loosening her tongue. ] Are you fine being called Charles or do you hate it?
[ He grins at her. ] It's my joints more than anything else. My poor knees, the damage they've seen.
[ He shifts himself slightly to make more room for her as she adjusts herself on her seat, pulling up both legs to tuck them under her, her knee winding up pressed solidly into his thigh when she settles down. He doesn't move his chair away, or even remove his arm from the back of hers, leaving them sitting quite close, nearly tucked in against each other.
It's just that the bar is so crowded, see, and they'd have to shout to be heard over the music and general hubbub of conversation if they sat farther apart. That's all. ]
Goodness, your first time? Really? [ Sometimes he forgets that most people, even wizards, barely leave their city — going to Hogwarts doesn't count, obviously — for most of their lives. Weasleys have lived in Ottery St. Catchpole for coming up to hundreds of years now; theirs is a culture steeped in tradition and routine. Taking off and traveling the world in service to a career that offers absolutely no certainty and security is definitely not the norm. ] Then I'm doubly glad to have run into you.
[ Her pink cheeks are very fetching, making her eyes look that much bluer as she blinks at him, earnest and serious in the way he's started to understand is just her default. ] I don't mind it so much, [ he admits slowly, frowning a little. ] It does sometimes make me think I'm about to get a dressing-down, though. Charles Gideon Weasley, you stop that this minute! [ he warbles, mimicking his mother's higher tones. ]
First time, yes. There's not much money in the Quibbler. [ Another thing that, oddly, the Weasleys and the Lovegoods had in common: their strained purse-strings, their rickety old hodgepodge of houses, the Burrow and the Rookery with their built-on annexes and teetering storeys. Luna doesn't sound bitter about it, though, more like she's just offhandedly mentioning a fact of life. ]
But then I promise I shan't misuse it. I wouldn't want to remind you of your mum.
[ For so many reasons, but.
The noise in the cramped bar has been ebbing and flowing, steadily ticking upwards as the witches and wizards get drunker and louder. One of Luna's colleagues behind them shouts for her attention; a woman named Brunnhilde ducks in close, "Luna, a few of us are going to the gelateria down the street for dessert, coming with?"
Luna peers up at her from her chair, and there's that teetering indecision floating in the moment. She does not look at Charlie, but feels the warmth of his thigh against hers, his arm behind her, and remembers the sound of his voice so close to her ear, and she thinks: I'd like to see where this goes.
"No thank you, I'm catching up with a friend," she says, and it is, in fact, close enough to the truth.
A few of her party pay up their cheques, disperse, and leave. The room thins out a little, but it's still crowded enough that leaning so close to each other is still a good idea. Mostly. ]
[ Charlie had been lucky with most of his international trips, in that they've almost entirely been funded by work and he's just been able to tack on some sight-seeing along the way. Case in point, tonight.
It also probably helps that Charlie's idea of sight-seeing tends to veer towards the 'tramping through the wilderness' end of things and not so much the 'visiting museums and tarted-up tourist attractions' one. ]
I appreciate it, though I don't think you're in too much danger of that.
[ Charlie does pull back a little when one of Luna's friends swoops in to half-shout in her ear, making room for the two of them and accidentally catching the eye of one of his own colleagues in the process. Jiří grins at him, lifting his eyebrows in a way that Charlie knows from experience means he's fighting back an inappropriate comment, and Charlie finds himself scowling at him from across the table, taking advantage of Luna's distraction to make a rude gesture at him with the hand he doesn't have draped behind her shoulders. A burst of laughter, the soft brush of air as Luna's friend leaves, and then it's just the two of them again, and Charlie firmly turns his attention back to the girl sat beside him and studiously ignores the men who came in with him.
Miraculously, no other comments are forthcoming. ]
You sure you don't want ice cream? [ Charlie is happy with his liquor and tapas, but that doesn't mean he needs to monopolize Luna for the whole night, no matter how pleasant it's been so far and how warm and lazy the alcohol is making him feel. Luna's off on her first international trip. She should be out enjoying it with friends. ]
[ Luna shakes her head, an airy dismissal. ] Oh, no worries. We've been there before, and we'll go again. We've probably got loads more time here than your group anyway, I expect, unless it takes a while to catch that dragon.
And besides. I'm stuffed. I'll have to walk off some of this before ice cream. [ She waves a hand at their table. They've done a fairly good job of demolishing the liquor and the family-style plates — and whatever food is left on the table, it looks like Rolf and one of the Romanians are only too pleased to dig into and polish off. Rough hands, hungry work. ]
[ Glancing over at the rest of the group, Charlie doesn't quite smile at the sight of his colleagues and Luna's sneaking their hands over to nab some of the food from the platters left out, but his expression does soften somewhat, and he hums in response to her comments.
Truthfully, Charlie could probably eat a lot more, and keep drinking. But he probably shouldn't. ]
I never had much of a sweet tooth... [ Not necessarily true, but true enough for now. He might change his mind if he got to see some baklava out on offer, the honey oozing from each slice, freshly-toasted pistachios poised on the cusp of tumbling off the glistening flakes of pastry.
...Maybe he does have more of a sweet tooth than he realized. ] Wouldn't mind a bit of a walk, though.
[ And as delicious as the food and the company is, the air in the bar is also getting a little tight and close and warm. She tips her head to glance towards the exit, and just like that, a decision is made. Luna seems to unfold back to her feet like malleable liquid, and then it's the amiable chaos of getting the bill paid: the pair of them digging through pockets and wallets to turn out the magical Grecian currencies, the lepta and foinix, squinting and trying to count them properly in the low light, laying them out for their bartender.
