Harry's Hands

By Megan Nielson



Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

*Note: I may or may not do a sequel, depending on how I feel and if anyone wants it. So, don't unfollow quite yet. :)


Aside from the general consensus that one should be wearing at very least a vague frown and look attentive, yet not too lively, nothing existed except washes of gray and black and white.

Everything was either much too black or much too pale, and whether it was the stiff looking suits or polished boots or semi-wilting white flowers that looked the dreariest, Harry couldn't tell. Even the phoenixes that flanked him looked dull in color.

Yes, just black and white, and the only warmth that existed was the steady hand resting on his shoulder.

Luna wouldn't have wanted it this way.

Luna would've wanted red and green and blue so neon that it was forever burned into everyone's retinas. She would've liked dancing and laughter and obscure Norwegian pastries and little figurines and enchanted teapots that would take whatever chance they could get to discuss Mermish Politics with anyone they could possibly find.

If she had planned her funeral, she would've even invited the nargles. And the wrackspurts- never forget the wrackspurts. There would be random booms and pops and bursts and singing streamers that would make everybody jump five feet in the air whenever it sounded in their ears.

The boy's fingers were sweaty, gripping harshly a bouquet of flowers. White flowers.

All at once he felt nauseated and foolish and disgusted with himself.

He was just like everyone else in the room, and for once in his life, that wasn't a good thing. He was just like those idiots who had their collars buttoned up all the way and their blank ties ironed perfectly and their faces a little too pale.

And he brought white flowers, of all things. White little roses half-bloomed and already wilting, leaving dried crumbles all over the slate gray carpet.

No, not gray carpet. Red. But a dull red, of all reds. So dull it was just like gray.

He couldn't make himself go up to Mr. Lovegood and hand him- hand him- these things. These flowers that looked like everybody else's. These dead flowers. To Luna's father.

Harry took a step back, feeling Snape's hand resist against him, and he looked up blankly at the man.

His voice was gray too, "Please."

"You are strong, you can do this," It didn't sound like his professor at all. Not one bit, but his voice was warm and resonant and colorful. Almost as lively as Luna would've liked.

"Okay," He nodded, pausing, "Okay."

That hand never left his back as he made his way across the room and Harry couldn't be more thankful of the meager strength it granted him as Mr. Lovegood's raw and pale and tired looking face floated in his eyes.

The man turned to him, fiddling with his wiry blonde hair and managing a smile that looked like weak coffee.

Harry glanced down to his flowers, hands trembling, and felt a hot wave of shame pour into his face.

"Sir, I'm so sorry," the boy said, the thickness of his throat making the words a rasp, and he wanted to say everything, to admit, to scream, to cry, to beg for the forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve but the words couldn't come out, so he settled, "I'm so sorry."

The man extended an arm and for a very brief moment Harry thought he wanted him to shake it but, as suddenly as the arm had slithered out, it had grasped him, pulling him in. Just like that, he was put into a very hard, very warm, and very long bear hug by none of than Mr. Lovegood.

"Call me Xeno," the man said, "Luna would've wanted it that way."

He almost dropped his flowers but Snape had caught them, sticking the bouquet onto a tall coffee table in the middle of the procession that had the rest of the flowers.

All at once he was reminded of her and he couldn't help the wetness that brimmed in his eyes. Pulling back from the man, he trembled, "Okay."

Xeno looked a little less pale, a little less raw, "You have a lot of her in you."

"You too."

Harry only moved to crane his neck when he heard Hermione gasp and then he wheeled around entirely, seeing the brightest and most magnificent colors sprout from the honey-wood coffee table in the middle of the room.

From his formerly white flowers grew exotic and unforgettable breeds- crimson red avens, deep purple lilacs, fuschia-tinted African daisies and marigolds, Mexican poppies and rich buttercups, sunflowers and bells of every kind, exotic breeds and twining vines that curled green bands over absolutely every sprouting incarnation.

It was lively and beautiful and everything Luna would've wanted and, for the first time in weeks, Harry smiled and it was with the broadest grin he'd ever had.

Even when she was gone, Luna was still there.

She'd never really left after all.

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