Chapter 88: A Curious House and a Quiet Warning
Following the directions Luna had given him, Elian arrived in what felt like the heart of a forgotten forest. The Lovegood home was not in a village or tucked away in a magical city enclave. It stood in deep, quiet woodland, protected by the kind of seclusion only old magic and remoteness could provide.
It was Christmas Day. Elian wore a smart, black suit—a simple transfiguration of his Levitation Cloak into a more formal jacket. He moved through the snow-dusted pines with quiet steps, his senses extended, noting the unusual silence of the forest. No birdsong, just the crunch of his footsteps and the sigh of the wind in the branches.
Then he saw it.
The house erupted from the clearing like a thought from a whimsical, slightly mad mind. It was a tall, thin structure that seemed to defy gravity, shaped vaguely like a rook chess piece, painted in cheerful, peeling colours that contrasted starkly with the surrounding winter greys and greens. A peculiar black cylinder loomed behind it, crowned with a weathervane shaped like a monstrous, skeletal moon. It was unmistakably, perfectly, the home of Xenophilius and Luna Lovegood.
Elian approached, his eyes scanning the tree line. He was early, a full two hours before the agreed dinner time. According to Arthur Weasley's letter, members of the Order were to be positioned nearby for protection. Elian hadn't wanted to involve them, but the cold logic was inescapable: if Death Eaters attacked, his primary focus would be neutralising the threat. Luna and her father's safety could not be an afterthought. The Order's presence was a necessary distraction—for the enemy, and a shield for the innocents.
Inside the strange, rook-shaped house, the atmosphere was one of bustling, eccentric preparation. Xenophilius Lovegood, resplendent in robes of eye-wateringly bright orange and yellow, was conducting a culinary symphony in the kitchen. With flicks of his wand, carrots peeled themselves, potatoes diced mid-air, and herbs floated in precise measurements into bubbling pots. Two cauldrons—one emitting a rich, meaty aroma, the other a strangely sweet, herbal scent—simmered over magical flames.
"Luna! Luna, dear!" Xenophilius called out, tasting a spoonful of the dark green soup from the second cauldron and nodding in profound satisfaction. "Did you confirm the time with young Mr. Throne? Seven o'clock, wasn't it?"
Luna appeared in the kitchen doorway, a thick, obscure-looking book tucked under her arm. She blinked her wide, silvery eyes. "Yes, Father. Seven." She sniffed the air, her dreamy expression sharpening with interest. "Is that the valley herb? The one with the spiral root?"
"The very same!" Xenophilius exclaimed, holding up a twisted, dark-green root. "I've decided to call it Helixsnap! Observe the corkscrew formation—most peculiar, isn't it? The soup is quite revolutionary. I shall have to feature it in the next Quibbler. A culinary exposé!"
Luna drifted closer to examine the root. "It does look like a frozen snail. A very fitting name."
Pleased, Xenophilius beamed, but his expression sobered as he stirred the main cauldron. "My dear, has Mr. Throne… or Mr. Potter… mentioned anything further? About the… unpleasantness?" He couldn't bring himself to say 'Death Eaters' or 'Voldemort' in his own kitchen on Christmas, as if naming them might invite them in.
"Hogwarts is quiet," Luna said softly, her gaze drifting to the window. "For now."
Xenophilius nodded, but his eyes were troubled. As the editor of The Quibbler, a publication that had openly defied the Ministry and supported Harry and Elian's accounts, he was under no illusions. He remembered the last war—the paranoia, the sudden disappearances, the way fear slithered into every institution. The Ministry itself had been riddled with spies and those under the Imperius Curse.
The Unforgivable Curses. The very name spoke of their absolute, corrupting evil. The Imperius Curse was the most insidious. It didn't leave marks, it didn't twist the mind into obvious madness. It simply… suggested. And you obeyed, believing the thought was your own. There was no known counter-curse, no potion to break its hold. Only extraordinary willpower, or the death of the caster. He feared it more than the Killing Curse. One could fight Avada Kedavra. How did one fight one's own seemingly rational decisions?
He was pulled from his grim reverie by a sudden glug-glug sound. The dark Helixsnap soup was boiling over. He waved his wand frantically to calm it.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three firm, polite raps sounded at the heavy, round front door.
A clear, calm voice called through the wood. "Luna? Mr. Lovegood? It's Elian."
Xenophilius jumped, nearly dropping his wand. He and Luna exchanged a look—his slightly alarmed, hers simply placid and welcoming.
"He's early," Xenophilius murmured, smoothing his garish robes. He took a deep breath, forcing Christmas cheer back onto his face. "Well! The guest of honour arrives! Let us welcome him, Luna. And remember, not a word about our… anticipated visitors. Let us have one normal hour of Christmas, at least."
Luna nodded, a small, knowing smile on her lips. She turned and floated towards the door, her radish earrings swinging. As Xenophilius bustled to turn down the flames, his eyes darted once more, nervously, to the forest visible through the kitchen window. The shadows between the trees seemed a little deeper, the silence a little more profound, than it had a moment before.
(End of Chapter)
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