Salt and Pepper Fest: Luna Lovegood: Wank Coach for the Long-Since Deceased

[hpgoldenage_mod]

Title: Luna Lovegood: Wank Coach for the Long-Since Deceased
Author: frnklymrshnkly
Characters/Pairings: Luna Lovegood, Lavender/Parvati, Dean/Seamus, Ginny/Pansy, Harry/Draco, George/Lee, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom
Rating: T
Word Count: 9906
Content/Warning(s): Gen fic, self-partnership, happy single life, living your best life at 50, friendship, Luna is a life coach, for ghosts, she specialises in wanking, sexual actualisation, casual sex offscreen, birthday party, Beltane, foraging, frolicking, psychotropic truffles, cake, dancing, 80s music, 90s music, 00s music, giving no fucks, party planning, banter, off-screen nutting with the imprint of a departed soul, ectoplasm is no joke
Summary/Prompt: Prompt C16; Luna Lovegood is 50, coaching ghosts in wanking, foraging for psychotropic truffles, and dancing around a Beltane bonfire. Any questions?
A/N: The author does not vouch for the efficacy of any ghost wanking techniques herein. They do, however, thank their beta profusely for the cheeread, the amazing work on this (as always <33333), and suggesting the term 'ectaculate' :D

Read on AO3 or below:



"Ooooh! Ooooooh! OoOoOoOoOoOoh! OOOOOOOOOH!" 

Silence from behind the door. 

And then, "Goodness!"

"Is everything alright, Barnaby?" Luna calls through the door to the shed, which she's closed to provide her client with some modicum of privacy.

"Y-yes," Barnaby stammers. "I mean… Erm… that is to say… it's a bit… messy?" He sounds more embarrassed than uncertain. But Luna is used to this. Someone can hire you to help them achieve non-corporeal orgasm, can have a non-corporeal wank behind a shed door, but can't come out and say—

"Ectoplasm," Luna supplies. "It's okay to say ectoplasm, Barnaby. Remember how we talked about the importance of open, unashamed sexual communication?"

"But I don't have anyone to communicate with," Barnaby says. If he had breath, Luna thinks he'd still be out of it.

"Healthy internal dialogue is just as important as talking to others, if not more so," Luna reminds him. "I want you to practice reminding yourself that your desires are valid, Barnaby. You may be dead, but you're still here, and there's no reason you shouldn't have orgasms like anyone else who wants them. So I think it would be helpful if you practiced saying it aloud. Repeat after me: I deserve to ectaculate."

"Um, right." Barnaby giggles nervously. "I deserve… that."

Luna sighs. "Come on, Barnaby, we're not blushing flowers here. You're over a hundred and thirty years old. You can say it: I deserve to—"

"Ectaculate!" Barnaby blurts out in a rush, as though the faster he says it, the less painful it will be.

"Take a good look at that ectoplasm, Barnaby," Luna advises, offering the same advice she's been carrying to ghosts across counties, countries, and continents as her practice has grown over the last decade. "That ectoplasm is the fruit of your labour. And there's more where that came from! Though, come to think of it, it might be good if, in future, you found a discreet spot to ectaculate in. Ectoplasm doesn't stay corporeal for too long, but still, I don't think Mr Grady wants to find a mess when re-pots the geraniums."

Barnaby lets out another nervous giggle, which grows into a fully-realised laugh, and then into uproarious guffaws. Luna's heard this before too—the disbelief as a sense of accomplishment and relief breaks through the years, decades, even centuries of sexual frustration, as the client realises they can wank again. And again. And again and again and again.

Luna knocks on the door of the stone garden shed Barnaby's been haunting since a nasty accident with a pair of secateurs at the turn of the twentieth century. 

"Come in," Barnaby bids from behind the door.

"How do you feel?" Luna asks, reaching behind her to wrap her long, salt and caramel hair into a messy bun, sticking it in place with her wand.

Barnaby has a post-orgasmic look on his grey, translucent face that Luna's seen dozens, maybe hundreds, of times over the years: mixed embarrassment and delight. Actually, that look isn't just a ghost thing; it's a human thing. She's seen it on plenty of lovers over the years, especially those who're initially buttoned up, taciturn, but whom Luna walks by hand down the garden path of sexual actualisation. There seems to be something about telling someone, perhaps for the first time, exactly where you want them to stick what, and getting a powerful orgasm for your efforts, that makes people feel all at once hugely chuffed with themselves and  still embarrassed about it. 

Luna's never had much time for pretending she doesn't know what she wants or feels, and reticence in others, especially of the boudoir variety, kind of bums her out. She knows she can't Reducto repressive social norms all at once, not all on her own, but whether Luna's communicating with a lover or coaching a client, she's happy to make a dent.

"I feel flattened," Barnaby finally answers. Luna always encourages her clients to think before answering; of course, ghosts can't check in with their bodies in the same way as corporal people, but as evidenced by their lingering appetites of all kinds, they can feel in their own way, and reflect on that. "In a good way."

"Under the circumstances, sounds to me like the feeling of a job well done." She's been coaching Barnaby intensively every day for the last week. The technique Luna teaches is based on various breath-based, touchless practices that corporal sex gurus have been practicing for centuries. Naturally, ghosts don't breathe, but Luna's never let anything like the laws of physics or magic get in the way of her curiosity. It's all a matter of thinking outside the box. You can make anything happen with enough experimenting. "I'm so proud of you," Luna tells him. "This is a real breakthrough, a skill you can carry with you for the rest of your undeath!" 

"Yeah." Barnaby sounds a bit overwhelmed, like the possibility of an undeath without chronic sexual frustration is almost too magical to fathom.

"You don't need me anymore." Luna is delighted. Her work is so rewarding.

"Thank you so much, Luna. How can I ever thank you?" 

"You're welcome. But you did the real work. Besides," she adds, smiling, "it's my job." 

It's true—this isn't some hobby. Since she turned forty, Luna's vocation has been helping ghosts enjoy less angsty undeaths. Her friends seem ceaselessly amazed by how many people living in close proximity to ghosts are willing to shell out good money to keep them in a good mood. Luna thinks it's a win-win-win: corporeal people enjoy less aggressive hauntings, ghosts enjoy knowing they have an eternity of wanking ahead of them, and Luna gets paid to work all over the world. 

