He woke up with the worst headache he had suffered in years.
A vicious, skull-splitting sort of thing that pulsed behind his eyes like a curse misfired and left to rot. His mouth was dry, his tongue rough as sandpaper, and the faint taste of smoke still clung to the back of his throat. There was a ringing in his ears that he suspected might actually be his own pulse, loud enough to shake the floorboards.
For one fleeting, blissful moment, he thought he might still be dreaming. The room seemed unfamiliar, its edges blurred by sleep and the heavy fog of whatever he had drunk last night. Then the pain behind his eyes gave a sharp, insistent throb, and reality returned with cruel precision.
Groaning, he rolled onto his side and buried his face in the pillow, muttering something unholy that even he couldn't quite make out. His limbs felt leaden. His back ached as if someone had hexed him repeatedly, and the sheets under him were wrinkled and warm, carrying the faint smell of wine, smoke, and regret. He had apparently collapsed onto the bed without so much as removing his shoes. How dignified.
He lay there a moment longer, staring at the wall through half-lidded eyes. The faint golden shimmer of morning sunlight crept across the floorboards, far too cheerful, far too unearned. He wanted to curse the sun personally.
He needed water. He needed a potion. He needed someone to invent a spell that could erase the entire concept of mornings.
Instead, he groaned again, forced his protesting body upright, and immediately regretted it. The room tilted alarmingly. His vision flickered, and for one horrifying second, he thought he might be sick right there. He wasn't, but it was a near thing.
Every sound in the flat seemed amplified. The faint hum of the cooling charm from the fireplace sounded like a thunderstorm. The clink of glass on the side table might as well have been a gong. He dragged a hand down his face and squinted toward the clock. Half ten. Brilliant.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory flickered — Seamus laughing far too loudly, Hermione shouting over music, Neville handing him something that looked suspiciously like a potion vial. There had been wine, yes, a lot of it, and…
Theo froze.
He vaguely remembered a conversation under the garden lights. A bench. The smell of jasmine. And a voice, calm and light.
Luna.
Oh no.
Had he? No. Surely not. He hadn't said anything idiotic. Except he probably had. He always did, especially after four glasses of red and one badly timed shot of whatever Seamus had called "liquid courage."
He pressed a hand to his forehead. He needed water. And possibly an Obliviate charm.
Theo swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He could feel the faint cling of yesterday's clothes against his skin. The shirt was rumpled and smelled faintly of perfume. Not Luna's — no, he'd recognise her scent if it were. This was something sharper, floral, too deliberate. Lipstick on the collar too, bright and mocking.
"Perfect," he muttered hoarsely. "Truly perfect."
Dragging himself toward the bathroom felt like a pilgrimage through personal failure. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and nearly recoiled. His hair looked like he had stuck a finger in a socket. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with the kind of shadows one usually associated with mild possession. There was a faint smear of lipstick on his neck and what looked disturbingly like glitter on his wrist.
He stared at himself for a long moment, then muttered, "You are a disgrace," and turned on the shower.
The water came out cold first, a punishing reminder of his own stupidity. He twisted the handle and stood under the scalding heat, waiting for it to burn some sense back into him. The sound filled the small room, loud and steady, drowning out thought.
He stood there until the mirror fogged over, until his fingers pruned, until his skin stung slightly from the heat. Steam rose in thick curls, wrapping around him, blurring everything but the rhythm of water against tile. He tipped his head back and let the stream hit his face, eyes closed, willing himself to forget.
It didn't work, of course. Memory came creeping back anyway — laughter, a garden bench, Luna's pale hair catching in the lantern light. The soft brush of her hand against his. The sound of her voice saying she'd bring tea.
His eyes snapped open.
Merlin's balls.
He had invited her to lunch.
At his place.
He stood motionless under the shower, the water still pounding down, as the horror of that realisation settled in. He had invited Luna Lovegood to lunch. Not just for a polite reunion — at his flat. And she had said yes.
He pressed both palms to the wall, forehead resting between them. "I am going to die."
It took him another fifteen minutes to force himself out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist, trudged back into the bedroom, and collapsed into the nearest chair.
He could not remember what exactly he had said. He could remember her laughing softly. He could remember her saying "I'd like that" and something about bringing tea. But the tone of his own voice — that was what made his stomach twist. Too eager, probably. Too loud. Too desperate.
Groaning, he dragged a shirt over his head and stumbled into the kitchen, bare feet cold on the stone floor. His hair was still dripping, and he left small wet footprints in his wake. The kitchen greeted him in its usual pristine silence. Everything was in its place: jars lined up by ingredient, herbs hanging neatly in bundles, mugs facing the same way on the shelf. Normally that order calmed him. Today, it made him feel slightly ill.
He filled the kettle with trembling hands, squinting at the sunlight streaming in through the enchanted window. Too bright. Far too bright. He muttered a charm to dim it to something bearable.
The clatter of the kettle on the stove was loud enough to make him flinch. He rubbed his temples, leaned on the counter, and tried not to think about how in less than three hours, Luna bloody Lovegood might be standing right where he was, judging him.
He needed coffee. A strong one. A potion might help, but a potion would also mean concentration, and concentration was currently impossible.
By the time the kettle whistled, he had prepared two mugs and decided he deserved both. He poured generously, added nothing, and downed the first half cup so quickly his throat burned. The taste was vile, but the shock of it worked better than any charm. The world snapped back into sharp focus for the briefest, cruelest moment. Relief was immediate, if temporary.
He grimaced, refilled, and took the second mug with him to the counter, clutching it like a lifeline. The smell of roasted beans cut through the last threads of sleep in his head, anchoring him just enough to remember that being alive was, unfortunately, non-negotiable.
Next came food. He wasn't in the mood for anything elaborate. His stomach felt fragile, his head still thudded, and his cupboards were uninspiring at best. Rows of jars stared back at him like disapproving colleagues. After a moment of indecision, he settled on eggs and toast. Simple. Reliable. Utterly mediocre.
