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Jul. 16th, 2007

strange little girl


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Jan. 7th, 2007


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Yes, Luna has a snorkack. Why is it purple? I don't know. It was the first colour that came to mind. And, really, who wouldn't want a fluffy purple hedgehog type thing?

If I were a better artist, this would be how I imagine it. However, I'm not, so this is almost but not quite how I imagine it:

Also, bonus rendition of Luna, very cunningly in a skirt so I don't have to draw legs, and with an awfully odd chin!


Oct. 31st, 2006


(no subject)

It comes as absolutely no surprise.

Well. Why should it?

“Hello, sweetheart.”

Luna sits up (only it seems she wasn’t really lying down after all) and opens her eyes (already open), and it seems her room has been replaced by her mother, all long blond hair and silvery eyes. Lucinda Lovegood, muggleborn, Ravenclaw, and she doesn’t look a day over thirty-eight.

It’s only to be expected.

Luna smiles dreamily, and when she takes a step closer, reaches for her mother’s out-stretched hand, the cloudy nothingness shifts and merges and turns into their kitchen. The room is awash with sunlight, the air cool and salty. Out the window, she can see the sea.

“Hello, mum,” she says. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“No. Not now, not yet,” Lucinda, Lucy, shakes her head and brushes stray hair away from Luna’s eyes. “You’ve got your father’s nose.”

“Daddy always says it looks like yours.”

She laughs, and it sounds just like Luna remembers it. “He would,” and then her face falls, crumples at the edges just a little. “You do look after him, don’t you?”

There are some things so obvious you just don’t need to dignify with an answer. Luna smiles, filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire- magically boiled water just isn’t the same.

“How was your day?” she asks politely, and she pulls herself up to sit on the draining board. Water seeps through the seat of her skirt, and Lucinda, mum, half-turns away.

“Luna,” she says, the words coming out slow and heavy, “I don’t have days anymore. I’m dead.”

Luna ducks her head and chews on a nail and kicks her feet against the cupboard door, watching her mother’s long fingers tug on the edges of the patchwork curtains. “I know.”

“I’m sorry. Your father always told me to be more careful,” her hand slips, knocking against the window glass, and she lets out her breath in a shaky laughter. “It pays to listen.”

“Mum,” says Luna, and it’s been eight years but it’s somehow still the most natural thing into the world to slide down off the draining board and into her mother’s waiting arms.

“I’m only on the other side,” she murmurs into Luna’s hair, and cool, familiar lips press against her forehead. “However far away it feels, I’m only on the other side.”

The kettle whistles.

She’ll wake up soon. But in the mean time, there’s nothing better than a nice cup of tea and a hug from your mum.
strange little girl

July 2007




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