And work she does. She's busier than she'd ever imagined back when she first conceived of the idea for her practice. Through her twenties and thirties, Luna pursued a wide range of leads as an investigative journalist—everything from reports of spotting (and making out with) Big Foots to illegal Ministry hush-ups. When she was thirty-eight, she'd been foraging in an English wood for Transcending Truffles on Samhain when she wound up an unwitting spectator to the Headless Hunt. At the end, she'd asked Sir Patrick Delaney Podmore if he had five minutes for The Quibbler, then levelled a bunch of questions at him about how toxic masculinity manifests after death. Her line of questioning lead to a long and surprisingly generative night of conversation, snacking on surströmming and playing the role of his agony aunt. She'd come away with the theory that haunting in general, and the antics of the Headless Hunt in particular, speak less to 'unfinished business' and more to sexual frustration (compounded, of course, by the inability to enjoy other pleasures like eating and sleeping).

She spent a couple of years reading every piece of sexual theory and smut she could, attending live sex shows and tantric retreats, working all the while with Sir Patrick as an eager test case.

And here she is, twelve years later, having taught Barnaby and countless other ghosts to masturbate. Sure, she misses truffle foraging and hearing about what good kissers Big Foots are, but she loves her job.

"Still, I can't thank you enough," Barnaby says.

"You can thank me by focussing your energy on more constructive pursuits than harassing Mr Grady everytime he needs a spade. And if you should need any supplementary help, you can always send word."

"I will," Barnaby assures her. Luna smiles. She knows he won't need any more help. She's spectacular at this.

After bidding Barnaby adieu and magically collapsing the yurt she takes with her to sleep in when she's working (so important to preserve physical as well as emotional boundaries when one is a coach), Luna heads through the large rural garden and knocks at the front door of the main house. 

Mr Grady answers, wringing his hands and looking hopeful. "Well?" he asks.

"I think we've got to the root of the problem," Luna informs him without elaborating. "I don't think Barnaby will be causing you any more trouble."

*

Carrying a Gringotts bank draft, Luna heads down Mr Grady's Wessex street, popping an ear bud in each ear and breaking into a bit of a dance-walk as she turns on "Dancing with Myself". She could have Apparated back to Dean and Seamus's house (who generously let her use it as a home base when she's back in the UK--she's just not around enough to keep her own flat here anymore. Her work keeps her travelling. Luna supposes when you're the only person offering a vital but niche service, word will get around one way or the other) from the Grady's, but she had been sitting cross legged outside Barnaby's shed for the better part of an hour coaching him through the first wank of his undeath, and her knees are demanding a stretch. Dancing is excellent for keeping limber, and it's good for her lymphatic system. And, as an added bonus, she likes making the days of youthful Muggles who, unexpectedly and unsneakily, get to SnapChat some old kook dancing down the street.

Luna taps the screen of her phone and turns off Airplane Mode, still shuffling along. She'd never check her phone during a session, of course, but it just feels good to turn off data while she's working, like she's affirming her commitment to her clients. Signal freshly established, she receives several notifications in quick succession.

She reads the one from Parvati first.

Luna Lovegood cordially invites you to the celebration of her half-centennial Thursday, 1 May, 2031. Luna requests that you bring no gifts, only yourself and a spirit of fun. 

On 1 May at 12:00pm, this invitation will become an active Portkey that will bring you to the party location for foraging, food, and frolicking. 

Please RSVP by owl to Parvati Patil by 24 April.

Luna looks over the invitation. Sure, her birthday was over two months ago, but Parvati hadn't approached Luna about planning a fiftieth birthday party until her and Lavender's New Year's Eve bash. Luna'd been a bit hesitant at first. She didn't want to impose upon Parvati, who's always incredibly busy with her booming event-planning business. More to the point, since her mid-twenties Luna's been fastidiously practicing winging it when it comes to partying, which means her scene has more or less become tossing a bottle of kombucha in her rucksack and heading to the nearest public square or field where a drum circle has sprung up to dance herself silly and make some new friends. Youngsters are always glad to have some grey-haired witch around to make them feel at once youthful and also superior, as though sharing an amorphous dance mass with someone fifty-years-old is a public service. When Luna'd shared her thoughts, Parvati insisted that she wanted to throw Luna a party (which Luna suspects is, at least in part because she has the penultimate milestone birthday until George hits seventy-five, and Parvati has to get her jollies in). Parvati assured Luna they could plan something that suited her, but with the added benefit of a fixed time and place, meaning her friends will for once know when and where to show up. Luna, never one to be threatened with a good time, nonetheless told Parvati that she wouldn't be in England again until April, when she was returning to work with a client (now former client, Luna thinks happily). Parvati suggested a Beltane Belated, and Luna poured her another prosecco to seal the deal.

It's very formal, Luna observes, reading the invitation again. 

That's the fun of an engraved invitation, Luna! Parvati chimes in after barely a second. A fiftieth birthday party is a big whoop, and it can be fun to have a bit of pomp and circumstance! We deserve it, working as hard as we do!

Luna, who's always been rather fond of pomp and circumstance, nods in agreement, even though Parvati can't see her. 

"That's true  :), Luna sends back, leaving out the full-stop on purpose. Nothing harshes the vibe of a text like a full stop.

Luna reads the invitation text a third time and smiles at the work that Parvati thinks that she and her birthday are worth, even two-and-a-half months after the event itself, and even at this stage of life. 

Her mind casts back to Hogwarts, when her fashion choices and her general manner had elicited contempt from her schoolmates. Luna has always tried to dwell in the present—the future is best left a mystery, in her opinion. Still, she'd never imagined, back when she tracked down missing shoes and other personal effects, that over thirty-five years later she'd be bffs with a sizable group of rebels with whom she'd bonded via active collusion against an authoritarian regime. 

It's been a pleasing turn of events.

Did you send them? Luna asks.

As soon as I have your thumbs up, Parvati texts back. Then I'll sort out the Portkeys with Department of Magical Transportation and head to the post office

Luna taps back a thumbs up and receives an XD in return. Teddy and the rest of the 'kids' all mock "the olds" mercilessly for being "profoundly unhip texters," which, Luna thinks, makes sending them strings of unicorns, plant sprouts, french fries, and poos all the more jolly. Nothing warms the cockles of her heart during the months she spends away from her friends like reading "we live in the era of custom emojis now, aunt Luna," as a response to commenting on an instagram selfie with an old-timey flame emoji.

After giving Parvati the go-ahead, Luna opens another message, this one from Ginny.

Tonight at Cena, it reads, then, 8pm. Italians are fussy about the time of "the canonical dinner hour," apparently. Blame Pansy.

Pansy's message, though, heads Ginny off at the pass: Don't pay Ginny any mind. Lucia is lovely, and Cena is delicious, but unprepossessing. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. DO give Lucia a chance!

