He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to remember this day. But every year, as insistent as a ticking clock, the anniversary loomed towards them.

She would wake up, trip down the stairs with her hair only partially brushed, and make a start on breakfast. The first year she’d done this, the eggs had broken when she’d fried them, but thinking quickly, she’d turned them into omelettes. After all, they were still eggs, they could still eat them, and mixing it all together meant their breakfast was still yellow.

Leaving the omelette to cook in the pan, she would walk to the Chill-Charm Cabinet and search for juice. Although she normally had pumpkin juice, on this day she always poured out two glasses of pineapple juice. The colour sparkled in the smeared glasses, reminding her of summer days, buttercup meadows and dancing hand-in-hand in the sunshine.

“She would have loved this,” he said as he approached. He said it every year, even if she’d burnt the omelette. They’d share a hug, he’d stroke her hair, and then they’d sit down to eat.

After ten years, Luna could cook perfect fried eggs, yet she always served up slightly burnt omelettes, and her father never complained.

She smiled when he came in. Her hair was still the dirty blonde of her childhood, but now it shone in the sun filtering through the window. Xenophilius caught his breath. With the light behind her, Luna was the image of Xanthe. He hesitated, not wanting to speak in case she moved and shattered the illusion. Luna hopped on her feet and he watched Xanthe fade from view, but still he smiled.

“Dad,” she said, when he placed the knife and fork on his plate and pushed it to one side. “What potion was Mum making?”

She didn’t have to add ‘the day she died’ or ‘the day our lives disintegrated’; Xenophilius knew the day and the potion she meant. He’d been waiting for this question, for any questions from her about her mother, but the oft-rehearsed response now sounded lame in his head.

“A Daydream Potion. Your mother was a big believer in dreams,” he replied, and winced inwardly. The whimsy he’d thought up many years ago for a child did not suit the young woman who was before him.

Luna sat there, nodded, and said nothing.

“Why did you ask, Luna? Why now?”

“I’ve been thinking about her,” she replied. “I did a lot of thinking when I was with Mr Ollivander. A lot of talking, too.” She smiled warmly at some distant memory. “He remembered Mum buying her wand.”

“What did he remember?” Xenophilius asked, wondering how different the eleven-year-old Xanthe Inglebee had been from the Flourish and Blotts Sales Assistant he’d knocked over, sending her stack of books flying. Mortified, he’d blushed and stuttered his apologies, meaning to disappear, but then he’d looked into her large, limpid pale blue eyes and was lost.

“Nine inch willow with a unicorn hair core. He said it was a good wand for Charms.”

“Your mother was very much like you.”

Luna collected both plates and ran them under the tap, watching as the lukewarm water splashed away the remnants of her breakfast.

***

“Luna, hello, this is a surprise. I thought you were in Norway.” Lavender Brown, sometime reporter for The Quibbler, was sitting at a makeshift desk and waiting for inspiration to strike. Xenophilius generally gave her free rein to write what she wanted, but she could tell he was rather nonplussed that her subject choice veered towards the real rather than the fantastical. This week she was determined to write something to keep both him and the readers happy. If she hypothesised about a vampire sect living only on animals, or drinking nothing more harmless than beetroot juice, then it wouldn’t be too ridiculous for her credibility, but would be just crazy enough to appeal to Xeno.

“We’re going next week,” Luna said. “Dad thinks going at the quarter moon is better.”

Lavender nodded sagely. “I’m sure he’s right.” She bit through a biscuit then held out the pack towards Luna. “Do you know much about vampires, Luna? I’m thinking about writing my column on them ... only ... well, I don’t know any.”

“There was one at Professor Slughorn’s party, the year I went with Harry,” Luna said. “I talked to him. But I’m not sure he was a real vampire. He didn’t know anything about Rufus Scrimgeour, and you’d know, wouldn’t you, who the other vampires were if you were one.”

“Uh ...” Lavender looked at Luna, not for the first time completely baffled. “Forget I said anything. Maybe I’ll write about a Mandrake rebellion or something.” She looked down at the pad of parchment in front of her, blank except for a few doodles. Inspiration was still not hitting her, so she took another biscuit from the pack and crunched while she thought.

“Do you like being a reporter?” Luna asked suddenly.

Lavender looked across the desk to see Luna studying her, a curious look in her large blue eyes.

“I do ... usually,” she admitted. “I like searching for stories, and the year I was abroad was fun because there were so many different people and things to write about.”