That eventually done, she shrugs into her light jacket, slings the satchel back over her shoulder, and they head outside. There's a brief moment where she confers with one of her colleagues — setting up a way to get in touch later, not exactly a curfew, but still a don't go too far and get eaten by that dragon — and then it's the pair of them spilling outdoors, Luna close on Charlie's heels.
The island air smells like the sea. It's a little chillier now that the sun's set and the wind cutting in off the water, even if it's balmy, so she finds herself burying her hands in her jacket pockets as they saunter along. She breathes deep, a contented sigh. ]
[ Charlie's worked with some people who are happy to just unearth a fistful of coins and leave them on the table whenever something needs to be paid for, blissfully unconcerned with correct amounts or the current conversion rates, but he was raised by Molly Weasley in the midst of a war and is currently employed in a career that is emotionally fulfilling at best, but hardly exactly lucrative.
He and Luna sort through the coins in his palm until they've acquired the correct amount to be passed over, and then he adds in an extra lepta just to be polite, before pocketing the rest and squaring his shoulders to barge his way through the crowd to make for the exit.
At some point, he reaches behind him to reach for Luna's hand, clasping warm fingers around her to make sure she's being towed in his wake and they don't get separated. Once they make it outside, he lets her go, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to focus on the lingering warmth in his palm. ]
Oh, we've some tents set up outside the city. [ Hardly the most glamorous of accommodations, but Charlie's happy enough with them. They don't let in the rain or the wind, and they're surprisingly spacious inside; he's slept in worse places. ] What about you lot?
[ Charlie's hand is delightfully warm and rough and scarred, and even as he (they) regretfully let go, her fingers curl into her palm in the absence. Luna's unsurprised to realise that his hands are callused, where hers hands are soft, haven't hardened yet from her current foray into life as a field academic. Her fingers are usually just ink-stained from her wildlife doodles and scribbling notes in her naturalist's journal, which is half-indecipherable even to her colleagues, little observation fragments mingled with reminders to herself: gills? — kappa familiaris — I think it likes the smell of mango — buy loaf of bread from market later. ]
We're not roughing it quite as you are. There's a bed-and-breakfast run by this formidable Greek witch, and she makes a wonderful breakfast. We must have taken up the last of her rooms so there wasn't any left for your lot, but I suppose you're used to tents. [ A beat, an idle curiosity as to how the rugged dragonologists live: ] Are they bigger on the inside than not, or are they regular tents?
[ He's not the tallest of his siblings — the indignity of having his baby brother tower over him by nearly six inches having long ago ceased to sting — Charlie is nonetheless one of the quickest on foot, having perfected the skill of striding with purpose and determination with the air of a Bludger on a mission that makes people leap out of his way. When he's not paying attention, he tends to slip into that way of walking no matter where he is, cheerfully barreling his way through an empty forest and the crowds of Diagon Alley alike.
With Luna at his side, the way he's walking is all he can pay attention to, since the path they're taking isn't particularly wide, and the way Luna has her hands in the pockets of her jacket makes her elbows poke out enough that they brush against him every other step.
He has a bizarre urge to offer her his arm or something equally ridiculous. She's the one of the two of them that has any idea where they're going. ]
Most of them are just regular tents, [ he admits, shrugging with his hands still jammed in the pockets of his jeans. ] Hermione's fixed mine up for me, though, don't tell the others. She's a real gem, that girl. I've told Ron if he ever fucks it up and they split that I'd marry her just to keep her in the family.
[ Luna was never an athlete, so she's having to half-scurry in order to keep up with him with little half-skipping strides, but she doesn't seem to mind. It's a steep and winding path along the edge of town, teetering at the top of the cliffs; there's always the sense that you might take the wrong step and plummet into the ocean below, but she's done this walk every morning and night, and so she's comfortable with it. She doesn't really know where she's leading them, except that it'll descend to the beach eventually and they've got a nice view and somewhere along the way, there might be a creperie, or her bed-and-breakfast, and they'll make up their minds as they go.
At Charlie's declaration, she snorts a laugh. ]
Only if I don't beat you to it. We have a sacred pact that if she ever had enough of boys and their nonsense, she should ring me up.
[ Is she joking? Maybe. It's hard to tell. The two girls hadn't gotten along at first, back in the day — Hermione's prim, straightlaced love of order versus Luna's affable chaos — but they'd clicked in the end. War and adversity had a way of searing away the surface and boiling everyone down to their essence, and you found out what really mattered. They'd finally understood each other, then. ]
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→ for ~exardescere; i'd heard about you before, i wanted to know some more.
So Luna had eventually signed on with a magizoology internship, and gone as far abroad as her wandering feet could take her: wanting to see new places and document new creatures, armed with a knife, sturdy boots, handkerchiefs, flint and tinder, good socks, a high-quality camera.
The work placement program in Greece turns out to be a blessing. She unfurls like a plant which had been huddled in on itself for far too long. She gets to stand on the bow of the sailing ship, wind whipping through her already-unruly hair, soaking in the warm sea breeze and rich blue water. The nearby village is cobblestoned lanes and whitewashed walls, buildings teetering on the edge of the cliffs; it's like something out of a picture.
And the others in the program strike up a quick camaraderie, with the older magizoologists mentoring the younger set — some of whom are even younger than she is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed students fresh out of Hogwarts. Luna's a little on the older end compared to them, although she doesn't mind; she'd had taken a few years to lick her wounds at home, helping with the Quibbler, trying to decide what to do with herself.