Although most of her friends have stopped trying to set her up, Harry and Draco (mostly Draco) persist (Luna suspects there are unresolved feelings of guilt here about keeping her locked in a cellar) and Ginny and Pansy seem to have decided it's their personal mission to find Luna an SO. 

She's been telling them for years she's not interested in a relationship, but she occasionally agrees to let them set her up on dates. She may not want a partner, but she's not celibate.

*

A little after eight, Luna is elbow-deep in chit chat and wood-fired pizza.

"...and that's how I got into pediatric Healing. Been at it for twenty-five years now. How about you? Pansy told me you're a life coach?" Lucia looks sardonically skeptical.

"Sort of," Luna beings. "I'm a masturabatory coach for ghosts."

Lucia bursts out laughing. Luna just smiles.

"No seriously, what do you do?" 

"I work with ghosts," Luna repeats. 

"Are you with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?" Lucia probes. 

"No, my work is freelance. I provide sessions to my clients in their place of haunting–far easier," Luna explains, "since they have difficulty leaving for extended periods."

Lucia's eyes go very round and she looks a bit like she's trying to suppress another laugh. "But you don't actually coach them in wanking?"

Luna nods and takes a sip of San Benedetto. "I'm the world leader in masturbatory coaching for ghosts."

Lucia laughs again.

"Though," Luna admits, "by default. As far as I know I'm the only coach who specialises in ghosts."

Lucia gets her laughter under control. "That's… quite something."

"I think so." Luna nods earnestly. "By the way, Lucia, I should say I'm not looking for a relationship. My friends like to set me up, and I love meeting new people! But you should know."

"Okay?" Lucia responds, the look of incredulous amusement on her face falling a bit. "So, why are we here?" 

"To eat a margherita." Luna takes a basil-y bite. "To meet each other. And sex is on the table—at least for me," Luna tells her. 

Something in Luna's openness seems to pick Lucia's spirits back up. She smirks. "It is, huh?"

Luna smiles and nods. "Only if you want to." 

"You're pretty forthright, huh?" Lucia asks.

"Yes," Luna agrees.

Lucia's smirk deepens and her eyes seem to twinkle. She looks Luna up and down, from the wand barely holding up her salt and caramel hair to her brightly patterned dress. "So, when you say you're a sex coach..."

"Masturbatory coach, really," Luna corrects. "Though my friend Ron likes to joke that I'm a sexpert." Luna smiles fondly.

"What do you say," Lucia says, grabbing her purse from where it's hanging on the back of her chair, "we get out of here, and I'll be the judge of that."

Luna loves being fifty. There's so much less beating around the bush.

*

"Pretty well everyone has RSVP'd," Parvati tells Luna excitedly over steaming mugs of chicory root in Dean and Seamus's kitchen a couple days later. 

"No prizes for guessing who the non-responders are," Seamus quips. 

"Don't worry Luna," Parvati says, as though the thought of worrying about an RSVP has ever crossed Luna's mind. "Ron's hopeless about RSVPing—I'll badger him later. And Draco, I expect—"

"Is in a high state of "control enthusiast"— Dean punctuates the phrase with his fingers, "—anxiety about how many kinds of footwear he'll need to pack in order to have something appropriate for the secret location." 

"Surprise location," Luna amends.

"Surprise location." Dean rolls his eyes. "The point still stands." Parvati gives him a look that plainly says: got it in one.

Seamus snorts and mutters, "He's so fucking Extra. I thought age would mellow him." 

"Hasn't mellowed you," Dean points out.

"Ha ha," Seamus says, dryly. "How can someone spend fifteen years with Harry and not have some of those low-maintenance vibes rub off on him?"

"I think they enjoy finding ways to goad one another; it's fun for them. Keeps things fresh after so many years," Luna observes, perfectly at peace with their ways. Even if Draco does just do it to get a rise out of Harry, she doesn't care if he brings a Muggle duffle bag filled with a selection of shoes. It's not like Harry doesn't needle back, and besides, their dynamic is none of her business—she has no doubt they make one another happy, and that's all that matters to her.

"And there's nothing wrong with being particular about your shoes," Parvati says, looking down at her own pristine pink leather wedges.

"I can't believe you won't even tell us where the party is going to be," Dean says, accusingly. "We're your best friends! I feel betrayed."

Seamus nods. "I'll never trust again."

Parvati makes a gesture like she's zipping her lips shut. 

Luna takes another sip of chicory, then says, "Surprises are fun."

*

On the morning of the party, Parvati arrives, Lavender in tow, with news that everyone on the guest list eventually RSVP'd.

"No one would miss one of your bangers, love," Lavender says with a radiant smile.

"They've had years to develop a keen fomo where Patil parties are concerned," Dean agrees.

Parvati does a full-blown curtsey in acknowledgement of her event-planning prowess, rounding it off with a little salute. "So," she says, upright once more, "I brought all the supplies." She jangles her stylish handbag, from which emanates the sound of a metric tonne of ruffling crepe paper.

"We thought a yellow and purple scheme, Luna—you look so fetching in daffodil!" Lavender says. Parvati'd enlisted her partner to lend her unerring interior designer's colour sense, which, Parvati had assured Luna with a gushy look of deepest love, is second to none. 

"Parvati," Lavender's voice becomes serious, "get the swatches." Parvati does a veritable full-body lunge into her bag.

"Yellow and purple are my favourite contrasting colours," Luna says. "Yellow represents freshness and energy."

"Yeah," Seamus says sarcastically, "freshness and energy are always the first things someone thinks of when you say 'yellow.'"

"I choose to ignore its associations with cowardice." 

"Right on, Luna," Lavender says, taking the swatches from Parvati and showing Luna the options. "You know what I think? It's just fucking yellow." Lavender follows up the pronouncement that yellow isn't that deep by asking Luna her opinions on at least fifteen different shades of it.

Once Luna's assured Lavender and Parvati that she trusts their professionally honed décor decisions implicitly, Parvati casts a Tempus and nods firmly. "We should get a move on." 

"The party isn't for two hours!" says Seamus, indignant.

"We need time to get everything in order at the site," Parvati responds. 

"You need two hours for that?" Seamus presses.

"D'you think all her fabulous bashes just happen, Seamus?" Lavender demands, but the intensity is all in jest.

"Luna, if you just get dressed, we can head out," Parvati says.

"I'm ready now."