He cracked the eggs without enthusiasm, one hand still wrapped around his coffee mug. The first yolk broke. The second stuck to the pan. The smell of slightly burnt butter began to fill the kitchen, mixing with the faint bitterness of coffee and the sharp scent of cleaning potions. His entire flat smelled like effort gone wrong.
The toast popped up half a minute too soon, pale on one side, blackened on the other. Perfect metaphor, really. He scraped the worst of the char into the bin, muttering something unkind about Muggle appliances, then dumped everything onto a plate.
The eggs were overcooked, the toast was tragic, and he ate it anyway, sitting slumped at the table like a man in mourning.
The first few bites were mechanical. He didn't taste much of anything. The silence of the kitchen pressed around him, the clock ticking with smug precision. Somewhere beyond the charm-sealed windows, birds were singing, entirely too cheerful for a Sunday morning.
He tried not to think about last night. Tried not to replay the blur of faces, the hazy conversations, the faint sting of laughter that didn't belong to him. But it was impossible to keep the sound of her laugh out of it — that clear, light sound threading through everything else like a melody he had forgotten but somehow always known.
He tried harder to shut it out. Tried to focus on the shape of the table, the chipped edge of his favourite mug, the soft tick of the clock. The more he tried not to think, the more her face appeared. The way she had hugged him — unthinking, fearless, like touch was nothing to fear. The way she had called him handsome as if it were a fact of nature, not an opinion. The way her fingers had brushed his in the garden, light as starlight, and undone him completely.
He groaned into his coffee. "Pathetic."
The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn't spoken aloud since waking up, and it echoed oddly against the tidy walls. He looked around, half expecting the flat to agree.
It was just a party. Just Lovegood. He had been drunk, sentimental, and apparently incapable of controlling his own face. That was all.
He pushed the empty plate away and rubbed his temples, fingertips digging lightly against his skin. The motion sent a pulse through his skull, but it was something to do.
He would spend the day quietly. No more crowds, no laughter, no golden light and eyes that looked at him as if they could see straight through the armour he'd spent years forging. He would write notes for his next paper, tidy his research journals, work through the failed potion that still sat in the lab, glimmering faintly like a reminder of his own mediocrity.
A calm, solitary Sunday. That was all he needed.
He stood, placed the mug in the sink, and stared down at it as though it might answer back. The water hissed as it met the hot porcelain. Steam rose in lazy spirals.
It was strange, how quiet could feel so loud. Every sound was its own small betrayal — the faint hum of the cooling charm, the soft creak of the floorboards as he moved.
He caught sight of his reflection in the dark glass of the window. Hair still damp from the shower, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, expression too serious for someone simply having breakfast.
"This is ridiculous," he said under his breath.
He set the plate aside, wiped down a perfectly clean counter, and checked the clock again. Half eleven. Two hours gone since he woke. His headache had dulled to a steady hum, and the caffeine was just beginning to take effect.
He should have felt better. He didn't.
There was still the memory of her voice, unhurried and light, weaving through his thoughts like smoke he couldn't clear.
He poured himself a third cup, black as sin, and tried to picture her as he remembered from school — odd, quiet, distracted by things no one else could see. That version of her was easier to manage. The Luna from last night wasn't. That Luna was grown, composed, beautiful in a way that didn't fit neatly into any of his categories.
She had looked at him as though she'd never doubted she was welcome to. And that — that was what had truly undone him.
He reached for a quill and parchment, determined to write something, anything, to drive the thought from his head. The quill hovered over the page. Nothing came.
He exhaled sharply and tossed it down.
He could almost hear Hermione's voice, smug and relentless. Go to the party, Theo. It will cheer you up. He could see her sitting there now, probably having a late breakfast with Draco somewhere expensive, congratulating herself on having meddled successfully in yet another life.
He muttered to himself, "Should hex her bloody calendar next time she invites me to anything."
The sound of his own irritation soothed him for a moment. The comfort was fleeting.
He picked up his empty mug, frowned, then set it down again.
Outside, a soft crack of Apparition echoed faintly from the street. He froze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Surely not.
No one ever came here uninvited. No one ever had reason to.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
His well-deserved solitude lasted all of seven minutes. He had just collapsed onto the sofa, a book open but unread in his lap, when someone began knocking at his door.
At first he ignored it. People did not knock on his door. He had spent years cultivating a life where no one dropped by. A life of deliberate isolation, the sort that turned even the friendliest witch into an owl-sender. Anyone who truly needed him knew how to reach him by parchment. But the knocking persisted. Polite at first, then rhythmic, almost cheerful. The sound went straight through his skull like a tuning fork.
Theo swore under his breath, shoved the book aside, and dragged himself to the hall. His head still pulsed faintly with last night's wine, a low drumbeat behind his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled. His socks didn't match. His hair looked like it was plotting a coup. Hardly the picture of a gracious host. He made a mental note to hex Seamus Finnigan for introducing him to that wine. Then another mental note to hex himself for drinking it.
The knock came again, a jaunty little rhythm. He considered pretending he wasn't home, but whoever it was had stamina. And optimism. Two things he loathed in the morning. He trudged to the door like a condemned man.
He opened it just a fraction, cautious, one bloodshot eye peering through the gap.
"Hiii."
It was not a voice you could mistake. Soft and bright at once, like a bell rung under water. He blinked.
Luna Lovegood stood on his doorstep, radiant as the morning sun, hair loose and gleaming in long waves, a basket balanced on her hip. She looked completely at ease, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. She was barefoot, or nearly so, pale toes peeking from sandals. He became aware of his own socks again. Striped. Hideous.
Theo blinked again. "Hello?"
"I brought tea," she said cheerfully, lifting the basket slightly, "and some pastry I made this morning."
Theo stared. His brain stalled. His first coherent thought was, what the actual hell is going on. His second was even worse: why is she so unreasonably luminous at one in the afternoon.
And then, like an axe falling, the memory returned.
The garden. The cigarette. Her hand brushing his. His own voice, slurred but unmistakable: You should come to lunch. At my place. Tomorrow.