“But it’s not as much fun anymore,” Luna stated with unerring accuracy.

Lavender smiled ruefully. “I’m not searching for things, Luna. I’m waiting for things to find me.”

Chewing her bottom lip, and suddenly looking of all things unsure, Luna leant forward. She coughed to clear her throat. “Would you look into something for me, Lavender?”

“Uh ...” Lavender looked at her warily. If this was something about Nargles or Crumple Horned Snorkacks, she wanted nothing to do with it. She might be working for The Quibbler, but she also knew her articles lent the paper some gravitas; she didn’t want that to disappear with something too far-fetched. “I am quite ...” She wanted to say busy, but Luna suddenly looked very sad, and Lavender had never seen her sad before. “What would you like me to look into?”

“My mother’s death.”

Her statement didn’t just take the biscuit; it caused Lavender to crush the remaining half in her hand in surprise. “What did you say?”

“My mother’s death,” Luna repeated plainly. “I was nine and she was making a potion. There was an accident.”

“Um ... okay.” Lavender was hesitant. “Look ... I’m no Potioneer, so I wouldn’t be able to help you with what went wrong. And ... um ... well, as this was an accident, I’m not sure what I could investigate.”

“Dad told me last week that she’d been creating a Daydream Potion,” Luna said.

“Well, that’s possible, isn’t it? Professor Snape always used to tell us that potion making was dangerous if you didn’t take the right precautions.”

“I know,” replied Luna, “and she did all sorts of experiments, so it’s possible, but ...”

“But, what?” Lavender asked gently.

“I spoke to George Weasley and asked him about that type of potion. He said it’s not at all dangerous. It’s a matter of using a Mirage Charm on a weakened sleeping draught. There’s nothing there that could harm her.” Luna gnawed her bottom lip. “I just want to know what she was really brewing.”

Pushing the parchment pad, her quill and the biscuits to one side, Lavender reached across and clasped Luna’s hands. The contact seemed to surprise Luna, but she didn’t pull away. “Why would he lie, Luna? There’s no reason for it.”

“Unless she was brewing something illegal,” Luna murmured. She locked looks with Lavender, her eyes beseeching. “He won’t tell me anymore about that day, but I need to know. Please, Lavender, will you help me?”

***

She agreed to help. There was very little else she felt she could do. Despite being an outsider for so much of her time at Hogwarts, Luna Lovegood had proved her worth in many ways during that final year. Even away from Hogwarts, the thought of her imprisoned somewhere had kept them going, given them another cause to fight for. She’d appeared in front of them looking thoroughly unperturbed, her spirit shining through. The thought of that spirit �“ her very essence �“ wilting now was too hard for Lavender to contemplate, which was why she found herself climbing the steep path to Xenophilius’ home.

“Miss Brown,” he said in surprise when he opened the door. “Is there a problem? You usually send me your article by owl.”

She stood on one leg, not at all sure how to approach this now that she was here. She liked Xeno. He was totally crazy, she knew that, but he was considerate to her. She respected him, mainly because he’d given her a chance and didn’t dismiss her ideas as rubbish even if they went against his rather odd grain.

“I ... um ... had an idea about a story, but wanted to discuss it with you first,” she said breathlessly.

He frowned slightly, but gestured for her to come inside, showed her to the lounge, then pottered off to make some tea. Lavender pulled a face; she’d tasted his gurdyroot tea before, but had only managed a polite sip before pushing the cup away.

“Here we are,” he said breezily as he walked back in carrying a tray bearing two cups, a teapot and a plate of ill-assorted biscuits. “Now, how can I help you, my dear?

She smiled at him and waited whilst he poured her a cup. She took a breath. Like drinking gurdyroot tea, getting this over quickly was the recommended path. “I want to write a series of articles about innovative wizards and witches,” she began. Xenophilius nodded encouragingly. “I’d like to start with ... um ...”

“Start with whom?” he asked, then his eyes lit up. “Oh, how about Pollonius Dazzlebury? He discovered the odd effect the setting sun has on the creation of Snargaluff Pod juice. If you stir three times, widdershins at sunset, then the juice is remarkably good for attracting Plimpies. Any later and it has the reverse effect. Luna used to use my extract all the time �“”

“No, I wanted to start with Xanthe Lovegood,” Lavender interrupted, adding in a hurried voice, “I’ve heard a few things about her, and I’d like to write a tribute.”