"Oh." Parvati visibly tries to show respect for Luna's bodily and fashion autonomy by not dolefully looking over her bare feet, billowy paisley pants, bralessness, and t-shirt that reads: Spinster with a star dotting the i. Luna appreciates the effort. She and Parvati have a different fashion sense, and probably in their twenties and even thirties Parvati and Lavender would have tried to convince Luna to let them give her a makeover. Today, though, Parvati just says: "Well, great then. Let's boogie, team." She grabs her bag, and Luna grabs her rucksack before clasping hands with Parvati and being whisked away with a CRACK!

They arrive in the forest clearing that Parvati and Luna chose for their rendezvous point.

"The trees are beautiful, aren't they?" Luna enthuses, walking over to an alder at the edge of the clearing and running a hand over its magnificent bark.

While Luna moves on to make friends with a nearby hornbeam, Parvati Accios a long table out of her bag, followed by heaps and heaps of yellow and purple paper, which she deposits on top of it. Luna joins her and Lavender at the table, and Parvati grabs some of the yellow paper, pulling on it a bit and showing Luna how it forms a spherical lantern. 

"I thought moon lanterns would be perfect for you." Parvati hands one to Luna, looking admiringly at her handiwork. "I think they'll look great floating in the clearing."

"Oooh! Yes!" Luna is touched. 

In an instant, Parvati has at least thirty paper moons suspended in the air between the trees about ten feet above their heads. 

"And the purple ones are stars," Lavender says, pulling once more on the paper to show off a four-point shape. With a wave of Parvati's wand, the stars intersperse themselves artfully between the moons. 

"They look wonderful. Thank you both," Luna says gratefully. 

"You haven't seen anything. At nightfall when we're back here, they'll be all lit up," Parvati enthuses. Luna nods in preemptive appreciation. She's still happy at an impromptu drum circle, but she can see why the non-drum-circling crowd pay Parvati so much to plan their parties.

With the lanterns up—Parvati spends a few minutes tweaking the position of the odd one here and there—Parvati turns her focus back to her magic bag (though to be fair, aside from Marietta Edgecombe and Zacharias Smith, no former DA member is without a bag, rucksack, valise, or briefcase magically extended by Hermione) and Accios another table and a couple dozen collapsible deck chairs. "A little comfort never goes amiss," says Parvati.

"She doesn't want to sit on the hard ground," Lavender jokes.

"I'm a Taurus," Parvati retorts. "I like to be comfortable."

After Lavender moves the tables and chairs around a few times to find the best vibrational and aesthetic alignment, Parvati Accios yet more stuff out of her bag. This time it's more dishes than Luna can count. And not those environmentally disastrous polystyrene or plastic or paper ones that Muggles use, each one is really glass, or porcelain, or crystal.

"The pièce de résistance," Parvati calls as she levitates a three-tier cake out of her bag, careful to avoid getting buttercream on the clasps. 

"I fucking love cake," Lavender says solemly, but she doesn't miss a beat in helping Parvati tinker with everything from the precise placement of the lanterns and refreshments and deck chairs, calling out here and there to ask if everything meets with Luna's approval. Luna doesn't have much to contribute from her spot in the grass, except consistent assurances that everything looks like a dream come to life. 

Eventually, Parvati casts another Tempus and declares it's almost time. "Probably everyone will be a bit late," she admits, "but it's best to wrap up before guests start arriving. Preserve the illusion of perfection." She wiggles her eyebrows like she's revealing trade secrets, then waves her wand and music begins to play—Luna isn't sure from where—loud enough to provide a nice ambiance. 

Luna starts tapping her toes and nodding her head along to the low-fi guitar riff of "Last Night". Parvati smiles before disappearing into the bush with Lavender to change into their party clothes, and, if Luna's ears don't deceive her, a spot of light smooching. Luna smiles. She loves how in love her friends are after so many years. Not every relationship can withstand the trials of a war and the daily hurdles of adulthood, nevermind one between school sweethearts.

Parvati and Lavender return from the trees a few minutes later, not even showing—in a testament to the quality of their well-honed grooming charms—any signs of rumpling in their smart but venue-appropriate summer dresses.

They sit themselves down in a couple of chairs near Luna's spot on the grass.

"Is the cake from Joël's?" Lavender inquires. Parvati nods and Lavender's eyes widen with delight. "Let's split it three ways. I'm fifty-one years old, I can eat an entire tier of a cake if I want to. Fuck our friends—"

WHOOSH!

"What was that, Lavender?" Seamus calls as he and the rest of the new arrivals take in the magical scene Parvati has orchestrated.

Lavender flashes him a well-practiced middle finger and everyone laughs. 

"Looking good, Parvati," Lee shouts over the din, giving Parvati a thumbs up.

"I told you it would be a wood!" Draco crows, gesturing magnanimously past his smart tweed jacket and waistcoat down to the plus-fours and wellies.

"Yeah, you're the real winner in that outfit." Harry, Luna thinks, delivers sarcasm better than anyone in the group, including the Slytherins. 

"Yeah, well done, chief inspector," Ron teases. "How'd you manage to work that out from clues like foraging."

"Pft," Draco scoffs. "We can't all be sleuths like those of you," he pauses for dramatic effect, punctuated by sharp looks at Ron and Harry in turn, "who misspent their youths working as cops."

"Hey! We dropped out before we even qualified!" Harry retorts.

"Yeah, give us a break, we were seventeen!" Ron adds, "Auroring still seemed cool!"

"Quitters." Draco changes tack, shaking his head in a pastiche of disappointment.

"I wouldn't throw stones from glass stately manor homes, dilettante," Harry parries.

Draco responds by snubbing Harry and giving Luna belated birthday wishes. 

"Thank you, Draco," Luna says. "You could take off your wellies, you know. They might get sweaty and blistery in the warm weather." Draco looks stricken at the prospect of blisters. "Everyone can! Walking barefoot on grass is very grounding and centring. And it tickles your toes."

Harry looks down smugly at his own battered trainers while Draco assures Luna he packed other options, patting his satchel. George, Lee, and Justin, meanwhile, join Luna in barefootedness (Jusin has been, in Luna's estimation, way more chill since he started going to festivals a few years ago).

In no time, the clearing is rife with the cheerful sounds of the Strokes, all her friends greeting one another and wishing each other happy Beltane, and giving Luna hugs and cheek kisses accompanied by "happy belated"s and "how's the wanking biz?"s.

For a while, everyone mills around, eating hors d'oeuvres and drinking fizzy water and punch, moving between groups of people to catch up and laugh and rib one another, as is their wont.

After a while, Parvati calls out to the group. "Fam, so glad you're all here!"

Several calls of "woo!" sound from the group, along with a wolf whistle from George.

"Now that everyone's had a bite to eat and something to drink, we're going to move onto today's activity!"