It's turned out to be a rewarding trip. The researchers have been been tromping around Karpathos Island cataloguing the flora and fauna off the beaten path from Muggle tourists, going on boat rides, trying to catch a sight of an elusive hippocampus pod.
The latest buzz, though, is that there's been a dragon sighting nearby. This island isn't its native environment at all — but Bulgaria and Romania are just a stone's throw to the north, and for a flying reptile with a giant wingspan, it's not that far a trip.
Which, of course, makes her wonder.
The researchers are in touch with the dragonologists, which eventually confirms her suspicions that they're from Romania, and Rolf doesn't mind when Luna steals one of their many tiny messenger owls to send a message (just this: fancy a drink when you're done? - 🌙). The open-air bar is wizarding-only, tucked away with concealment charms with a view of the ocean as the sun slowly sinks over the horizon, glowing red like an ember. Luna's sitting with her colleagues, slowly sipping a local beer and only half-paying attention to the conversation, when there's the sound of a new group of people arriving. She twists in her chair and glances at the entrance, unconsciously looking for a familiar face to come in with the rest of the group of men, all muddy boots and reeking of smoke. ]
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He doesn't mind so much, really, since living a predictable life isn't the worst thing that's happened to him lately, not by a long shot.
That doesn't mean he isn't thrilled to jump on the chance to head south to investigate rumors that are swirling around of dragon sightings from Greece to Turkey. Dragons haven't been found anywhere near the Agean sea for centuries, but with the way Muggles have been spreading and encroaching on the natural habitat of creatures both magical and not, it's not outside the realm of possibility that a dragon might have snuck its way down far enough to be spotted around the Mediterranean in an attempt to avoid the press of humanity forcing it from its home.
To say he's surprised to come back to their temporary barracks after a fruitless afternoon of hiking to find a little pigmy owl waiting for him, puffed up and cross when he admits he doesn't have treats to hand, would be an understatement. Especially when he unfolds the note and reads it, the little sketch of a crescent moon more than enough to tell him exactly who it's from.
I'll be there with bells on. -CW
He doesn't show up with bells on, in the end. What he does do is show up with four other dragonologists, all of them sweaty and vaguely singed, their spirits high from the excitement of finally being out of freezing cold Romania on a wild goose chase (wild dragon chase), feeling like kids on a school holiday allowed to skive off when all their work's been done.
The bar isn't difficult to find, especially with their local guide to help translate for them, and the moment they pass through the doors, Charlie finds himself looking around for a mass of white-blonde hair, searching for the witch who invited him, eager to see a familiar face. ]
Luna! [ He breaks away from the men he came in with, half-shouting something in Romanian over his shoulder at the one who swiped at his shoulder as he left, and makes a bee-line to where she's sitting so he can hug her like they're old friends and not only tangentially acquainted, going so far as to buss a friendly kiss to her cheek. ] You're looking well. How's your trip going?
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All of the naturalists are outdoorsy types, but at the heart of it, their job is to take notes on habitat, sneak photographs of rare creatures, and draw detailed sketches, all striving not to get involved at all. Meanwhile, the dragonologists have a reputation as adventurers, rough and rowdy and intriguing, their line of work more dangerous. Luna can already see the way a couple of the girls and one of the lads perk up, craning for their attention. And so their jaws drop when Charlie carries himself right across the room and presses a scratchy kiss to Luna's cheek.
The quiet, dreamy newbie knows one of them? How in Merlin's name had that happened?
She couldn't really say, herself. They'd been ships passing in the night back in England, carrying on a conversation just long enough for him to give her some tips on travel, then one brief gettogether with the two of them and Ginny before he flew out again after the weekend. Seeing him again, she seems to brighten like a small star. ]
Oh, it's been wonderful. No hippocampi so far, but we'll befriend them yet.
[ She finds herself looking at him, drinking in the details. As an only child, she finds his family clan fascinating — she might know Ginny and Ron best, but there's the echo of all those other Weasleys in the angles of Charlie's face, the familiar constellation of those freckles, although starker on his face from all his time outdoors.
"Loony" Lovegood, on the other hand, older and now kitted for the outdoors, is dressed a bit more sensibly than her reputation might have entailed. No strange hats or dangling earrings this time (they might be seized by stray animals, she had been somberly informed), and her flyaway hair has been scraped into some semblance of a braid, although it's already coming apart. But she hasn't left behind all of her vibrant affectations: there are pink heart-shaped sunglasses tucked into the outside pocket of her light jacket, a piece of cork hanging around her throat as a necklace, and a series of colourful enamel pins attached to her hardy leather satchel.
Her gaze drifts to his own outfit, and the absence of what was promised. There's a smudge of soot on his cheek. She licks her finger, reaches out and unthinkingly swipes it from his skin. ]
No bells? I thought it might be a dragon thing. Perhaps they like the sound of them. [ There's a crinkle at the corner of her eyes, a half-smile. ]
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He hasn't quite tucked her away in the same corner of his mind that houses Ginny and Ron's and all their friends, more because he hasn't seen them interact much together than for any other reason, but that doesn't mean he won't treat her just the same.
He steals a chair and drags it over to insinuate himself beside her seat, casually introducing himself to the wizard he forces to scoot over with a grin and a firm handshake, before turning his attention back to Luna. ]
Ah, well. [ Her swiping a damp finger over his cheek makes him blink a little in surprise, but he doesn't withdraw or make a face, just holds still and lets her tidy him up. ] Surprisingly enough, I have a hard time pulling them off. Didn't want to embarrass myself in front of all your new friends.
