Que Sera Sera

Summer at The Dovecote, after Luna's fifth year -

Luna, fresh from a holiday in the Sahara desert, hummed quietly to herself as she baked tea-cakes in the early morning, inhaling the aroma of cinnamon, flour and sugar. It was barely five o'clock - her father was still asleep, and she had the liberty of doing what she wanted .

The swish of wings caught her attention as a familiar owl swept down on her shoulder through the open window. Luna somehow managed to swallow her shriek of delight, letting her sparkling eyes do the talking. Hedwig would understand - she always did, even in the Owlery when Luna went there for no purpose other than to pet her and give her a treat.

She let the owl stay on her shoulder until she finished making the dough. She poured it into the oddly shaped moulds she had procured from various places, paying careful attention to quality and capacity. Luna loved baking, and the knowledge that a letter from her dearest - no, from her friend - awaited her made the experience even more uplifting.

Sliding the tray into her ages-old oven, she untied the letter from Hedwig's leg. She simply held the letter as she allowed the owl to peck at the leftover dough. After a while, she coaxed the bird away from the pan and put the pan into the sink. "Enough sweets for you," she told the bird. "It's not good for you and you know it."

Hedwig, blinking her amber eyes in slight reproach, gave Luna's ear a nip before flying out of the window, leaving a soft hoot lingering in the air behind her. Luna smiled vaguely, recognising a comrade. Finally alone and undisturbed for another forty-five minutes at least, she unfolded the letter whose contents were the sweetest music to her heart. It was fairly long for someone as uncommunicative as Harry. She shook her head as she realised that Harry's illegible scrawl had grown spikier than ever, showing his frustration more clearly than words.

She could not help smiling, however, as she realised how tightly he had reined his language in to write this letter. Three whole paragraphs from Harry, on the topic of his life, without a single expletive! There had to be something behind this. Luna, however dotty, was not clueless. After repeatedly perusing the letter until she had almost memorised it, she picked up her own peacock-feather quill and scribbled a reply.

dear harry,

im back from the sahara, with little except a tan, some photographs and a few memories to show for it. the blibbering humdingers proved unsurprisingly elusive - theyre acutely shy of people. reminded me of you - the hating publicity thing, i mean.

hermione wrote the other day. asked if i had finished my homework, and requested some information on the fauna of the sahara. apparently she needs it for a care of magical creatures project. but ron hasnt mentioned anything of the kind - i think hermiones just putting too much effort into the work. if you havent finished, i think you could copy a little of her stuff.

ginny has been writing as regularly as graces and pigs health will allow. flying across continents isnt easy work! she says youll be rescued from privet drive in about another three weeks. so you get to spend two weeks of your holiday at the burrow!

my dads flutterby bushes are in full bloom, and the blossoms are fluttering all over the garden. you should see them, i think youd really enjoy trying to catch one - theyre almost as quick as the snitch! when we were little, the weasleys and i used to play "flit-ditch" with them, trying to catch as many as possible in ten minutes.

im sending this off with grace now, before daddy wakes. and i remain

yours,

- luna.

Quickly skimming over the letter, she gave a brisk nod of approval, and summoned her own snowy owl, Grace. Unearthing an Owl Treat from the depths of her apron, she coaxed the owl out of her snooze and sent it to trace Hedwig's path.

That was the beginning of a three week-long correspondence, where Harry would send off a letter at midnight, and Hedwig would return sometime next morning with Luna's reply tied around her leg with a delicate silken strand. This happened every other day, and the letters grew longer as the correspondence continued, soon coming to resemble detailed diary entries.

By the time Harry's removal to the Burrow drew near, he realised that - for the first time in his life - he was close to being content at Privet Drive.