"But we haven't had cake yet!" Ron calls, looking to the three-tiered masterpiece with longing.

"Patience is a virtue," Hermione admonishes with a joking tone.

"Joël's cake is a virtue," Lavender cuts in.

"We're going to have cake once we're done foraging," Parvati tells them. 

"What do we need to forage for?" Lee asks, pointing to the trays on the tables, still at least half full of deviled eggs, mini quiches, and other nibbles.

"Truffles!" Parvati answers.

"Transcending Truffles," Luna elaborates.

"Oh!" Neville calls, eyes wide in surprise. "Are those real?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Hermione shakes her head before reaching for a deviled egg, as if it will fortify her against whimsy.

"Hermione, shut up," Parvati commands, somehow managing a tone of both levity and authority. "As everyone knows, Luna's been working hard as hell for, well, ages, for the good of ghost kind, which means she's had to put some of her other projects to one side. But not today!"

Luna jumps in. "Field reports of Transcending Truffles say they undergo their metamorphosis only six days a year: Ostara, Beltane, Midsummer, Mabon, Samhain, and Midwinter. They've been found in the North of England, and Parvati's handled all the Ministry paperwork to get this place Muggle-repelled until tomorrow morning."

"We're going on a goose-chase for imaginary truffles all night?!" Hermione demands. 

"Luna, what kind of reports have you seen that people have actually found these things?" Draco's question drips with whatever the aristocracy imagine diplomacy and tact to sound like.

"Good question," Parvati says.

"Is it?" Harry sounds amazed. Draco whacks him on the shoulder with the back of his hand without any force.

"It is, as a matter of fact. Accio." A small stack of papers flies from Parvati's bag and doles itself into each person's hands. Everyone looks down at the sheets in front of them, as though not sure whether or not their eyes are playing tricks on them. After a beat, Lee raises his hand. 

"Yes, Lee?" Parvati asks, exasperated.

"Um, why have you given us drawings of dog shit?"

"It may look like dog shit," Luna acknowledges, "but these sketches are actually ones magibotanists have made of the Transcending Truffle."

"And why are we going crashing through the woods to find dog-shit-looking truffles?" Dean inquires.

"To see them for ourselves," Luna answers with pep.

"Ravenclaws." Dean shrugs. 

"They could be a doorway into other planes of consciousness," Luna goes on, excited by the possibilities, even if her friends are skeptical. "No one has any idea where they go when they transcend."

"My money's on the bottom of people's shoes," Hermione mumbles.

"Studying them could unlock the secrets of magic, the universe, anything," Luna continues, undeterred. Every group needs its token skeptic. It's just their good luck that they landed such a brilliant, gifted, rebel bamf in Hermione Granger.

"So if we see something that looks like dog shit—" Lee begins. 

"How are we supposed to tell it's not, you know, dog shit?" George finishes.

"I think they smell different," Luna informs them.

"I am not walking around the woods wafting piles of dog shit in case they have value as recreational drugs," says Draco.

"I should think nudging it with your boot would work just as well," Luna offers.

Draco looks down at his wellies, seemingly appraising how much protection the rubber offers, and nods. George and Lee both give Luna grinning thumbs-ups.

"Well, I'm always game for a walk in the woods," Dean says, clearly neither enticed by the possibilities of transcendentalism, like Luna, nor ruffled by credulity, like Hermione. "Hear, hear!"s sound from the group.

"You can also brew them into psychotropic tea," Luna appends. 

Seamus snorts. "Theeeere it is." 

"Look, fam," Parvati says, clapping her hands together authoritatively. "It's Luna's birthday—"

"Her birthday was two months ago," Draco points out.

WHOOSH! 

Ginny and Pansy arrive in the clearing, wielding their invitation. "Sorry," Ginny calls. "Had to wait until it reactivated; missed the first one." 

"It's Luna's birthday," Parvati repeats forcefully, bringing attention back to her. "And she wants to look for psychotropic truffles."

"Sweet!" Ginny says. 

"Fifty-four isn't too old for recreational truffles, is it?" George considers out loud.

"That's a personal choice, George," Luna says. "But I would point out that the effects of Transcending Truffles—"

"If they even exist," Hermione mutters.

"—are no more mind or body altering than many medical and recreational potions."

Parvati, perhaps spotting a budding ethical debate about Ministry-approved potions versus unregulated raw ingredients, claps again. "So, you've all got the sketches. This is what we're looking for. We're going to head into the forest and look while we've got the sunlight on our side. When it's time for cake—"

"Cake," Lavender repeats, starry-eyed.

"—I'll send up yellow sparks and we can reconvene here. They'll be sparks above the clearing to guide everyone back, in case we break off into smaller groups."

"No one left behind—I love it," Lee says, approving.

Everyone moves towards the wood, and Luna veers over to Neville to ask him what he's read about the truffles and what kinds of magical-chemical elements he reckons might give them their psychotropic properties.

As they move past the tree line, Luna distinctly hears Draco tell Harry, "Remind me how great your trainers are once the mud has given you trench foot."

*

Luna spends a delightful few hours truffle hunting in the woods, mostly chatting with Neville, who keeps up an enthusiastic and informative running commentary on all the plants, magical and otherwise, that they come across. They see toadstools, wildflowers, and many glorious trees. They see birds and snakes, and, to Justin and Ernie's delight, a badger (from which they all back away slowly, giving it a very wide berth). Four or five times, members of their foraging posse pipe up that they see something that looks like the sketches. All, sadly, turn out to be poo. 

Ron is just hitting his stride in a truly age-appropriate rant about the utter disrespect Muggle pet owners show for users of the wood when, in a sky that, Luna notices, is beginning to take on a darker shade of blue, golden sparks appear and twinkle merrily. 

"Sorry, Luna," Neville says, bumping his shoulder into hers. "Wish we could have found you your truffle."

"That's okay, Neville. Spending the day with all my friends surrounded by trees is the real treat."

"Speaking of treats," Lavender calls as they all begin to move towards the sparks, "the sooner we get back, the sooner we get Joël's cake!"

Everyone cheers, and Luna smiles at the prospect of cake too. Lavender's sweet tooth is second to none, but she's also incredibly picky, and if she's this excited, they must be in for a(nother) treat.

"It was a valiant effort, comrades," George says, tone performatively sombre.

"But not to be, this day," Lee finishes.

"I was really looking forward to that trippy tea," George laments.

