Shadow Walks |h.p/h.g|

ch. 14

By unspoken and yet shared consent, neither Luna nor Ron uttered a word to each other, as she somewhat dazedly answered the questions fired at her by the Auror on duty. She dimly noticed the quill frantically jotting down her disjointed responses verbatim. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the corner, observing, a silent and brooding dark shadow. Ron was a comforting presence near her... not warmth exactly, as he wasn't touching her, but the promise of warmth.

Later, she would realize that she couldn't really remember what she'd said to the investigator. She would recall the vague distant sound of her voice in her ears, no more distinct really, than water trickling over stones. She could remember the faint whispery scratch of the quill, and the cool feel of the lacquer on the table, and Ron - a blur of color behind her, wordlessly offering support by mere proximity.

Harry... she thought almost dully. Harry's gone, and I sent him there. The atmosphere around her - the very universe - had seemed to throb slightly, as if something important had been removed from it, when Harry had disappeared from sight. Luna had felt it, felt the very center of her soul convulse with the loss, and she had collapsed against Ron, as her bones refused to help her stand any longer.

Ron's hands had closed around her upper arms, just below her shoulders. He had squeezed once. I know. I understand. All he said was,

"He'll come back."

After the interview was complete, they made their way home, Apparating to the predetermined point outside their flat, and strolling toward it with their fingers loosely interlocked. With the click of the door latch behind them, Luna suddenly felt trapped, imprisoned, as if by closing that door, they had inadvertently sealed themselves in irrevocably. Silence seemed to swell and grow inside the dim set of rooms, until it was like a living thing, an uninvited guest that was unwelcome and determined to stay.

Luna's eyes darted everywhere, and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her small hands twisting round each other tightly. Ron watched her with curiosity and not a little concern. One thing Luna had been for them over the last five torturous years was a rock. She would occasionally say or do completely barmy things, but she rarely lost her equanimity, the vague placidity that seemed to carry her through life, with no more urgency and frantic grasping at control than a fallen leaf caught in a slowly swirling current. He had never seen her this way.

"What if he doesn't - ?"

"He will," Ron interrupted her.

Luna gazed at him, with a mournful look that was almost beseeching, like a small child pleading with an adult to tell her everything was all right, even if that meant lying. She resumed her uneven and erratic pacing around the room. Ron watched her, opened his mouth, closed it again, started for his room, stopped, turned back to her, and finally swore under his breath, and strode from the living room.

Luna held her breath when she heard the clinking of glass, and clenched her hands into small fists. She knew that Ron felt left out, that he didn't understand why she was upset, that he might even be jealous of her bond with Harry, and she didn't know how she could explain it to him.

"Ronald?" she called out uncertainly, wincing when her voice cracked on the last syllable. There was a beat of absolute silence; Luna could sense it lurking in the corners. Then she heard his heavy tread in the corridor, and he appeared before her again, his eyebrows raised in query.

His hands were empty. Without her really meaning them to, Luna's eyes flickered from those hands to his face, questioningly.

"You're not drinking," she said mildly, as if observing the weather. It belied the anxiety evidenced by her stance and movements. Ron flushed a little, and shoved his hands into his pockets, shuffling his trainers back and forth on the rug.