His blood ran cold.
Oh. Fuck.
She had come.
She had actually come.
Theo stood frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob, body blocking the gap like a man trying to hold back a flood. He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, could hear his own pulse roaring in his ears. She smelled faintly of cinnamon and outside air. His flat smelled of stale coffee and regret. He imagined the scene behind him — unmade sofa cushions, a book splayed open, a shirt on the back of a chair. Not fit for company.
"You—ah. You… remembered," he managed, words scraping out of his throat like dry parchment.
"Of course," she said simply, smiling as though this required no further explanation. "One o'clock, wasn't it?"
Theo glanced instinctively toward the clock on the wall. 12:58. Naturally.
His throat went dry.
"Yes," he said faintly, voice cracking. "Yes, it… was."
She tilted her head, peering at him through the narrow gap. "Are you going to let me in, Theo, or do you prefer that I picnic in the hall?"
For a moment he actually pictured it — her cross-legged on the worn corridor carpet, setting out little plates, steam rising from a teapot. The absurdity of it almost made him smile. Almost.
Theo shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose, muttering a prayer that felt half blasphemy, half resignation. There wasn't a single god, saint, or sentient star left in the universe that hadn't just been cursed under his breath. He opened his eyes again, jaw tight, and forced his hand to move. The door creaked wider, betraying him with the faintest sound, and the morning light hit him like a personal insult.
"Come in," he managed, voice low and reluctant. He stepped back stiffly, as if retreating from his own life.
And then she was inside.
Luna crossed the threshold like she'd been expected, the basket still balanced easily against her hip. She didn't hesitate, didn't pause to check if he truly meant it, just slipped past him with that quiet, unthinking certainty that seemed to follow her everywhere. Her presence filled the air before her words ever did. She was sunlight and something floral, something that didn't belong in the flat of a man who alphabetised his potion ingredients and polished the copper kettles out of boredom.
Theo shut the door behind her, pressing it closed like sealing a ward. His palm stayed flat against the wood longer than necessary. He needed that half-second of stillness, that illusion of control, because his mind was already disintegrating under the weight of her being here.
When he turned, she was standing in the entryway, taking it all in with an expression of calm delight. Her gaze swept over the bookshelves first — of course it did — then along the perfectly lined row of potion bottles near the window. She tilted her head slightly, lips curving, humming under her breath like a tune she was remembering rather than inventing.
The hum was faint, but it did something dangerous to his chest.
She stepped further inside, eyes roaming. Her movements were unhurried, soft-footed. Her dress brushed the edge of the carpet, catching a glint of dust in the morning light. She didn't comment yet. Just observed, in that unnervingly gentle way of hers, as though she was watching a living thing rather than a flat.
The scent followed her — faint, floral, but with something sharp underneath, like citrus and honey twisted with smoke. It clung to the air, to the wood, to his skin.
Theo leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed, breathing quietly through his nose. He could feel the edges of his composure splintering. He'd survived war tribunals, Ministry interrogations, and several months in close quarters with Draco Malfoy's morning moods, and yet here he was, half undone by one woman with a basket.
It was, he concluded grimly, a lost cause.
She turned, smiling faintly at him, and that was when the situation somehow managed to get worse.
For the first time since she'd walked in, Theo actually looked down at himself. And froze.
Plain white t-shirt. Wrinkled, threadbare at the collar. Grey sweatpants that had seen better days. Bare feet on cold wood.
He looked like someone who had given up halfway through living.
Merlin's sagging pants.
He had opened the door to Luna bloody Lovegood dressed like a man mid-breakdown.
What an absolute embarrassment.
The realisation hit him with physical force. He straightened reflexively, as though posture alone could disguise the disaster. His fingers twitched, unsure whether to fold his arms or hide behind them. She didn't seem to notice, of course. Luna noticed everything and commented on nothing that would make her seem unkind. Which somehow made it worse.
He could feel his pulse in his neck. His jaw tightened until it ached. He looked, he thought bitterly, exactly like a man who had spent the morning hungover, sulking, and making mediocre eggs. Which, tragically, was accurate.
He might have survived it if she'd teased him. A joke, a small laugh, anything to break the tension. But instead, she simply turned towards him, her pale eyes open and unbothered. There was no mockery there. Just calm observation, as though he were a painting she intended to study later.
He wanted to vanish. Preferably through the floor.
He cleared his throat, searching for dignity in the ruins. "Would you…" The words came out gravelly, uncooperative. He coughed lightly, started again. "Would you like some water? Or a fizzy drink?"
The attempt at civility was pitiful even by his standards.
Her smile grew, soft but amused. "No, thank you," she said gently. "But I'd love a tour."
Theo blinked. "…A what?"
"A tour," Luna repeated, perfectly earnest. She said it like one might request a napkin or a fork. She walked further in, setting her basket carefully on the counter, and turned back to him with her hands clasped in front of her. "Of your home. I like to see where people live. It tells you things about their soul."
Theo's face went blank. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's just a penthouse, Luna."
"All the more reason," she said lightly.
He stared at her for a long moment, weighing the odds of survival. "I'm not entirely sure my soul is worth the analysis."
She smiled faintly. "I'll decide that."
He exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried resignation more than air, and glanced around the room as if the furniture might volunteer an excuse. The walls, as usual, offered none.
There was nothing to hide. Not really. His flat was immaculate. Precisely arranged. Books stacked according to subject and chronology, plants trimmed weekly, everything aligned as if the air itself might go crooked if he didn't supervise. It was, in short, a space engineered to stop the world from touching him.
Except—
His gaze landed on the kitchen table.
Yesterday's plate. Crumbs. A coffee ring bleeding across the wood. The second mug — half-drunk, streaked, abandoned — sitting like a confession under full sunlight.
He froze.
Of course. Of course, the one morning he didn't compulsively scrub and vanish every trace of life, she appeared at his door asking for a guided tour of his soul.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Theo's jaw clenched so hard it ached. He could feel her behind him, shifting her weight softly, the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of her breathing even and unhurried.