They may not have found any Transcending Truffles, but Luna'll never say no to traipsing through the woods on a fine May Day with her friends. She knows that all of them, probably, thought it a fool's errand even to look. Maybe not Neville. But that's not the point; the point is, they came anyway, for her, and they paid close enough attention to pick out no fewer than four piles of poo in the undergrowth in between heckling one another and egging on Harry and Draco's ceaseless, lust-fuelled mutual antagonism. 

*

They probably wouldn't have needed Parvati's sparks to find the clearing again, Luna thinks. Once they're close, and the trees begin to thin, everyone can plainly see a towering, bright orange Beltane fire beckoning them back. In the sky, dozens of moon and star lanterns flicker with light, glittering in a way they hadn't by the light of the sun. Taking in the sight of the trees, the lanterns, the real stars above beginning to peek out, and all her friends underneath them—all with the moody beats of an Air song adding to the atmosphere—Luna thinks, this is real magic.

"It's incredible, Parvati," Luna says, walking nearer to her so that she can give her hand a squeeze of appreciation.

"Happy Beltane, and happy birthday," says Parvati, dropping Luna's hand so that she can reach one arm around her shoulders instead. 

Lavender gives Parvati a cheeky hip check and demands, "Hey! What about me?!" Parvati responds by tossing her free arm around Lavender's shoulders and walking her and Luna both into the clearing. 

Once they clear the tree line, however, the lure of cake prompts Lavender to forget all about her pretend jealousy. She shrugs out of Parvati's embrace and all but skips towards the cake, collecting herself once she's picked up the knife, and beckoning Luna over urgently with her other hand to do the honours. 

"We may not have truffles, but it's a strawberry and vanilla cake, which incorporates some traditional Beltane flavours," Parvati shouts across the twilit clearing.

"Beltane foods were all aphrodisiacs, weren't they?" Hermione says, as if anyone in the clearing is going to correct her on points of magical history.

"Well, we kindly ask that you keep the raunch to a minimum or take it into the woods," Parvati laughs. 

"We're way too old to fuck in the woods," says Harry.

"Speak for yourself," Ginny tells him, as Luna says, "Oh, having sex on the grass can be wonderul." It's just a fact—she has zero intention of sleeping with anyone here. But that doesn't mean some of the rest of them can't pull up a grassy knoll and have a roll around.

"We'll leave rolling around over twigs and stinging nettles to the rest of you," Draco says, holding Harry's hand. 

"On this topic," Ginny jumps in, "Luna, what did you think of Lucia?" 

"Yes!" Pansy jumps in. "You haven't even done us the courtesy of texting us with the details!"

"The pizza was good." 

Pansy looks smug. "Of course it was."

"You know we don't care about the pizza," Ginny scolds. 

"I care about the pizza!" says Lavender, as she drags Luna by one hand over the to cake and pushes the handle of a large knife into her hand, plainly instructing her to get this delicious show on the road.

"Well we want all the details from Luna's date," Pansy retorts.

"We had a very nice nice time together," Luna answers. 

"I told you!" Ginny says, triumphant. "Didn't I say they'd hit it off?" Ginny whacks Pansy gently on the arm for emphasis.

"Excuse you," Pansy says, sniffing elegantly, "I think you'll find it was my idea to set Luna up with Lucia."

"Yes, dear." Ginny waves a hand dismissively. "So are you going to see each other again?" she asks Luna, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a Erumpent Horn blowing a hole in your childhood home. 

"I don't think so," Luna says, slicing more pieces of cake, which Seamus has taken to plating since Lavender took the first three and settled into a deck chair to get down to business.

"Why not?!" Pansy and Ginny demand in unison.

"You know why," Luna reminds them. "I'm not looking for a relationship."

"Oh, but Luna—" Ginny starts.

Pansy cuts her off. "But you said you had a good night together."

"We did," Luna confirms. "And now it's over. Don't worry, we talked it all through before we got to her place; no one was misleading anyone."

"Wait," Seamus interrupts, "you mean you flat-out told her you wanted to fuck and run?"

"I wouldn't say either of us did any running. But it is important to make sure everyone involved is on the same page."

"Nevermind that," Pansy interjects. "So you spent the night together. Has she texted you? Or owled?"

"Yes, she wanted to get lunch again, but I think we'd better not. In the morning I got the impression that she fancies me a bit and I don't want to string her along."

Ginny lets out a moan of frustration that catches Draco's attention from across the clearing. "I know that sound," he says, walking over to collect a slice of cake. "Whose advances has Luna been spurning now?"

"Lucia's," Pansy answers, biting into her cake spitefully, but then casting her eyes to the sky in delight, as though all thoughts of Luna's recalcitrance have been momentary pushed aside by Joël's handiwork.

"Your hot friend from work?" Ron asks.

"Yeah," says Pansy, looking grim.

It doesn't really bother Luna, the way her friends try to set her up or encourage her to "find someone." She's spent some great nights over the years with people her friends have set her up with. She thinks, fundamentally, that when it comes to partnership, she has a different view of the matter from most people, including many of her friends. As they've gotten older, so many of them have paired off (and split up, and re-paired in other iterations… it really is all a bit Fleetwood Mac, she thinks, looking at Harry and Draco and Ginny and Pansy). 

And that's saying nothing of those who've been together as long as Luna has known them, like Lavender and Parvati, and Dean and Seamus, possibly her closest friends. Luna and Dean had bonded at Shell Cottage—outsiders to Harry, Hermione, and Ron's plans, but invested in their outcome, in the fight, all the same. All the while, Parvati and Lavender had been keeping Seamus going in the nerve-shattering absence of news about Dean. Once the dust settled, the five of them were irrevocably fused. 

But Luna's never felt like a fifth wheel. Unlike her nearest and dearest, Luna's known for a long time that the partnered path isn't for her. She feels far greater affinity with Hermione, who split up with Ron back in their twenties when he wouldn't stop proposing, or with Neville, who would much rather enjoy the quiet of his greenhouses and the ability to sprawl across his California king-sized mattress with impunity. Sure, in Luna's case it's the ground under cover of her yurt, but the point stands. Being able to pick up in the morning and leave town, or country, or even continent, is the most precious thing in the world to her, friendships excepted.

Still, Ginny and Pansy, Harry and Draco, and some of the others seem to think it's just a matter of finding the right match, that Luna'd change her mind. And maybe she would. She's not the type to say never, but she's just so fucking happy with the life she's built. And anyway, in its own way, it's sort of sweet. Her friends have forged healthy, loving relationships; they want Luna to have what they have. But if there is one thing Luna knows, it's how to follow her joy.

"I still can't believe you and Neville never got together," Seamus muses loudly, leading Dean over to the chairs by one hand and shoving cake in his mouth with the other. This pronouncement causes Neville to raise both hands, palms forward, in front of him as if to say: don't involve me in your schemes. I am the Switzerland of this conversation. This results in his cake falling to the ground. 