[ He sticks his hand in the pocket of his well-worn jeans, spreading his knees a little to accommodate the stretch of denim across his thighs, and pulls out a Euro coin that he'd found and had intended to send home to his dad. Arthur has plenty of Muggle coins already, though, and Charlie would rather show off than send trinkets home to his father; he closes his palm around the coin and Transfigures it into a little silver and gold bell, the sort that's found on a fancy cat collar. Letting it jingle merrily in his palm as he waggles his hand, he flips it between his fingers and reaches up to tuck it behind her ear like he's picked a flower from the garden. ] You make it look very fetching, though.
[ One of the other dragonologists appears at his shoulder suddenly, a pint of beer in hand that he shoves in Charlie's direction. Accepting the proffered drink, he tears his attention away from Luna and instead sets to introducing his colleagues to the zoologists around the table, figuring since he knew the most people he might as well get the introductions out of the way now and let the alcohol on offer do the rest of the work for him.
After a somewhat chaotic few minutes of hand-shaking and laughing lessons in pronunciation, he lets his attention drift from the group at large and settle back on his countryman. Leaning in to be heard over the hubbub around them, he drapes his arm across the back of Luna's chair for balance and gestures down at her feet. ] I like your boots.
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Before she can think of what to say, however, then the clamour of names and handshakes begins. It's a mess of voices overlapping and introductions for the newcomers and some glad reunions for the old-timers: Didn't we meet at that conference in Sardinia? and No, it was Salamanca and Did you ever rehabilitate that Ironbelly, two summers ago? Luna finds herself drifting along on those eddies of conversation, committing names to memory, quietly following their tangents. She props her chin in her hand and watches them all, her silvery-grey eyes large and bright. When she cocks her head while listening, a bit like a curious dog, the bell tinkles behind her ear like a reminder.
Once there's enough of a break in the discussion (an impassioned debate about today's progress, ideas and suggestions for where to root out the dragon tomorrow) and Charlie steals a moment to lean towards her, Luna turns her own attention fully back to him. ]
Do you really? I took your advice. [ She raises one leg, foot stuck out for proud display, and then simply props her boot on his knee for better inspection. It turns out she's just as loose and easy with physical contact as he is; unselfconscious and maybe a tad too whimsical about others' personal space. ]
They still need breaking in. Dad said leaving them out on a full moon would help with that, but I have doubts.
[ Once upon a time, she'd blindly accepted everything Xenophilius Lovegood had said as fact. She still took most of it on faith, but some faint dubiousness had started creeping in lately. ]
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They really do look nice. Sturdy, solid, nice and sensible leather with strong laces. They also look like they're still more or less brand new, still stiff and uncomfortable after a long day. Not at all like Charlie's dragonhide boots, so old and worn-in that they're starting to edge past comfortable and into scruffy. There's nothing wrong with them, though! Just because he's had to charm the soles once or twice doesn't mean they need replacing just yet.
He hates breaking in shoes. ]
That's where the socks come in, [ he says, deciding to simply move past her father's advice on breaking in footwear. He himself has never tried leaving his shoes out on a full moon, so he doesn't know if it works or not. It might. ] You gotta wear two pairs for a while, so that they rub against each other and not your foot itself, it helps with preventing blisters if cushioning charms won't cut it. Plus it makes the shoes a little bit tighter so the leather stretches more.
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[ The socks she did get are thick and insulating, and the pattern is visible where they protrude from the neck of the boot: colourful daisies printed all over them. She is literally incapable of owning plain socks.
The woman beside Luna has her eyebrows climbing into her hairline at the sight of her leg in Charlie's lap, a clear-cut question written all over her face — is there some story here? old friends? amiable exes? — but she presumably wouldn't know what to do with the bit of information that, well, this is only Lovegood's second time meeting him.
Luna, for her part, doesn't even seem to notice or care. If there are any sideways glances, they slide right off her. She wiggles her toes in the boot to flex the stiff and immoveable material, and then, satisfied with Charlie's verdict, swings her leg back down to the floor, which leaves their chairs scooted closer together than they were before. Back to curling her fingers around her pint of beer, the glass sweating with condensation in the warm evening. There's a slice of orange in it. ]
How did today go? You all smell like a campfire. It's nice.
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[ Her current socks are very sweet, and based on what little he knows about her, perfectly in line with everything in her wardrobe.
Charlie is used to being looked at askance, mostly because he's severely underdressed for whatever it is that's going on, or because he's still nursing a fresh burn or some article of his clothing is lightly charred. Usually he's charming enough to make up for it, though, and when he's not he's perfectly capable of simply pretending not to notice. The scrutiny they get over her leg in his lap gets no reaction from him.
Presumably he's going to get gently hassled by his coworkers and friends for the comfortable way Luna has with him, but he doesn't mind the future ribbing.
The orange in her beer looks refreshing. Charlie's is a darker brew, foam clinging to the edges of the glass, the hops sharp and bitter on his tongue as he takes a casual swig. ]
I always smell a bit like a campfire, I think, [ he admits with a laugh. ] It went well. We've mapped out its territory, found where it's been feeding, and plotted where we think it's going to nest. Now we just wait to see if we're proven correct.