He considered several options in rapid succession:
Vanish the evidence with a flick of his wand. Too obvious.
Distract her with small talk. He was too hungover for that kind of athleticism.
Fake a collapse. Possibly convincing, but deeply undignified.
He went with the worst possible choice: pretending nothing was wrong.
He stepped to the side, half-blocking the table like a man trying to conceal a body, and forced a stiff smile. "Right. Well. It's—this is the entryway, obviously. Kitchen. Bookshelves. That's the sitting area. Rather self-explanatory."
Luna's lips curved, not quite a smile, more an echo of one. "Do you always describe your life like you're cataloguing museum pieces?"
Theo blinked. "I don't—"
"You do." She took a slow step forward, looking around again. "It's very neat. Almost defensive."
He bristled. "Defensive?"
"Yes. As though every object is arranged to guard something."
He had no response to that. None at all. So he said, "I'm very tidy," and immediately hated himself for it.
She nodded, wandering further into the kitchen. Her fingers drifted lightly along the counter, tracing the edges of his potion bottles, his perfectly ordered spice rack. "Tidy is good. It keeps things from falling apart."
He couldn't tell if that was agreement or dissection. Probably both.
Luna stopped beside the basket she'd brought, glancing back at him. "Would you like to see what I made?"
Theo blinked again, grateful for the change in topic. "Yes. Please."
She lifted the lid of the basket. The scent hit him first — sweet and warm and unfamiliar. She pulled out a small tin and a loaf wrapped in linen. "Elderflower tea and lemon bread," she said proudly.
Theo's brow furrowed. "You baked?"
"I bake every Sunday," she said simply, as if it were obvious. "It reminds me that creation is still a choice."
He stared at her. "You… have a philosophy about baking."
"Doesn't everyone?"
He rubbed his temple. "Not particularly, no."
Her laughter slipped through the air like something that didn't belong in this flat at all. And for one long, unbearable second, Theo thought that maybe he didn't, either.
"You live very neatly," she observed after a long moment, her gaze sweeping across the flat like it was an exhibit and she had all the time in the world to study it. She said it lightly, without judgment, but there was something in her tone — not quite teasing, not quite serious either — that made him bristle.
"I like order," Theo said stiffly, because what else could he say? It wasn't a defence, just fact. Order was survival. Order was oxygen.
"Order is good," she agreed, her voice soft, almost distracted. "But sometimes it hides things. People can be very tidy on the outside and terribly messy inside."
Theo stared at her, trying to decide if she was mocking him. "Are you analysing me in my own home?"
"Yes," Luna said simply, turning her head just enough for the light to catch her hair. "You invited me."
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Merlin's beard."
Her eyes glittered, the corners crinkling with a hint of mischief. "Do you regret it already?"
"Yes," he said immediately. Then, softer, as if the word had been dragged out of him, "No."
She smiled, not triumphant, not cruel — just the kind of smile that made him feel seen in a way that was thoroughly inconvenient. It lingered a moment before she turned and began to wander toward the hallway.
"What's in here?" she asked, fingertips grazing the doorframe.
Theo straightened instantly, stepping forward like a soldier blocking entry. "Private. That's private."
She laughed, quiet and airy, stepping back with her hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright. No secrets revealed today."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temple. It was absurd how disarmed he felt. She had been here for all of five minutes and he already felt stripped down to the bone, as though every carefully laid structure of his life was transparent and faintly ridiculous under her gaze.
"Sit," he said suddenly, grasping at something resembling control. He gestured toward the sofa, his voice brisk. "I'll make tea. You brought tea, didn't you?"
"Yes," she said, moving to sit. She didn't perch like most guests did. She folded herself into the space, knees tucked neatly beneath her, completely at ease. "But I'd still like to see your room."
Theo froze mid-step, kettle in hand. "Absolutely not."
"Another time then," Luna said serenely, her tone utterly unbothered as she folded her hands in her lap.
He muttered something inaudible under his breath, possibly about lunatics and hospitality, as he filled the kettle. The clang of it on the hob sounded louder than it should have. He hated how aware he was of her watching him. It wasn't even that she was staring — it was worse. Her attention felt patient. Present. As if she had all the time in the world to watch him unravel and would never once rush the process.
Theo flicked the heat on, watching the flame catch. He could feel his own pulse behind his ribs. When he finally turned around, teapot in hand, Luna was still smiling at him softly, her chin tilted, eyes bright. She looked like she'd been waiting for him for years.
Theo set the pot down with more force than necessary, the sound ringing across the counter. "I haven't… exactly started lunch yet, to be honest with you."
Luna blinked, the corners of her mouth lifting as if this was both expected and adorable. "That's alright. We can have takeaway."
He stared. "A what?"
"Take away food," she explained patiently, as though speaking to a slightly confused toddler. "From a restaurant?"
Theo frowned. "I… yes. Sure. That."
She tilted her head. "Do you actually know what the whole concept is?"
He hesitated. His silence stretched. It was damning.
"No," he admitted finally, voice low, reluctant.
Luna's lips twitched, the beginnings of laughter glimmering there. "It's okay," she said kindly. "I'll order something. Where's your mobile?"
Theo froze completely. "My… what?"
"Your mobile," she repeated, perfectly cheerful. "Your phone. The thing you use to order food with."
He blinked at her, slow and horrified. "I… don't have that."
Her eyebrows rose, genuine curiosity colouring her expression. "You don't have a phone?"
He crossed his arms defensively, shoulders squaring like armour. "Why would I?"
She looked at him for a long moment, then, with devastating gentleness, asked, "Theo, are you stuck in the nineties? Or are you still living in the magic world full-time?"
"If those are the measurements," he said stiffly, "then yes."
Luna burst out laughing. Loud, bright, completely unrestrained. Her laughter filled the flat like sunlight, bouncing off the walls that had never held joy before. She laughed so hard she had to put a hand to her stomach, her hair falling forward in waves.
