Post-Hogwarts Luna-cy

Post-Hogwarts Luna-cy

By Katie Hogan

At the end of a long gravel drive just outside of Hogsmeade is a set of twelve-foot-high wrought iron gates, a twisting display of metalwork that seems to depict seven Mandrakes having a birthday party. Some of the baby Mandrakes hold balloons that bob from side to side as you look at them, and a bigger Mandrake clumsily slices a cake as frosting drips onto her toes - er, roots.

A tall archway over the gates showcases the letters: Luna's Mandrake Farm, Est. July 6^th, 1999.

Beyond this archway is a row of brightly colored greenhouses and, off to the side, a small rectangular house. It appears to have started out as a simple Muggle mobile home. Someone, however, has fastened various objects to its roof and sides - an upside-down trashcan here, an old boot there, a frying pan over the door, a doghouse where the chimney should be - and painted the whole thing a sparkling, blinding shade of white.

This house belongs to Luna Lovegood, a young witch with long, scraggly ash-blonde hair and protuberant silver-gray eyes that give her a perpetually surprised expression. She shares the house with her pet Kneazle, Zwirble, and twelve of her favorite Mandrakes.

On the particular day when this story takes place, Luna sat at her desk filling out order forms in purple Grape-scented ink. The old fashioned radio in the corner buzzed loudly with the voice of Glenda Chittock, presenter on the WWN.

"The Ministry of Magic announced today that Vishal Rosier, former Death Eater and self-proclaimed Dark Lord, has escaped from Azkaban. His whereabouts are currently unknown, but he is reported to have been spotted in Aberdeen at 10:04:32 this morning. Any wizard with information regarding the whereabouts of Rosier should contact the Ministry immediately. Rosier should not be approached by any wizard who is not a trained Auror . . . ."

"Rosier is part of the Rotfang conspiracy," Luna informed her Mandrakes. "That's why the Aurors don't want anyone to attack him. He's working with them to bring down the Ministry of Magic using a combination of Dark Magic, vampires, and gum disease."

She removed her wand from behind her ear and flicked it at the radio. The presenter's voice was immediately replaced by the sound of an exploding tuba as Musidora Barkwith's Wizarding Suite burst out of the speakers. The Mandrake pots on the spindle-legged table across from Luna's desk vibrated with the noise, moving dangerously close to the edge.

Luna promptly silenced the radio.

"I don't like the Wizarding Suite," she told her Mandrakes vaguely. "It reminds me of flies in vanilla pudding."

Leaning over, she rummaged through a stack of books on the floor and produced a thick leatherbound volume. Silver writing on a bent and faded spine tiredly announced the book's title: The Complete Works of Malecrit.

Luna let the book fall open to a dog-eared page. "Would you like me to read to you from Malecrit's most famous work?" she asked her Mandrakes.

She picked up a pair of lime-green tortoiseshell glasses and set them upside-down on the bridge of her nose. With a far-off expression on her face, she began to read the unabridged version of Hélas, j'ai Transfiguré mes Pieds (Alas, I Have Transfigured My Feet) aloud in a hazy, dream-like voice.

"'Marcellin: Peut-être, Je devrais métamorphoser les pieds de la vache paresseux dans les petite roues et et alors ce sera plus facile prendre elle au marché.'

"'Ermengilde: Bonne idée, Marcellin.'

"'Marcellin (elle indique le baguette de magique à la vache): Converto Pesarota!'

"'Le baguette de magique retour de flamme; Marcellin est enveloppé dans une nuage de fumée vert.'

"'Marcellin: Hélas, j'ai Transfiguré mes Pieds!'"*

Luna was so busy reading that she didn't hear the front door open. When someone muttered, "Expelliarmus," she was caught completely unawares. Her wand flew out from behind her ear, soaring across the room and straight into the hand of . . . Vishal Rosier.

Luna stared at Rosier. She didn't have to ask who he was; he looked just like his picture in the Daily Prophet. His round face was gouged with wrinkles and framed by a scraggly mass of dirty brown hair that fell into his beady little eyes like unraveled yarn. He tossed Luna's wand up in the air and caught it again with a gloating expression.

"What are you doing here?" Luna demanded. Her voice had lost its dreamy tone.

"I heard from my niece Bellatrix that you are a friend of Harry Potter."

So that was what he wanted. To prove that he was more powerful than Voldemort by finishing off the Boy Who Lived. Luna pursed her lips.

"Tell me where Harry Potter is now," ordered Rosier. He spoke in the same superior tone that the Malfoys used.

Luna shook her head.

Rosier's scowl deepened. "Do I need to persuade you?" he growled, raising his wand.

"Just a moment, sir," said Luna in an unexpectedly serene voice. "My fellytone is ringing."

As Luna suspected, Rosier hadn't the faintest idea what a fellytone was. He watched confusedly as she grabbed a pair of fuzzy pink earmuffs and yanked them over her ears.

"Hello?" she said, cocking her head as though to hear better. "Oh. Okay. It's for you," she told Rosier, smiling serenely.

Luna reached over her desk and dragged a potted plant across the table. Rosier was watching her with a baffled expression on his ugly face, still trying to figure out what a fellytone was. Luna grasped the scraggly plant firmly at its base and yanked it out of the pot. A fully grown Mandrake emerged, scattering dirt and Miracle-Grow over Luna's desk. It blinked and opened its mouth like the gaping entrance of a cave. Luna's earmuffs blocked out the Mandrake's deadly scream, but Rosier didn't even have a chance to clap his hands over his ears. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor, dead as a doornail.

* : Because the original text of Hélas, j'ai Transfiguré mes Pieds appears in French, I have provided the following translation:

Marcellin: Maybe if I transfigure the lazy cow's feet into little wheels, it will be easier to take her to the market.

Ermengilde: Good idea, Marcellin.

Marcellin (pointing wand at cow): Converto Pesarota!

[wand backfires; Marcellin is enveloped in a cloud of green smoke.]

Marcellin: Alas, I have transfigured my feet!