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[ The naturalists' excursions will have to veer away from the dragonologists' territory, at least until the hazard is safely rounded up and cleared out. One path to instant litigation would be the dewy-eyed Hogwarts grads being eaten by a dragon because they went to the wrong place, and roamed too close to a known danger. ]
And in the meantime, you all get to enjoy Karpathos. You should join us on the boat later, if there's time. We've been going all around the islands. [ Leaning conspiratiorially closer, Luna pitches her voice low in a stage whisper over the edge of her glass, ] I know I'm working, but this is also the nicest holiday I've ever been on.
[ Selfishly, she hopes the dragonologists find reason to stick around a little longer, before they wrap up their assignment here. She treats everyone alike whether she knows them or not, but that there's this additional tenuous thread of history which makes Charles Weasley feel more familiar than not; more like home than not. Perhaps it's the Devonshire accent, occasionally rounded by Eastern European vowels. There's an antique Muggle camera sitting heavy in the bottom of her satchel, which hangs on the edge of her chair — Luna's fingers are already itching to take a picture of him at some point tonight, preserving that single image. Portrait of a dragonkeeper at rest. Arm curved over the back of her chair, knees confidently spread, boots planted squarely against the floor. She's always wanting to bottle moments with new friends like this, like trapping the visual in amber.
She tamps down the urge for now, although once she hits the bottom of her next beer, probably all bets will be off. ]
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[ Only someone as absolutely mad as Charlie would look at a rampaging, fire-breathing, livestock-devouring creature and think poor thing. But it's true! It's not the dragon's fault that they bumped up against Muggle settlements, or that in their fear and fury they pose a threat to humans around them. Once upon a time, humanity would blink first and simply relocate themselves out of the dragon's way, but now that's no longer the way of the world. Now, it's the dragons that need to be relocated, and few of them who grew up wild and free take too kindly to the notion of captivity, no matter how humane the dragonologists make it.
Charlie can sympathize. The thought of captivity, of being forced into a quiet little life trapped behind walls not of his own making, makes his skin crawl. He's always been made for wide-open spaces, it's why he loves flying so much, why he seriously considered a career in professional sports, why he's built his life in the wild mountains of Romania instead of staying closer to home and finding himself a wife like all his brothers.
And yet, in all his wild and free life, he's yet to spend any time at all in Greece. ] I'd like that. How long have you been here? You can be my guide.
[ He knows enough about Luna to know that, with her as his tour guide, he'll get to see some truly bizarre parts of the islands and almost nothing of the more prosaic tourist destinations. He can't wait.
His beer finished, and hers nearly there, he sets his glass down on the bar and motions to the bartender, ordering in a confusion pidgin of English and Bulgarian for a bottle of spirits, please, as well as a few plates of things to nibble on; he hasn't had dinner yet, and doesn't quite feel like having a full meal, but drinking on an empty stomach is not a good idea. Thankfully, the bartender seems to know exactly what to do, and it's barely a few minutes later when he returns with a chilled bottle of tsipouro and two small glasses that he plonks down in front of them, a heavily-accented slow his only instruction before he disappears back through the doors to the kitchen.
Raising his eyebrows at Luna in amusement, Charlie pours them both a shot and then holds out her glass to her. ]
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Luna listens to the hodgepodge of the order being agreed upon: tsipouro, plus the decision for the kitchen to just haul out their own recommendations of tapas, a random and improvised assortment of food for the foreigners. As Charlie holds out the second glass, she takes it with delicate fingers (her nails are painted robin's egg blue but chipped and worn at the edges, the colour fading). Slow, she reminds herself. She could, sometimes, follow instruction.
She takes a slow sip and her face pinches. The drink is chilled and refreshing, but it's also like being socked in the eye with potency; this one doesn't taste overwhelmingly of anise like ouzo, so it's different from what she's had earlier in the trip. She presses her lips contemplatively against the edge of the glass, savouring the flavour, trying to make up her mind. ]
I can't feel my tongue.
[ Verdict: ]
It's delicious.
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[ Charlie's not going to make any comments about her nail polish; it's a pretty color, and he's sure it was lovely when it was fresh, but considering how much work he does with his hands and the state they're currently in — there's always a bit of dirt wedged under his nails no matter how well he scrubs them, and his palms are rough with callouses and healing nicks and cuts — he's in no position to throw stones.
He takes a hesitant first sip, letting the potent flavor seep across his tongue, reminiscent of țuică. Like țuică, he's apparently supposed to sip at his shot glass slowly; Charlie knocks back the full glass and coughs a little as the burn seeps down his throat. ]
Don't tell anyone, [ he tells her, winking as he reaches for the chilled bottle and pours himself another measure before anyone notices that he was so uncouth as to down his drink like a shot of tequila. ] It's not bad, eh? Reminds me of some of the things we distill at the sanctuary.
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Your secret's safe with me. I hear it'll put hair on your chest.
[ She's tiny; she doesn't have anything to prove in trying to keep up with him, so she doesn't. Having already started drinking before the other parties got here, too, that gentle tipsiness is already nipping at the edges of Luna's awareness — it makes her even looser and mellower, even more affectionate, smoothing the evening into a pleasant blur and simply dialing up her qualities. Where some drunks are loud and boisterous, Luna gets contentedly sleepy and giggly. When he mentions a distillery, her curiosity's immediately piqued again. ]
Do you all make your own moonshine, then? I tried to teach myself when I was just out of Hogwarts — I must have gotten the mash mixture wrong, though, because Neville was up all night vomiting after he tried it. Poor thing.