Theo scowled, though it was half-hearted. His ears burned. His dignity, what remained of it, lay somewhere under her laughter.
She didn't stop quickly, either. She laughed until her voice broke into small hiccups and her eyes were glassy with tears. Finally, she caught her breath and said between quiet chuckles, "You are hopeless. Completely hopeless. But that's alright. Lucky for you, I'm not."
He wanted to be offended. He really did. But the sight of her — pink-cheeked, breathless, radiant with amusement — disarmed him entirely. He found himself smiling, small and involuntary, before catching it and forcing his face back to neutrality.
"You find this amusing," he said flatly.
"Immensely."
She reached into her bag, retrieving something that looked as though it had survived a small war. A phone, covered in mismatched stickers — stars, mushrooms, tiny hand-drawn moons. She cradled it like a pet, tapping the screen with confident ease.
He watched her, curious despite himself. "That's what you use to order food?"
"This, my dear Theo," she said solemnly, "is a magical portal to every cuisine in London."
He raised a brow. "You do realise I am, by profession, an actual alchemist."
"Yes," she said, smiling. "And yet this still impresses you."
He gave a small, reluctant snort. "You're infuriating."
"I've been told."
She turned her attention to the phone, scrolling with a frown of concentration. "Do you like curry?"
"Of course," he said warily.
"Spicy?"
"Reasonably."
"Good. I'll get two portions of tikka masala, one mild for you."
He frowned. "Why mild?"
She looked up. "You strike me as the sort of man who says he enjoys spice and then cries privately when his tongue burns."
He stared at her, appalled. "That is outrageous."
"And true," she said, pressing a button with a satisfied little hum.
He stood there, affronted, while she finalised the order. His kitchen looked suddenly alive, cluttered by her presence. Her scarf hung from the back of his chair, her basket of tea sat open on the counter, and she was somehow entirely at ease amidst it all.
She tucked the phone away and smiled. "Food will be here in forty minutes."
"Forty?" he repeated, horrified. "What are we meant to do until then?"
"Talk," she said simply.
He blinked. "About what?"
"Anything." She tilted her head. "You could tell me why your books are arranged in such strange order."
"They are not strange."
"They are alphabetical by subject, then sub-divided by publication date."
He crossed his arms. "Which is efficient."
"It's obsessive," she said lightly. "And charming."
Theo stared at her. "You are impossible."
"Thank you," she said, utterly sincere.
He groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose again, as though physical touch could somehow reset the chaos she brought with her. But she was watching him still, her gaze steady, calm, curious. It wasn't judgmental. Just… observant.
He found himself speaking before he could stop. "I don't usually do this."
"Have people in your home?"
"Yes."
"I can tell."
There was no cruelty in it, only truth. She smiled faintly, then leaned back against the sofa cushions. "But I like it here. It feels clean, but lonely. Like the rooms are waiting for something."
He swallowed hard. "Waiting for what?"
Her voice softened. "Maybe for you to stop being so careful."
He didn't reply. He couldn't. His throat felt tight, and his pulse had gone quick again. The silence stretched, gentle but heavy.
The kettle hissed behind him. He seized the distraction. "Tea," he said, unnecessarily loud, and turned away before she could see the colour creeping into his cheeks.
Behind him, he heard her humming again — some quiet tune that wound its way into the air like incense. It filled the flat the way she filled everything: effortlessly, uninvited, unstoppable.
He poured the water, hands shaking slightly, and thought to himself that if he survived lunch with Luna Lovegood, it would be a miracle worthy of publication.
Luna sat with one leg tucked under the other, cup balanced between her palms, her entire posture radiating a kind of unbothered serenity that only served to make Theo more tense. She sipped her tea as though it were the most natural thing in the world to appear in a man's kitchen uninvited on a Sunday afternoon and dismantle his equilibrium cup by cup.
Theo, by contrast, sat too straight. His elbows were stiff, his grip on his mug looked defensive, and every muscle in his jaw had gone tight enough to crack. He had survived wars, interrogations, and twelve-hour potion trials, yet this—this quiet domestic setting with Luna Lovegood humming in his kitchen—felt far more dangerous.
He cleared his throat once. Then again. She looked up at him over the rim of her cup, expression soft, curious, unbothered. He immediately regretted existing.
Every time he glanced up, she was already watching him, eyes pale and steady, expression open in that unnerving, Luna way. She had always looked at people as though she could see through them. Back at school it had unsettled him. Now it simply undid him.
"Do you live alone here?" she asked suddenly, her tone light but her timing precise.
Theo hesitated. His first instinct was to lie, simply to protect himself from whatever strange line of conversation this would lead to. But lying to Luna felt pointless.
He shifted in his seat, glanced around at the clean edges of the kitchen, the neatly stacked books, the obsessive order of everything. His surroundings betrayed him before his mouth could open.
"As you can see, yes."
Luna nodded, completely unfazed, and looked around again. "How come you don't have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend? No judgment."
Theo nearly inhaled his tea. The noise that left him was somewhere between a cough and a wounded animal. "I—" He coughed again, setting his cup down with a clink that made the spoons rattle. "You are very direct. And asking intimate questions."
Her lips curved faintly. "Well?"
He stared at her, running a hand over his jaw in a gesture that was supposed to look thoughtful but mostly served to hide his burning face. She just kept waiting, calm and patient, like she had all afternoon.
He sighed. "I don't have a girlfriend. No."
"I can see that," she said.
Theo froze mid-breath. "What?"
"You live like a bachelor," she said, perfectly serene.
He blinked at her. "That's absurd. My home is perfectly respectable."
"It's neat," she agreed, setting her cup down. "Very neat. But it doesn't feel shared. No extra shoes by the door. No clutter. No photographs. Just you."
He opened his mouth to argue, realised she was right, and promptly closed it again. "That isn't evidence of anything," he muttered.
"It's evidence of solitude," Luna said simply, stirring her tea with delicate precision. "And solitude can be very loud in a place like this."