Luna puts down the knife (safety first) and high fives both of his raised hands before handing him another plate, grabbing one of her own, and dragging him over to where everyone is sat in Parvati's deck chairs.

Luna opts for a spot in the grass while Seamus continues. "It just makes sense! You two are the cinnamon buns of the fam! You're the only two nice enough for one another."

"Seamus, stop shipping our friends," Dean teases.

"Yeah, Seamus," Ginny snaps. "Especially since, if we're talking intra-friend-group ships, the obvious choice is Luna slash Hermione."

Hermione chokes on her cake. "Excuse me." 

"I've been telling you all for years," Ginny says, sagely, "nothing like that enemies to lovers dynamic." She looks at Pansy with a strange mix of soppiness and aggression. Pansy offers Ginny a forkful of cake, then pops it into her own mouth when Ginny moves to eat it. Ginny laughs.

"That's all fine for you two aggros," Hermione says, clearly unable to resist the lure of pointing out faulty logic, "except Luna and I have never been enemies."

"You know what I mean," Ginny says, waving her hand as though such details are a matter of no consequence to her point. "You two haven't agreed about anything in thirty-five years."

"Luna and I are mature adults. We're not bothered by a bit of healthy debate," says Hermione. "Especially," she says, spearing another bite of cake, "as I'm always right." She's joking, but only by, Luna estimates, about ten percent. 

"I rest my case," Ginny says, smacking her hand down on her knee like a gavel. "I'm telling you Luna, shack up with a rival. There's nothing like a bit of aggro to keep things interesting." 

Luna feels confident that in fifty years and in all her travels, she has never encountered anyone so patently alpha as Ginny Weasley. 

"Yes, shacking up with your nemesis does have its merits," Draco admits philosophically, face half in shadow now, as the night has darkened.

"Nemesis!?" Harry cackles. "Draco, you were a pest at best."

Draco sniffs. "Well, you were my nemesis, and I'm telling you from that perspective that bending you over—"

Harry shoves his spoonful of cake in Draco's mouth. "I think what Draco is trying to say is opposites attract." 

"For some," Parvati says. "Some of us like having partners who share a lot of our interests, who have similar priorities." She reaches across the space that separates her deck chair from Lavender's, and Lavender's hand moves towards hers reflexively, like a pair of magnets. 

"And others," Luna looks at Hermione and Neville in turn, "are most happy doing their own thing." In the absence of glasses to raise, Hermione and Neville raise their plates in blissful self-partnered solidarity.

"I would miss sex," Seamus muses. Around her, most of Luna's friends nod in agreement.

"I have sex," Luna tells him. 

"Don't we know it," Pansy remarks. "You've been wham-bam-thank-you-ma'aming my colleagues and acquaintances for the last quarter century!" Her remonstrance is dampened significantly by the fact that she's: 1) laughing and 2) sounds impressed.

"Yeah, why do you think Luna keeps agreeing to let us set her up?" Ginny observes. "We're like her own personal Scissr."

"You could try not setting her up," Dean observes.

"Psht," Ginny waves his suggestion aside. 

"But Luna's not even here most of the time," Seamus says, circling back to his point. "What about when you're away?" he asks her, as though concerned for the state of her vulva. "When was the last time you pulled someone without these two meddlers?" Seamus asks, jerking a thumb towards Ginny and Pansy.

"I slept with my friend Fenella before I came back for this visit," Luna answers. "But we're just friends. She's very mature about it, but then I suppose she's had a lot of time to work on herself. She's been around since the early nineteenth century—"

Ron does a spit take while calls of "What?!" and bellows of laughter emanate from the group at large.

"Oh, she's a ghost," Luna elaborates. 

There's a long moment of silence.

"Luna, when we told you we think you should settle down, we didn't mean with a ghost!" Ginny wails.

"Luna Lovegood: Ghost Fucker," Ron wheezes out between peals of laughter. "You should have new business cards made, Luna." 

Luna laughs along with everyone else. When she catches her breath, she assures them all, "I'm not settling down with Fenella. I told you, we just sleep together as friends."

"Necrophilia kink, Luna? Who knew?" Dean teases. He's been really into making kink jokes, like he's seen it all and nothing can phase him, since Draco got him into Doctor Who fanfiction. Whenever it comes up (which is to say, whenever Draco brings it up, which is to say, sooner or later every time they get together), Draco invariably deflects all piss-taking with the mantra: "It's so important to keep oneself occupied with hobbies after retirement." Which inevitably prompts Dean to shout loudly that he isn't retired, and Harry to point out that Draco has never been gainfully employed a day in his life.

"I don't think so," Luna considers it, scrunching her nose in thought. "I think that would require a body, which Fenella obviously hasn't got."

"I really thought that by the time I was in my fifties, I would have normal conversations," Hermione laments, "not debates about whether or not my friends are necrophiliacs."

"Your imagined future sounds boring, Hermione. You're much better off with us," Parvati says. 

"I definitely don't think it counts as necrophilia," Luna says, considering the matter further. "She hasn't got a corporeal body, and she's also animate. She's not dead. She can respond. She's alive—in a way. Undead."

"I can't believe you're fucking one of your clients." Draco shakes his head and actually says, "Tsk, tsk."

"No. That wouldn't be ethical," Luna says simply.

"Riiiiiight." Seamus laughs. "Because the weird bit about fucking a ghost would be that they were your client."

"A good point well made, Mr Finnigan," Parvati says in her best McGonagall impression. "Luna, how do you fuck a ghost, anyway?"

"Well, it is different from a lover with a corporeal body, obviously," Luna admits. "Not that you can't make anything work, if you get creative—that's what my work has always been about, anyway."

"Luna, you cad!" Geroge jokes. "Never took you for one to kiss and tell!"

"Fenella's consented to me sharing our experiences together," Luna assures them. "I asked her ages ago, after the first time we slept together. She's very forward thinking—sexually avante garde for her time, really. I didn't sleep with her for research, of course, but afterward I realised that some of what I learned experientially with her might help my clients."

"Look," Ron presses, sounding serious. "Level with us, Luna, how d'you have sex with the imprint of a departed soul?" 

The Gryffindors all burst into uproarious howls, as Luna answers. "Well, it's really more about mutual masturbation, I suppose. And with ghosts, that involves a lot of intangible processes; there's a serious mental, almost meditative component. I've thought about writing a book about it. But none of my clients can turn pages."

"But they can't come, can they?" Seamus presses. 