“My Xanthe?” He looked bemused, but also pleased, a small light glinting softly in his eye as he recalled his wife. “That would be wonderful, Miss Brown.”

Lavender let out a small sigh of relief and fetched out her pad and quill. “So, would you tell me what she was like?”

She let him talk, marvelling at how soft and warm his voice became when he recalled his wife. Usually when he was enthusiastic, his speech became insensible in his excitement, but now Xenophilius was clearly recalling a much-loved person from his life. He wasn’t melancholy; he was joyful for the life they’d shared.

There was no mystery here. Xanthe Lovegood had been an extraordinary witch, much loved, often careless, and sorely missed for the life he could no longer share with her. Taking a gulp of the tea, Lavender took a few more notes, and rose to her feet. “She sounds wonderful, Xenophilius. I hope my article does her justice.” She smiled at him, then, as an afterthought, added, “Luna said she was making a Daydream Potion. So sad that something so innocuous should be the cause of her death.”

If she had not been looking directly at Xenophilius at that precise moment, she would have missed his reaction. She would not have seen the fear in his eyes, and the way his hand flinched away from her. But she was looking at him, and he knew she’d seen his reaction.

“You have spoken to Luna?”

Lavender swallowed, wondering what the problem was. “Yes, she came to see me at the office. We were chatting and she talked about her mum. She used to mention her quite a bit at school �“ especially in that final year.” It wasn’t quite a lie, for Luna had talked about her mum during the quiet hours when they’d been hiding from the Carrows. “It’s the reason I want to write the article �“ a tribute not just to your wife, but to Luna, because she kept us going.”

“It is not a good idea,” he said abruptly, then switched to a more genial tone. “Pollonius Dazzlebury, an excellent candidate, Miss Brown. Make him your first subject, and I’ll pay you double.”

“B... but �“”she stammered. “What about Xanthe Lovegood? Wasn’t she innovative?”

He frowned at her, his wispy grey eyebrows creasing together, and in that instant, the genial employer she knew was gone. “She was careless that day, Miss Brown. Not a great epitaph. You will not write about my wife.”

***

“Are you sure about this?”

Luna nodded and carried on walking up the familiar path towards Hogwarts. It was the summer holidays, so there were no pupils running across the grounds. The only sounds that could be heard were birdsong and the Giant Squid splashing around as it basked in the sun.

“We don’t even know if Professor McGonagall has it,” Lavender murmured, “let alone if she’ll let us use it.”

“But Harry mentioned it in his evidence for Professor Snape.”

“Mmm,” Lavender replied. It had seemed like a good idea when she’d remembered Harry’s testimony. That he’d been able to see Snape’s memories and was able to reveal the truth about their reviled Headmaster had been a revelation. The vessel �“ this Pensieve �“resided in the old Headmaster’s office. As one of his personal effects, Professor Dumbledore had been allowed to bequeath it where he thought fit.

Lavender had remembered all of this when she’d been filling Luna in on the interview with her dad. Telling Luna that she was sure her dad’s reluctance was merely down to not wishing to malign Xanthe in print, she’d hoped Luna would let the matter drop. But Luna had stared out of the cafe window.

“I used to help her, sometimes. But that day, she said no.”

“Because potion making can be dangerous,” Lavender murmured. “Luna, I dug out the report on Xanthe’s death. The Aurors were satisfied that it was an accident.”

Setting her coffee cup down on the table, Luna started to draw pictures with her finger in the sugar spilt on the table. “Dad took me out for the day instead. We had a lovely time in the meadow. There were buttercups everywhere, the grass was awash with yellow fairies �“ or so dad said. I believed him, Lavender. I believed everything he said ... but I don’t believe him now.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Coming back. Dad clutching my hand as we came through the back door. I was laughing, and calling for Mum because I wanted to give her the buttercups I’d picked. Then ...” She shook her head. “The rest’s a blur.”

“What if you could remember?”

A single question, prompted only by the sudden glimmer of unshed tears in Luna’s eyes that Lavender had never seen before, now set them on this path.


“Miss Brown, Miss Lovegood,” Professor McGonagall greeted them. She was in Professor Dumbledore’s office �“ now her office �“ with a beautifully carved chess set in front of her. “We shall have to postpone our match, Albus. My guests are here.”

“As you wish, Minerva,” replied Professor Dumbledore. He smiled benignly at the two girls as they sat themselves on the high hard-backed chairs in front of her desk. “There are cushions somewhere,” he whispered.