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Will it? [ He sets his glass down and hooks a finger in the stretched-out collar of the thermal shirt he's wearing, tugging it away from his neck and glancing down at himself like he's actually checking for chest hair. ] Most of mine's been singed off, maybe I should keep drinking.
[ Despite what he's just said, he's much slower as he drinks his next glass, sipping it like he's supposed to and waiting for the bartender to send someone out with some meze plates for them to nibble on. ]
Not always. We also buy a fair amount, but when you're sequestered in the wilderness with the nearest town miles and miles away, it's sort of expected that you make your own fun. Andrei's been distilling țuică for decades now, he's the one who taught me. [ He chuckles lowly, shaking his head a little in sympathy for poor Neville. ] Poor bloke. Maybe he just doesn't have the stomach for it.
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[ The cold tapas don't have to be cooked, so a burly waiter comes slouching out soon enough carrying their small platters, to be placed in the center of the table for sharing: house-made salted mackerel, sour pickled beans, smoked feta cheese with tomato paste and olive oil. They're all bold and brassy flavours, salty and briney to offset the tsipouro. Beside her, Rolf's hand sneaks in from an entirely different conversation and steals some feta. She smacks his wrist mock-chidingly, but it's barely a light tap; the food's meant for sharing, although most of the others are putting their heads together to order something else. The other side of the table is absorbed in an amiable argument — hippocampi migration patterns and some unseasonable weather and whether or not the aquatic horses might have moved on from this island entirely — but it doesn't catch Luna's attention, which meanders back to her drinking partner instead.
After Charlie's playful bit with the shirt, the neck of his shirt is now hanging looser around his throat than before. Which is very rude, because now she simply cannot help but wonder what he does look like underneath. She distracts herself by inhaling some salted mackerel. ]
How long have you been in Romania, miles and miles away? It seems you'd been gone a whi— oh, this is good, try this one.
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How Andrei would laugh at him teaching Luna the proper way to pronounce the name of Romanian alcohol, considering how poor his own accent is considered among natives. Still, the fact that she's making an effort endears her to some of his colleagues, who helpfully lean in to correct them both, and it certainly endears her to Charlie even more, leaving him smiling widely enough at her that the creases around his eyes become far more pronounced. ]
Those Slavs love their plum brandy, [ he agrees. ] It's your luck that there's no Slivovice here.
[ Much like any other man who makes a living doing manual labor and living more or less communally, Charlie isn't fussy at all about what he eats, and the tapas plates that are brought out are all approached with the same eager hunger, bits of fish and cheese and heavily pickled vegetables put away with the same enthusiasm. ]
Hm? Oh, er. Coming up to twelve years now, I think. Maybe thirteen. [ He accepts the small triangle of pita with some pinkish taramasalata scooped up on the edge and pops it fearlessly into his mouth without asking what it is he's eating, trusting. ] Oh that is nice. What do you think it is, fish? It's quite salty.
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[ She's content to dig cheerfully into the food, wolfing down this mix-and-match dinner after an active day out on the island, helping blunt the effect of that potent liquor so it doesn't go straight to her head and knock her off her chair. When she reaches the dolmades — grape leaves stuffed with rice, herbs, pine nuts, and a bit of feta — she makes a delighted little noise. They're wrapped like tiny burritos, which means it's easy for her to pluck another one up and offer it to him. ]
I have decided I will trust this chef with my life. Here, you've got to have one of these.
[ There's that cheerfully crossing boundaries again — Luna always slipping into a presumptive intimacy which could always be awkward at best, rude at worst — but truly, she doesn't think twice about it before she's holding out the wrapped grape leaf for Charlie to eat it straight from her fingers. ]
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Between bites, Charlie continues to sip at his liquor, refilling his glass when it empties and doing the same for Luna's, ensuring they both have a steady stream of cool, sharp spirits to cleanse the palate between each dish.
When she holds out a dolma to him, the grape leaf starkly green against the rice and herbs inside, he doesn't hesitate to lean forward, the hand not resting on the back of her chair lifting between them as if to cup any stray grains of rice that might tumble from the little parcel as she feeds it to him.
Is it weird, perhaps, that she's feeding him the second half of an appetizer she'd already bitten into? Yeah, maybe. Not weird enough for him to refuse the food, though, or to lean out of her personal space, or to stop looking at her with fondly amused blue-green eyes. ] Yeah, s'nice.
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Twelve years. I'm obviously much earlier on, just getting started, but I'd been thinking about going into magizoology for a while. All this. I like this.
[ A vague and dreamy gesture of her hand at everything around them: the bar, the people, but it's more than that. ]
Dad was always telling me about all these different creatures and animals, and I want to prove that they exist. Just because no one's seen a Snorkack yet doesn't mean they're not out there.
[ The years to come would slowly start to winnow the wheat from the chaff, and she'd start to untangle which of her fathers' conspiracy theories were fake vs which ones had some grain of truth to them — but that was the whole point of it. The discovery. ]
Not quite the same as what you do. But the same field, ish. Why dragons? Out of all of the creatures?
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The fact that Luna is the same age as his baby brother doesn't mean anything to him, not at this stage of their lives.
This could mean anything, really, but he's choosing to believe she means the camaraderie of being removed from your home and thrown in with a bunch of like-minded people, all with a common goal. It's an invigorating feeling, as well Charlie knows. ]
New species are discovered every day, [ he agrees encouragingly, though he personally has doubts about Snorkacks and some of the other things he's seen mentioned in the Quibbler. ] Even Muggles are discovering new tropical frogs all the time. If they're out there, you'll find them eventually.