Theo's jaw tightened. He didn't like how easily she said it, how it sounded like she could hear the silence in his flat as clearly as he did.
That was the worst part about Luna. She didn't attack, she observed. She spoke truth the way other people breathed, soft but relentless. There was no armour against that.
"You cross boundaries very easily," he said finally, narrowing his eyes as though that might reassert some control.
"I don't see boundaries," Luna replied, still perfectly calm. "Just people pretending not to want to be known."
Theo's breath caught. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Nothing came out.
She smiled faintly, took another sip of tea, and leaned back, serene as a saint who had just delivered revelation.
Theo drummed his fingers against the table, eyes darting anywhere but at her. "Am I supposed to ask intimate questions as well?"
"You can if you'd like," she said. "Though I suspect you'd rather perform minor surgery."
He gave her a long look. "You think you're funny."
"I don't think," she said. "I know."
He sat back in his chair with a sigh. "You are impossible."
"You keep saying that," Luna said mildly, "and yet you keep inviting me to sit down."
Theo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't invite—"
"Technically, you did," she said. "Last night."
He muttered something about being criminally misunderstood by the universe and took another sip of tea that had already gone lukewarm.
"Am I supposed to feel interrogated in my own home?" he asked finally.
"Yes," Luna said without missing a beat. "It builds intimacy."
Theo gave her a look so flat she had to bite her lip to hide a laugh.
"You're stuck up," she said softly, amusement dancing in her voice.
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You are. Everything about you is straight lines and polite manners. Even your hair behaves itself."
Theo looked genuinely offended. "I am not stuck up. I'm just—"
"Bred correctly," she finished for him, eyes bright with mischief.
He nearly choked again. "That is not even remotely funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's offensive."
"It's affectionate," she countered, smiling into her cup. "It's a compliment, really."
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Merlin help me" and reached for the teapot, refilling both their cups just to have something to do with his hands.
"Fine," he said after a moment, voice tight but steady. "Since we're apparently engaging in verbal autopsy, do you have a significant other?"
"Single for a year now," Luna replied, utterly unruffled. "Perhaps that's why Hermione invited you."
Theo froze. "What does that mean?"
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Hermione likes to fix things. And people. I imagine she thought we might enjoy each other's company."
"Enjoy each other's company," Theo repeated, scandalised. "Granger is not a matchmaker."
Luna's eyes softened. "She is when she's worried about her friends."
He frowned. "You think she's worried about you?"
"I think," Luna said quietly, "she's worried about you."
The silence that followed was thick enough to touch.
Theo stared down at his cup, jaw clenched, heart doing something inconvenient in his chest. She had no right to be right this often. He swallowed hard, searching for something to say that wouldn't sound defensive.
"You don't even know me anymore," he managed finally.
"I knew you once," she said, her tone so gentle it hurt. "And people like you don't really change. You just hide better."
He laughed, but it wasn't sharp, just low and tired. "You make me sound like a tragic novel."
Luna's lips curved. "You do have that energy."
He almost smiled back before catching himself. "Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is. The mind reading."
"I'm not reading your mind, Theo," she said, her voice slow and deliberate. "You're just speaking very loudly without words."
Theo inhaled sharply, exhaled slower, looked away.
There were worse tortures, he supposed, than sitting across from Luna Lovegood while she undid him one sentence at a time.
He leaned back, attempting to regain composure, only for the chair to creak in protest. "This is the most uncomfortable lunch I've ever had."
"We haven't even eaten yet," she pointed out.
"That's what makes it worse."
Her laughter was soft but contagious, and despite himself, he found his own mouth twitching.
He froze where he sat, fork halfway to the plate.
Someone was knocking.
Not the rustle of parchment, not the scratch of claws on glass, not the polite whoosh of the Floo. This was a knock. A solid, earthly, Muggle knock. The kind that belonged to people who sold insurance or borrowed sugar.
Theo blinked, trying to process the sound through the fog of caffeine and exhaustion.
It came again, three sharp taps that carried far too much confidence for comfort.
His blood ran cold. His food.
He turned sharply toward Luna, who sat calm as moonlight, as if strangers appearing at enchanted doorways were the most ordinary thing in the world.
"There is a non-magical person at my door," he said, voice dry and horrified.
"Yes," Luna replied brightly, setting down her cup. "That's how takeout works."
Theo stared at her as though she had spoken Parseltongue. "That's how what works?"
"Takeout," she repeated. "They knock, you answer, food arrives. Very efficient."
He pressed a hand to his temple, the throb of his headache pulsing back to life. "Thank Merlin my home is under Fidelius. Otherwise, we'd be arrested before dessert."
Another knock sounded. Louder. More insistent.
Theo stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor like a threat. "Unbelievable."
Luna's tone was mild. "Do try not to hex him."
He didn't answer. He was already halfway down the corridor, muttering darkly about Muggles and the collapse of civilisation.
At the door, he paused, straightened his shirt, ran a quick hand through his hair, and pulled it open.
A teenage boy stood there, awkwardly tall, dressed in a red uniform and looking monumentally bored. In his hands were two large cardboard boxes that smelled suspiciously like melted cheese and regret.
"Pizza delivery," the boy announced flatly.
Theo blinked. "You… brought it here?"
"That's the job, mate." The boy held out the boxes like offerings to an unpredictable god.
Theo peered down at them. The lids were glossy with condensation, the cardboard stamped with a cheerful logo. A smell like roasted garlic and tomatoes hit him full in the face. He drew back an inch, affronted. "This is food?"
"Yeah. Paid already."
Theo accepted the boxes gingerly, as if they might explode. "Right. Payment." He reached into his pocket, produced a small pouch of Galleons, and handed it over.
The boy frowned. "What's this then?"
"Currency," Theo said.
The boy opened the pouch, squinted, and laughed outright. "Monopoly money? You taking the piss?"
Theo flushed scarlet. "It is currency."
"Not here it isn't." The boy gave him a long look, shrugged, and started back down the stairs. "Don't worry, mate. Your girl already tipped on the app."