Ignoring her most illustrious predecessor, Professor McGonagall bestowed a welcoming smile on her two guests. “How may I help you?”

Lavender faltered. Now she was actually here, she couldn’t think how to phrase the request. Professor McGonagall was quite within her rights to send them both packing, unless they approached this with subtlety.

“Please, Professor McGonagall, I’d like to use your Pensieve,” Luna said politely, yet with directness.

Lavender swallowed. “Er, what Luna means, Professor �“”

“I think Miss Lovegood can speak for herself, Miss Brown,” the headmistress replied tartly. She studied Luna thoughtfully. “Why?”

“I want to see the last day I spent with my mum,” Luna said, sounding wistful.

Lavender gave her a brief side-glance. That wasn’t exactly true, but Luna’s story did seem to be having an effect.

“Miss Lovegood, the Pensieve cannot bring people back, you do know that,” Professor McGonagall said gently.

Luna nodded and smiled beatifically. “I don’t need my mum back, Professor. I know I’ll see her again, but that last day was special.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and switched her attention to Lavender. “What is your role in this, Miss Brown? I was not aware that you two were particular friends.”

“Lavender’s writing a story for The Quibbler,” Luna put in, “about my mum. I thought she should see what she’s like.”

The use of the present tense did not escape Lavender’s notice, and it looked as if the Headmistress picked up on it, too, for she frowned and then looked over her shoulder. Following her gaze, Lavender looked into the eyes of the portrait Dumbledore, who was watching shrewdly.

“I have no objections, Minerva,” he murmured, “although perhaps Miss Lovegood needs a few moments alone to contemplate. I always used to find a stroll in the grounds most agreeable during the summer time.”

“Not you, Miss Brown,” Professor McGonagall warned, when Lavender stood up to follow Luna out of the room.

Lavender swallowed. If she’d expected to feel less intimidated now that she’d left school, she was sadly mistaken. Up against the combined force of her old Headmaster and her former Head of House, she could hear her heart thumping hard in her chest. It would be impossible to lie to them, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Now then, Miss Brown, why don’t you tell us why you are really here?”

“Luna’s told you,” Lavender started to say, but under two interrogatory stares she couldn’t continue. “Okay, what Luna says is true. I am trying to write a story about Xanthe Lovegood, and it would be useful to see what she was really like.”

“The Pensieve is not there for journalistic purposes,” Professor McGonagall replied frostily.

“But it is there to make sense of jumbled thoughts,” Lavender persisted. “Professor, if this were for a frivolous article, or a Skeeter job, then I wouldn’t dream of coming here and asking for your help. But �“” She stopped and ran her fingers through her hair, sweeping it away from her face so she could look her former teacher straight in the eye. “Luna is questioning her mother’s death. She thinks her father’s story is ... odd.”

Professor McGonagall frowned at her. “Odd in what way?”

Taking heart, Lavender leant forwards. She glanced up at Professor Dumbledore, pleased that he was listening intently, as well. “Xenophilius told her that Xanthe was preparing a Daydream Potion. He said she was careless and there was a dreadful accident. But Luna doesn’t believe him because last week she spoke to George Weasley, who assured her that there’s nothing remotely dangerous about making that type of potion.” She paused and started to count things off on her fingers. “Secondly, she says her mum wasn’t careless. According to Luna, she used to help her mum with her experiments, but on that day, her mother said no.”

“Which suggests she knew it was a dangerous experiment,” replied Professor McGonagall. “A tragic accident. I don’t think there’s a mystery here, Miss --”

“Luna thinks it was an illegal potion,” she interrupted. “And I don’t believe Xeno, either.”

“You have spoken to Xenophilius?” Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “You felt it was necessary.”

“I felt I owed Luna. I spoke to Xenophilius, told him I’d like to write an article about his wife. He was very happy about it until I mentioned the Daydream Potion. Then he clammed up and spiked the article.”

A silence descended on the room. As Lavender looked around, she saw other faces peering out of portraits now. Even Professor Snape, who had so far ignored any eye contact with the Headmistresses’ visitors, looked interested.

“Are you telling us that you suspect Xenophilius Lovegood of something untoward?” Professor Dumbledore’s serious tone was enough to make her heart plummet. The cold reality was that she didn’t trust Xeno. She wanted to, but something wasn’t right.