Luna nods enthusiastically. "Ectoplasm is very real."

"Well, there's your title, Luna," Lee quips. 

Luna knows that they're teasing her, but she's not fussed about it. It's good natured, and loving, and Luna's always been able to detect more than a hint of admiration from her friends; she knows that, really, they appreciate that she's always done whatever she wants, no matter how bizarre Society deems it.

"Are you sure it's ectoplasm?" Hermione says, putting a hand to her forehead as though she can't believe she's asking.

"Positive," Luna enthuses. "I've examined samples."

"Is this real life?" Dean mumbles.

Before Luna can delve into her plans to put the next sample through a thorough magical-chemical analysis before it shuffles off this mortal coil, the song changes to one of Luna's faves.

I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!

Luna gets to her feet, walks a little closer to the fire, and starts dancing. It's Beltane, she's spent the day with her friends, and now—now it's time to dance until she's so exhausted she can barely cast an Engorio on the yurt in her rucksack.

"Shall we?" she hears George say, presumably to Lee—then some rustling as they get out of their chairs and join her around the fire.

"Losing My Mind" comes on next, and Luna distinctly hears Justin say, "They're playing my song." When she looks over, she claps to encourage him as he busts out his best Liza Minelli moves.

For a while, Luna dances and dances, sometimes by herself, sometimes doing hokey moves with Neville or Lee or whoever is nearest. But she does need a break eventually. She may not feel old, she may not even be old, but she can't dance all night like she could when she was twenty. She needs to pace herself. She heads over to where Harry is sat on a deck chair and flops down, flat on her back on the grass next to him.

"Having a good birthday?" he asks.

"Unbirthday, really, isn't it?"

He laughs. "Yeah. It's all of our unbirthday, I guess."

"Then where's my present?!" Draco calls over his shoulder from where he and Lavender are rolling their hips to "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" in jerky movements that more closely resemble Jennifer Gray than Patrick Swayze.

"Luna said no presents, Johnny," Harry shouts back. 

"You realise that makes you Baby," Draco parries.

"A young woman who defies her shitty father and is resourceful in a pinch? I'll take it."

As their banter continues, Luna rolls onto her stomach, watching the way the firelight dances on the trees nearby. It's entrancing, making patterns in the bark. Really, she thinks, nature—the elements—are so magical she doesn't need Transcending Truffles. Still, it would have been neat to find some, to learn more about them, to—

Something catches her eye and Luna gasps quietly. She pushes herself to her feet with effort—calves a bit tight from dancing—and walks a short way to the tree line, to one particular tree, and crouches down by some of its exposed roots. 

And there they are, at the base of the tree: truffles. 

Harry follows her over and lets out a gasp of his own. "Those aren't…"

"Truffles." Luna nods, not getting up. Gently, she picks them up and cradles them in her hands.

"Are they, you know, the groovy ones?"

"I don't think so," Luna admits. "The reports of Transcendental Truffles say they start to get whispy when the moon rises. They get less and less substantive, apparently, until they go… wherever they go."

"So how can anyone find them, once they've gone… wherever?"

Luna beams at the question, as well as the possibility of planes unknown. "We can't. The ones magibotanists have written about have been picked during moon rise, before they vanish—mid-process, so to speak. Although I'm not sure 'process' is a very apt term to describe transcendence."

"What are you two whispering about?" Draco asks, heading over. He's long since shucked his tweed blazer and waistcoat, but there's still dance sweat shining on his face in the firelight.

"Truffles," Harry points.

"No fucking way. You're telling me those things are real?"

"These are garden variety," Luna corrects. "Well, forest variety," she amends. Then, without a second thought, she bites into one. 

Even after the nature walk, after Joël's masterpiece of a cake, even with the sounds of Dirty Dancing and her friends laughing, even with the stars and lanterns twinkling above, the flavour mutes everything in the clearing while she chews. It's absolutely resplendent. She doesn't want the flavour to end. She chews and chews, swishing the taste around in her mouth. Eventually, she swallows.

"You know that was probably like 500 Galleons worth of truffle you just bit into, right?" Draco asks.

"Tasted like it," Luna tells him, then marches back over the bonfire, where those who aren't chatting in the deck chairs are dancing to "Faith."

"Parvati." Luna holds out the truffle with a small bite-shape. 

Parvati's mouth drops open. "You found them!" 

In an instant, everyone who's still dancing has stopped to head over, and those in the deck chairs look on in amazement.

"But that just looks like a regular truffle, Luna," says Hermione.

"Yes, just a regular 100 Galleon an ounce truffle," Draco says sarcastically.

"Have a bite." Luna offers it to Parvati. 

"Luna, it's your birthday!" 

"I wouldn't have been here to find any truffle, magical or otherwise, if it weren't for you." Luna holds the truffle up to Parvati's mouth and, hesitantly, Parvati moves just centimetres forward and takes the tiniest of nibbles. It may not be magic, but she does look like the flavour is transcendent. "Thank you for everything." Luna tells her as she chews. Parvati's eyes take on a misty look, whether from Luna's sentiment, or pure deliciousness, Luna isn't sure.

"You are so welcome. On your seventy-fifth we can have another go finding your psychotropic ones."

"That is too old to eat consciousness-altering truffles," says Draco.

"Nah," George retorts. "By the time you hit seventy-five you're so old you can just really let 'er rip. Who's going to tell old granddad to stop dropping truffles?"

Everyone roars with laughter, and Luna passes around the entirely normal, utterly delicious truffle so that everyone can taste it. Lavender, who'd taken a bite after Parvati, is still gushing about the truffle's various 'notes' when Luna's attention is called back to the music by a loud Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah! Ehhhhh ah! Ahhhh ah!

Luna smiles widely and starts dancing once more. All around her, friends join in, striking dramatic poses, cued to switch the periodic beats on the bass drum. Justin and Dean are practically in a vogue-off, and Harry is applauding while George wolf-whistles.

Luna lets the whole scene wash over her: she's had a great day with her friends, she's shared truffles with them after all, and now she's dancing with those who want to dance, while those who prefer not to, like Harry, enjoy the spectacle.

Luna doubts anyone, anywhere, has had a more fantastic fiftieth birthday, even if they did celebrate it on the day itself. She looks over where Dean has assumed a Charlie's Angels pose, at Seamus cheering him on, at Parvati and Lavender inching away from the bonfire and towards the cake, then tilts her head to the illuminated sky and calls out, along with Adam Ant and her bffs, "Ridicule is nothing to be scared of!"

It's practically her mantra, and, so far, it's never led her astray.