[ He tops up her glass again, and rubs his fingertips together to smooth out the condensation lingering there from the bottle. ]
I dunno, really. I've just always loved them. I'm lucky, that way. I've known since I was a kid what I've wanted to do and I'm able to do it. Not everyone has that. Lucky that my mum and dad were so supportive, too. Sure, there were quite a lot of tears when I first left home, and dire warnings about my inevitable demise — [ the infamous Weasley clock that kept tabs on what every single member of the family was doing came into being shortly after Charlie left for his dragonology training at nineteen ] — but they've been great about it, all told.
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That's lovely. It must be nice, knowing right from the start. I took a few years before I could decide. For a time it was the Quibbler, then art, then photography, then maybe I could go into teaching because a few of the others did, you know, but then I saw the syllabuses and decided I would simply rather not. I don't think the Ministry would be for me, either. [ Her nose wrinkles. ] Too many rules.
I do think the journey is part of it, though, so I don't mind taking a while.
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One morning, when he was home for Christmas and had spent half the night awake with nightmares lingering, he'd been sitting in the kitchen near dawn and Hermione had appeared at his elbow; they'd sat together at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and not really chatting about much of consequence for so long that when she'd suggested he try seeing a therapist, he'd been floored.
A therapist? For what?
No. He's fine. He's got a good life and he's happy with it, and all that unpleasantness is in the past where it belongs.
Right now, he has other things to focus on, like the tickling of her hair against his arm as Luna leans back, the gentle lilt of her voice as she rambles on about her life post-Hogwarts. Post-war. Post-fear.
He has to resist the urge to turn his wrist and fiddle with her hair. ]
Yeah, my brother Percy is still with the Ministry. I could never do what he does. [ He shudders theatrically, wanting to make her smile again. ] I think you have the right of it, love. You're young yet, you've all the time in the world to decide.
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[ On the list of things that Luna cared about, an eight-year age difference was right at the very bottom. Between her odd personality, being an only child, and being her father's best friend, it meant associating with all his friends rather than children her own age — she had peered in on dinners, sat in on the adults' conversations, chatted amiably to seventy-year-old wizards. Sometimes people looked at her wide eyes and distracted demeanour and saw innocent naiveté; other times, people could realise she was wise beyond her years. (Twelve years old and standing by the carriages with her hand against the warm, leathery neck of a thestral, the animal pressing its bony nose into her palm.)
But, still— ]
You are right though. Maybe I'll change my mind entirely a few years from now and decide to become a competitive Gobstones player. You could, too — though something tells me you're rather happy where you are.
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One would think, maybe, that getting teased on and off his whole life would make him a little more sensitive to the subject, but the opposite has been true. Growing up with Fred and George dogging his every steps meant Charlie had to grow a thick skin in sheer self-defense, and Luna's gentle mimicry was hardly insulting. He's certainly had much worse. ]
Too right! [ he laughs, giving in to the urge and tweaking her braid where it lies right beside his hand. ] I am wise and old, and I feel it every time I have to stand up from a crouch.
[ He finishes his glass of tsipouro and pours himself another, tilting the glass gently this way and that to watch the clear liquor slide along the edges. ] I am happy where I am. And you seem fairly happy where you are, too. You really do look well, Luna.
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Thank you, Charlie. I'm glad you're here, too — it's nice having a familiar face around, my first time out of the country.
[ She takes another sip of the tsiporou. It's settled into her stomach and her head, and there's a pink tinge to her pale cheeks; her alcohol tolerance isn't the highest and she can already feel it buzzing in her fingertips, loosening her tongue. ] Are you fine being called Charles or do you hate it?
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[ He shifts himself slightly to make more room for her as she adjusts herself on her seat, pulling up both legs to tuck them under her, her knee winding up pressed solidly into his thigh when she settles down. He doesn't move his chair away, or even remove his arm from the back of hers, leaving them sitting quite close, nearly tucked in against each other.
It's just that the bar is so crowded, see, and they'd have to shout to be heard over the music and general hubbub of conversation if they sat farther apart. That's all. ]
Goodness, your first time? Really? [ Sometimes he forgets that most people, even wizards, barely leave their city — going to Hogwarts doesn't count, obviously — for most of their lives. Weasleys have lived in Ottery St. Catchpole for coming up to hundreds of years now; theirs is a culture steeped in tradition and routine. Taking off and traveling the world in service to a career that offers absolutely no certainty and security is definitely not the norm. ] Then I'm doubly glad to have run into you.
[ Her pink cheeks are very fetching, making her eyes look that much bluer as she blinks at him, earnest and serious in the way he's started to understand is just her default. ] I don't mind it so much, [ he admits slowly, frowning a little. ] It does sometimes make me think I'm about to get a dressing-down, though. Charles Gideon Weasley, you stop that this minute! [ he warbles, mimicking his mother's higher tones. ]
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But then I promise I shan't misuse it. I wouldn't want to remind you of your mum.
[ For so many reasons, but.
The noise in the cramped bar has been ebbing and flowing, steadily ticking upwards as the witches and wizards get drunker and louder. One of Luna's colleagues behind them shouts for her attention; a woman named Brunnhilde ducks in close, "Luna, a few of us are going to the gelateria down the street for dessert, coming with?"
Luna peers up at her from her chair, and there's that teetering indecision floating in the moment. She does not look at Charlie, but feels the warmth of his thigh against hers, his arm behind her, and remembers the sound of his voice so close to her ear, and she thinks: I'd like to see where this goes.