“He loved his wife,” she said softly. “He still loves her. That’s obvious, but he was evasive with Luna and ...” She shook her head, trying to rid herself of this feeling of uncertainty about a man she liked and respected, despite his eccentricity, “... he was rude to me, Professor. I don’t mean offhand, or strange. I mean ill-mannered, and the one thing I know from working for Xenophilius Lovegood, is that he just isn’t rude.”

***

Luna stepped down the staircases, barely noticing the creaks in the boards. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the Headmistress wanted to speak to Lavender without her being there, and for a moment she’d wondered whether to stay outside in the corridor, but then she considered Professor Dumbledore’s advice. Since learning of the existence of the Pensieve, she’d been unable to think of anything except that last day. She knew she was obsessing about it and hated that these memories were robbing her of anything that gave her pleasure, but her dad was her rock. What if the foundation of their life was built on sand?

“Miss Lovegood, what brings you to Hogwarts?”

She was outside now, standing at the top of the stone steps that led towards the grounds, and looking up, she saw a pair of wise eyes observing her.

“Sir, how lovely to see you,” she said, and tripped down the stone steps towards him, a wide beaming smile wreathing her face because the centaur Firenze was someone she’d always loved talking with.

He did not smile. Firenze was not someone who smiled often. Instead, he studied her thoughtfully. “You look troubled.”

“I have something on my mind,” she admitted.

“And you think the answer can be found at Hogwarts?” He spoke gently to her, not prying but letting her know he was there if she needed him.

“Lavender thinks it’s the best place to start,” she replied, sighing.

“You are unsure, though,” he stated, then without waiting for her response, he started to move away. “Walk with me, Miss Lovegood. We can talk if you’d like, or we can remain silent. Sometimes the best decisions are made when one is at total peace with one’s surroundings.”

She hesitated, but only for a moment before joining him. Together they took the right fork in the path, heading towards Hagrid’s hut. “I’ve set Lavender on a quest,” she explained. “I’m just not sure I should have done so now.”

“You must have had your reasons, but I am sure you could stop her. From what I remember of Miss Brown, she is a female who, whilst determined, will always care about the outcome.” His step faltered as they approached the hut, and then he turned his gaze on her fully. “You have to divine whether the truth you seek is worth the pain it may cause.”

She should not have been surprised at his perceptiveness. Firenze had always been able to follow her thoughts with unmatched prescience. The connection they’d shared at Hogwarts, based on acceptance and curiosity, had developed into a bond akin to friendship.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she murmured, “but I need the truth now and not a bedtime story.”

“Afternoon, Firenze,” Hagrid hollered from his garden. Sweaty from digging over his pumpkin patch, he wiped his hand on his trousers and held it out to the centaur, before addressing Luna. “Good to see yer.”

"Miss Lovegood seeks truth, Hagrid,” Firenze informed him as he clopped forwards and swished his tail in irritation at the flies.

“Truth, eh?” Hagrid looked at her furtively. “Causes a whole lot o’ trouble. At least diggin’ up the ground only makes yer back ache. The Professor told me about yer visit, but I didn’t expect yer to come to my hut.”

“I’ve always liked your garden, Hagrid,” she said as she looked around her. “You grow interesting things.”

“Not at the moment,” he huffed. “Those bloomin’ jackdaws keep wreckin’ my seedlings.” He straightened up and pointed to a strange figure pegged forlornly into the ground. “I’m makin’ a scarecrow. Sometimes Muggles know what they’re talkin’ about.”

Forgetting about the Pensieve and Lavender, Luna started to giggle as she looked at his creation. “The umbrella is a lovely idea,” she said. “But what have you used for the head? I would have thought a pumpkin would be better.”

“Jackdaws kept peckin at the last one. So I got to thinkin’, what if I used summut that they couldn’t peck through, that would also give ‘em a bit of a fright.” He grinned at them both and then at his reflection in the scarecrow’s head. “It magnifies everythin’, yer see, so those birds think a giant crow is after ‘em.”

“Ingenious,” Firenze murmured. “Although Madam Trelawney may not be pleased at the use you’ve put her future divining object to.”

“What she don’t know ...” Hagrid replied, giving Luna a wink. “Besides, I thought yer held no truck for her fortune telling.”

“It is a human method,” Firenze declared. “And thus is unreliable. That particular device is inaccurate most of the time. A mere mirror to one’s perceptions and not in any way related to the truth.”