"My what?" Theo sputtered, but the door was already swinging shut behind the lad.
He stood there for a long moment, boxes hot in his hands, pulse hammering in his throat. His girl. He could hear Luna's laughter echoing faintly from the kitchen and somehow knew she had heard that entire exchange.
When he turned, she was indeed smiling serenely, utterly unrepentant.
"See?" she said. "Not so frightening."
Theo stalked to the table and set the boxes down with unnecessary force. "It smells… offensive."
"It smells wonderful," she said, already opening the first box. Steam rolled up in a fragrant cloud, filling the room with warmth and herbs. "Come and sit."
He obeyed, though reluctantly, lowering himself into the chair opposite her like a man awaiting interrogation.
Inside the box was chaos. Melted cheese. Bright sauce. Mushrooms. Olives. Everything melded into one molten, glistening circle. He frowned. "This cannot possibly be food."
"It's delicious," she corrected. She picked up a slice, folded it in half with graceful precision, and took a bite.
Theo watched, transfixed despite himself. Her eyes closed briefly as she chewed, a small sigh leaving her throat. "It's heavenly."
He blinked, tore his gaze away, and reached for his own slice. His fingers hovered uncertainly.
She watched him with polite curiosity as he tried to determine how to handle it. The cheese stretched, threatening rebellion, and for a moment he genuinely considered a fork. Then pride stopped him. He folded it just as she had, thumb and forefinger steadying the crust, and took a bite.
The flavour hit all at once: salt, heat, richness, something smoky and absurdly comforting. His brow furrowed. "That's… not entirely dreadful."
Luna's smile widened. "See? Completely harmless."
"I would not say harmless," he replied, taking another cautious bite. "There is clearly some sort of enchantment involved. It tastes like a hearth and a pub and a seaside holiday decided to hold a meeting and reached a rare moment of agreement."
"That sounds like you like it."
"I am open to persuasion," he said, though his mouth was already full again.
A strand of cheese stretched precariously between the slice and his chin. He leaned back, trying to outwit gravity, but it only wobbled and dangled there.
Luna reached across the table, napkin in hand, and caught the strand neatly before it could land on his shirt. Her fingers brushed the front of his chest, light as a whisper.
He froze.
Her touch was gentle, unhurried, perfectly ordinary—and yet it sent a sharp spark through him, something that started behind his ribs and refused to leave.
"Thank you," he managed, voice slightly lower than before.
"You are very brave," she said seriously, eyes twinkling. "Facing pizza with no prior training and a hangover."
"It is a catalogue of indignities," he muttered, but there was a flicker of a smile on his face now.
She opened the second box and gestured. "Pepperoni. Spicy. Very grounding."
Theo picked up a slice with more confidence this time, bit into it, and chewed with theatrical thoughtfulness. "It tastes like a challenge that has already been won."
"That's a compliment, I think."
"It is," he said solemnly. "I can accept this."
"High praise from you," she teased.
He tilted his head, playing along. "You would terrify a restaurant critic."
"I would charm one," she said lightly. "You're the terrifying one."
"Only before tea."
She laughed softly, her hair falling over one shoulder, the sound of it threading through the space like sunlight slipping past curtains.
They ate quietly after that, each caught in the gentle rhythm of sharing something simple.
When the boxes were nearly empty, Luna leaned back, content. "Do you always live this neatly," she asked, glancing at the spotless counters, "or is this how you prepare for unsuspecting guests?"
Theo wiped his hands with deliberate care. "I work best when things remain where I put them. It stops the chaos from winning."
"And still," she said, her tone soft, "it tries."
"It always will."
They both fell silent.
He sipped the tea she'd brought, its floral warmth cutting through the heaviness of food and thought alike. It grounded him more effectively than he'd ever admit.
"You read the book," he said at last, his voice rougher, quieter.
"I did," she said. Her eyes lit up. "Your chapter about ingredients that choose the brewer—it reminded me of people. How certain hearts respond only to certain hands."
He went still.
It wasn't the words themselves, it was the way she said them, unflinching, direct. Like she knew exactly how to slip past every defense he had ever built.
"That took three years to write," he said, a faint smile threatening. "And you've managed to summarise it in one line."
"That's what readers do," she said simply.
He looked at her across the table. "You make it sound easy."
Luna smiled faintly. "It never is."
For a moment neither spoke. The pizza grew cold, the tea cooled, and the flat seemed to hum softly around them, as if the air itself approved of their uneasy truce.
Then she tore a piece of crust in half and handed him one without looking. Their fingers brushed again, warm and brief, and the same strange pulse ran through him. He took the piece quietly, and this time he didn't look away.
Luna smiled again, small and knowing, and went back to eating her slice.
Theo leaned back, exhaled slowly, and thought, Merlin help me.
Because it had only been an hour, and already his perfectly ordered world was tilting on its axis.
And the worst part was, he wasn't sure he minded.
He leaned forward on his elbows, trying to sound casual, though the words landed heavier than intended.
"Tell me about you," he said. "Where did you go after that first year away? People kept saying Iceland or Greece or the back of the moon. Not one of them was remotely useful."
Luna looked at him across the rim of her teacup, expression unreadable in the soft light.
"I lived near the sea for a while," she said, voice quiet but sure. "I learned the names of winds from a woman who swore she could taste weather. I worked in a little shop where the shelves never stayed in the same place twice. I painted for a bit. I grew very good at walking at night without frightening anything that was already afraid. Then I came home because the houseplants said they missed me."
Theo blinked. He tried to catch the punchline, the exaggeration, the glint of irony that made most conversations bearable. It wasn't there.
"You came back because you missed them," he said, careful, as if approaching a spell he didn't understand.
"That too," she said, meeting his eyes with the faintest smile. "And because it felt like time."
He sat with that, letting silence fill the space between them. His headache had settled to a dull murmur now, less of a storm, more of a lingering echo. The food helped. Her presence helped more, though he would rather be crucified than admit it.