"No thank you, I'm catching up with a friend," she says, and it is, in fact, close enough to the truth.
A few of her party pay up their cheques, disperse, and leave. The room thins out a little, but it's still crowded enough that leaning so close to each other is still a good idea. Mostly. ]
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It also probably helps that Charlie's idea of sight-seeing tends to veer towards the 'tramping through the wilderness' end of things and not so much the 'visiting museums and tarted-up tourist attractions' one. ]
I appreciate it, though I don't think you're in too much danger of that.
[ Charlie does pull back a little when one of Luna's friends swoops in to half-shout in her ear, making room for the two of them and accidentally catching the eye of one of his own colleagues in the process. Jiří grins at him, lifting his eyebrows in a way that Charlie knows from experience means he's fighting back an inappropriate comment, and Charlie finds himself scowling at him from across the table, taking advantage of Luna's distraction to make a rude gesture at him with the hand he doesn't have draped behind her shoulders. A burst of laughter, the soft brush of air as Luna's friend leaves, and then it's just the two of them again, and Charlie firmly turns his attention back to the girl sat beside him and studiously ignores the men who came in with him.
Miraculously, no other comments are forthcoming. ]
You sure you don't want ice cream? [ Charlie is happy with his liquor and tapas, but that doesn't mean he needs to monopolize Luna for the whole night, no matter how pleasant it's been so far and how warm and lazy the alcohol is making him feel. Luna's off on her first international trip. She should be out enjoying it with friends. ]
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And besides. I'm stuffed. I'll have to walk off some of this before ice cream. [ She waves a hand at their table. They've done a fairly good job of demolishing the liquor and the family-style plates — and whatever food is left on the table, it looks like Rolf and one of the Romanians are only too pleased to dig into and polish off. Rough hands, hungry work. ]
If you want ice cream, though...
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Truthfully, Charlie could probably eat a lot more, and keep drinking. But he probably shouldn't. ]
I never had much of a sweet tooth... [ Not necessarily true, but true enough for now. He might change his mind if he got to see some baklava out on offer, the honey oozing from each slice, freshly-toasted pistachios poised on the cusp of tumbling off the glistening flakes of pastry.
...Maybe he does have more of a sweet tooth than he realized. ] Wouldn't mind a bit of a walk, though.
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[ And as delicious as the food and the company is, the air in the bar is also getting a little tight and close and warm. She tips her head to glance towards the exit, and just like that, a decision is made. Luna seems to unfold back to her feet like malleable liquid, and then it's the amiable chaos of getting the bill paid: the pair of them digging through pockets and wallets to turn out the magical Grecian currencies, the lepta and foinix, squinting and trying to count them properly in the low light, laying them out for their bartender.
That eventually done, she shrugs into her light jacket, slings the satchel back over her shoulder, and they head outside. There's a brief moment where she confers with one of her colleagues — setting up a way to get in touch later, not exactly a curfew, but still a don't go too far and get eaten by that dragon — and then it's the pair of them spilling outdoors, Luna close on Charlie's heels.
The island air smells like the sea. It's a little chillier now that the sun's set and the wind cutting in off the water, even if it's balmy, so she finds herself burying her hands in her jacket pockets as they saunter along. She breathes deep, a contented sigh. ]
Where are you all staying?
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He and Luna sort through the coins in his palm until they've acquired the correct amount to be passed over, and then he adds in an extra lepta just to be polite, before pocketing the rest and squaring his shoulders to barge his way through the crowd to make for the exit.
At some point, he reaches behind him to reach for Luna's hand, clasping warm fingers around her to make sure she's being towed in his wake and they don't get separated. Once they make it outside, he lets her go, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to focus on the lingering warmth in his palm. ]
Oh, we've some tents set up outside the city. [ Hardly the most glamorous of accommodations, but Charlie's happy enough with them. They don't let in the rain or the wind, and they're surprisingly spacious inside; he's slept in worse places. ] What about you lot?
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We're not roughing it quite as you are. There's a bed-and-breakfast run by this formidable Greek witch, and she makes a wonderful breakfast. We must have taken up the last of her rooms so there wasn't any left for your lot, but I suppose you're used to tents. [ A beat, an idle curiosity as to how the rugged dragonologists live: ] Are they bigger on the inside than not, or are they regular tents?
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With Luna at his side, the way he's walking is all he can pay attention to, since the path they're taking isn't particularly wide, and the way Luna has her hands in the pockets of her jacket makes her elbows poke out enough that they brush against him every other step.
He has a bizarre urge to offer her his arm or something equally ridiculous. She's the one of the two of them that has any idea where they're going. ]
Most of them are just regular tents, [ he admits, shrugging with his hands still jammed in the pockets of his jeans. ] Hermione's fixed mine up for me, though, don't tell the others. She's a real gem, that girl. I've told Ron if he ever fucks it up and they split that I'd marry her just to keep her in the family.
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At Charlie's declaration, she snorts a laugh. ]
Only if I don't beat you to it. We have a sacred pact that if she ever had enough of boys and their nonsense, she should ring me up.
[ Is she joking? Maybe. It's hard to tell. The two girls hadn't gotten along at first, back in the day — Hermione's prim, straightlaced love of order versus Luna's affable chaos — but they'd clicked in the end. War and adversity had a way of searing away the surface and boiling everyone down to their essence, and you found out what really mattered. They'd finally understood each other, then. ]