“Saved my life, though!” Lavender’s voice floated towards them. “Whatever you say about Sybil Trelawney, she knew the value, in the end, of her ‘future diviner’.” Smiling, she stepped along the path to join them in the garden. “It’s good to see you again, Firenze, and you, Hagrid.”

“You are looking well, Miss Brown. Am I right in believing you to be fully recovered?” Firenze asked, inclining his head to her as he spoke.

“The scars are fading, and the pain is minimal,” she replied blithely. Then her expression changed as she turned to Luna. “Professor McGonagall has agreed we can use the Pensieve, but she wants to make sure you really want to do this.”

Chewing the inside of her mouth, Luna considered. In their different ways, both Hagrid and Firenze seemed to be advising her against this course of action. Firenze had spoken of pain if she followed this path, but ignorance was causing her pain too, and the fractures in her relationship with her dad were already appearing.

“Will you come with me, Lavender?” she asked.

“Every step of the way,” Lavender assured her.

***

Professor McGonagall performed the spell that removed the silken memory from Luna. Both girls watched as the golden strands wisped into the bowl, swirling into nothingness until at last the face of a child appeared.

“Ready,” Lavender whispered.

Luna nodded and together they plunged their faces into the glass bowl. Lavender had expected that she’d have to hold her breath, for the thoughts swirling looked like liquid in the bowl. Although it was cold and dark, as she lurched into Luna’s thoughts, she forgot about closing her mouth and gulped at the cold air. Landing upright in a garden full of flowers, Lavender looked around taking in the many hues and the beauty of the sunlight sparkling on the dappled water of a stream. Beside her, Luna was staring not at the garden but at a small girl running up the path, her hands full of buttercups.

“Luna, come back.” Behind the girl a man was running, his hands outstretched as if to pluck her back, but the young Luna was giggling and dodged his hand.

“Mummy,” she called. “We’re back and I’ve brought you a present.”

“I remember this so clearly, now,” Luna said, “even the smell of the flowers I was bringing her. Her name means yellow. It’s the colour of sunshine.” She shivered, so Lavender wrapped her arm around her. “I’m about to run inside. You’ll hear me soon.” She trailed off and stared unseeingly at Lavender. “I can’t stay and watch this.”

“You don’t have to,” Lavender whispered. “I’ll be your eyes, Luna.” Then, with a gentle push, she nudged Luna away from her. Nodding, Luna stared one last time at her young self, then vanished from the memory.

Barely giving herself time to think, Lavender ran across the lawn, following Xenophilius and Luna.

“Luna-a-a-a. Don’t go inside,” Xenophilius shouted, still trying desperately to reach his daughter.

“Mummy,” Luna trilled in her sing-song voice as she ran into the house. “Have you finished?”

The house ten years before was not much different from the Lovegood house now. It was tidier, and the paint was fresher, but the spirit of the place was the same. Xenophilius had not changed a thing since that day.

“Mummy, Mummy, open the door!”

“Luna, no!” It was Lavender shouting. She could see the way this would pan out. Luna, with her hand on the door knob to Xanthe’s study was about to open it and discover Xanthe’s body. According to the Auror report, Xanthe Lovegood had tripped and banged her head. Confused, she’d upset the potion she’d been brewing. This had caused fumes to pervade the small enclosed space, and she’d suffocated. If she hadn’t been concussed, she could have got out of the room, the Auror had concluded. A tragic accident.

Nine-year old Luna was knocking at the door. She was rattling at the handle. “It’s locked, Daddy. Open the door, so I can give Mummy her present.”

“No, Luna, stand back. Get away from the door,” Xenophilius shouted from the hallway. Finally, he caught up with her, and with his hand grasped her firmly around the waist. He took a breath, a huge shuddering breath, and hugged her tight. “Go into the kitchen. Find a cup to put your flowers in. I’ll see if Mummy’s ready.”

Lavender watched as the little girl smiled sweetly and skipped off to the kitchen. Sorely wishing she wasn’t here, Lavender turned her attention back to Xenophilius.

With his wand, he unlocked the door but paused before he opened it. His hand seemed to waver on the door handle, but then with an almost grim determination, he opened the door.