She tucked one leg under herself and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was small, ordinary, and it somehow landed under his ribs like recognition. It was domestic in the way old songs were familiar, and for a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe.
"You look different," he said finally, surprising himself. "You've always been you, I don't mean that, just… there's a steadiness now. As if the tide chose a direction and decided to stay."
Her smile deepened. "I grew up," she said simply. "People think curiosity belongs to children, but that's never been true. I'm still curious, just less frantic about it. I still want to know everything that speaks, but I prefer to listen sitting down."
He laughed quietly, the sound rough from disuse. "A table does have its charms."
"Like pizza," she said, and her grin broke across the room like daylight.
They ate the remaining slices slowly this time, tasting rather than feeding. Conversation drifted, unhurried. He told her about the lab he hated, the one where the burners hissed unpredictably and the air smelled of frustration and over-boiled mandrake. She laughed softly and asked about the other one, the place he loved. His tone changed without his permission when he described it: the constant hum of enchantments, the faint scent of rosemary, the exact moment when a potion turned the right colour and you felt it instead of seeing it.
Her eyes lit up as he spoke. "That's why I like alchemy," she said. "It's one of the few things left that still believes in transformation."
He pretended to scoff, but the words lingered.
Then she told him about a woman in a foreign market who sold salt that remembered every grief it had touched. He told her she was making that up. She swore she wasn't.
He asked for the recipe of the pastry she'd brought, and she told him there was no recipe, only the trick of knowing when the dough sighed.
"Dough does not sigh," he said firmly.
"It does if you listen," she countered, entirely serious.
He stared at her for a moment, torn between disbelief and delight, then said, "You are an impossible woman."
"Thank you," she said, as though he had called her beautiful.
By the time they reached the last slices, his shoulders had dropped, his voice had softened, and the napkin in his hand hung forgotten. He realised it only because she noticed first, her gaze flicking over him with the accuracy of a healer's.
"You unclench when you're fed," she said mildly, as if observing a rare plant. "That's useful to remember."
"You intend to test this hypothesis?"
"Often."
He gave her a narrow look, but the smile kept tugging at his mouth. "You do realise this is lunch, not therapy."
"I do," she said. "And yet you seem to be improving."
The radiator in the corner ticked faintly as the afternoon light softened across the kitchen tiles. The air felt lived-in. For the first time in years, his flat didn't seem like a waiting room for his own thoughts.
"I should clear this," he said, pushing back his chair. Movement felt safer than the quiet weight between them. He stacked the boxes neatly, aligning their corners as though symmetry could rescue him, and rinsed the mugs though there was still tea left inside.
Luna stood to help. He tried to protest automatically, muttering something about guests and propriety, but she ignored him with an ease that made resistance absurd. She dried the plates as he washed, humming under her breath, and it struck him that she had already started to sound like she belonged here.
When the last cup was back in its place, she leaned against the counter, hands resting lightly on the edge.
"You survived," she said.
"Barely," he replied, though the smile had already found him.
"I should go," she added, and the words hit him like a sudden dip in temperature. It was ridiculous, really, to feel disappointment over someone leaving after lunch. Yet the ache was there, quiet and insistent.
She gathered her bag, tucking the tin of tea back into the basket. When she turned to him again, her expression held that same steady warmth. "I had a wonderful time."
He cleared his throat, searching for composure. "I did as well."
Luna stepped closer, unhurried, her eyes on his. She stopped just close enough for him to feel the air shift between them. Her hand found his forearm, fingers resting there lightly. "You should get a phone," she said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. "It would make inviting me to lunch again much easier."
"I can use an owl," he replied automatically.
"You could," she agreed. "Or you could let the future ring in your pocket and stop pretending it frightens you."
He tried to think of a clever answer, something glib to protect the ground beneath him, but none came. "All right," he said instead, softer than he intended.
"Good."
She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, close enough to the corner of his mouth that it felt like a mistake neither of them wanted to correct. He went still. She stepped back, smiling, as if she hadn't just rewritten the rules of his morning. "Thank you for lunch, Theo."
He found his voice somewhere near the back of his throat. "Thank you for rescuing it from disaster."
She laughed, folding her napkin into a precise square and setting it beside the empty box. "I had fun." Her gaze swept the kitchen again, taking in the bare shelves and clinical order. "You should do something about this place, though. It's a bit empty."
Theo's chest tightened. "Please," he muttered, more sharply than intended, "stop diagnosing my loneliness."
"I wasn't—"
"Yes, you were." The words came fast, heat breaking through the control he clung to. "If you dislike it so much, you could come over every day. That would shut you up."
The silence that followed rang like glass. He stared at her, mortified.
Luna tilted her head, unbothered. "Fine by me," she said.
His mind stuttered. "Fine by you?"
"Yes."
"Every day?"
"Every day," she said again, entirely calm.
He looked at her for a long time, trying to locate the joke and failing. His heartbeat filled the room. "You cannot just say things like that," he said finally.
"Why not?"
"Because…" He faltered, searching for armour. "Because you make it sound possible."
"It is possible," she said, as if that were the simplest truth in the world.
He stared at her, feeling the edges of his walls soften, his excuses dissolving one by one.
"You're dangerous," he said quietly.
"I'm honest."
He looked away, dragging a hand through his hair. The motion did nothing to steady him. "You don't understand. People don't come here. This place isn't for anyone else."
"I understand," Luna said gently. "And I don't mind."
He turned back to her. The air between them had thickened with something fragile and immense.
"Every day," he said again, testing the shape of it.
She nodded. "If you'll have me."
For a second, everything in him wanted to run. Instead he stood there, heart hammering, knowing that something in his carefully arranged life had just shifted and would never quite return to its original order.
"Fine," he muttered, voice rough. "Every day."
Her smile bloomed, quiet and certain. "Then it's settled."
She leaned up and pressed her lips against his cheek, warm and soft, far too close to the corner of his mouth. It burned like a promise.
And before he could find words, she was already stepping back toward the door, basket swinging lightly at her side.