Because Luna was in the kitchen, happily singing to herself as she filled a teacup with water and arranged her buttercups, Lavender was not able to follow Xenophilius in the room. Instead, she stood in the no man’s land between happiness and tragedy, and peered through the crack in the door. She saw Xenophilius rush to cradle his wife, heard him sob softly as he lifted her to his chest, and watched as Xanthe’s lifeless form slumped against him. And then, when Xenophilius, tears streaming from his eyes, removed one of her shoes and threw it against the hearth so hard the heel broke, Lavender understood.

“My Xanthe. My Xanthe.” His cries mingled with Luna’s girlish giggles, the last things Lavender heard before she wrenched herself out of the Pensieve.

She had to recover, could not let Luna see whatever emotions were wrought on her face. It didn’t matter if Luna saw sadness, but anything else would not be right, not yet. As she pulled herself back to the headmistresses study, she forced her features into an expression of tenderness, and held Luna close.

“Did you find out the truth?” Luna asked, her voice anxious, yet interlaced with a bubbling curiousity.

“Nothing untoward,” Lavender replied, but over Luna’s shoulder, she caught Professor McGonagall’s eye and looked away.

***

“Are you ready for your Norwegian adventure, Xenophilius?” Lavender stepped into the kitchen, where he was reading a book about Scandinavian creatures. He looked up, startled to see here there. “Your front door was open. I did knock, but I can see you’re engrossed.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Brown? No trouble at The Quibbler, I hope.”

She shook her head. “The only trouble is with this article I’m writing.”

“Ah, you need to hear more stories about Pollonius Dazzlebury.”

“No, I’m not writing about him,” she stated firmly. Without waiting for an invitation, she pulled up a chair opposite him. “I’m writing my original idea. This will be a tribute to Xanthe.”

“I told you �“”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Xenophilius, this is for Luna. She wants the truth. Now, I could write it, or you could tell her,” she whispered.

“You don’t know the truth, Miss Brown.”

“I know you knew that she was dead before you returned from your walk with Luna,” she replied, and waited for her words to sink in.

Horror flooded his face. “How could you know? No one knows that.”

“I saw Luna’s recollection of that day,” she said. “I saw you shouting at her not to go into that room. You were desperate to spare your daughter the sight beyond that door.”

“The Aurors said it was an accident,” he said firmly. “My wife was careless. She fell when the heel of her shoe broke, banged her head and upset the potion-”

“You broke the heel on that shoe. I saw it as clear as if it were happening now. I watched you in that room.”

“You think I killed her. Is that what you’re saying, Miss Brown?”

“No,” Lavender replied with a sigh. “I know you loved her, how you love her still. I heard you crying. You could not have hurt her, but you knew, didn’t you?”

She could see defiance flaring in his eyes. He was searching for a story to tell her, another yarn to spin. Then, he stopped searching and merely nodded at her. “My wife was very ill, Miss Brown. She did not want Luna to see her deteriorate, so she devised this plan. I was to take Luna out for the day, whilst she carried out an experiment. When we were gone, she started to make her Daydream Potion, and then she took an overdose of a strong Sleeping Draught. She died dreaming, Miss Brown. I can’t think of a better way for someone to go.”

“You could tell Luna,” Lavender murmured. “She’s strong, you know. And at the moment she thinks her mum was brewing an illegal potion.”

“That wouldn’t worry my Luna.”

For a moment, Lavender felt angry. Did Xenophilius really not see the problem here? “You’re right,” she retorted furiously. “That doesn’t worry her at all, but your evasion does! She looks up to you, defends all your half-baked theories because she believes in you.” She took a breath, trying to calm herself down. “Don’t let her faith in you die, Xenophilius. Luna does not deserve that.”

***

In contrast to the previous week, the sky was grey when Lavender trod the well-worn path back to Hogwarts. The decision she’d made weighed heavily on her, but she still thought it was the correct one. Walking past Hagrid’s hut, she raised her hand to him, but this time he didn’t see her. She didn’t stop; there would be time later, perhaps, but she mused again on his words. Digging up Luna’s past had been back-breaking, but had the pain been worth it?

“It is good of you to return, Miss Brown.”

“I felt I owed you the truth, Professor Dumbledore, especially as it was your Pensieve.”

“You do not have to confide in us,” remarked Professor McGonagall. She peered down her nose at Lavender, sounding dry, but her eyes were warm. “But thank you for trusting us.”

How could I not trust you? Lavender thought, remembering everything this pair had taught her that she hadn’t truly appreciated at the time.

“So, you want to know if you made the right decision,” Professor McGonagall said, when Lavender had finished her tale.

“I would welcome your opinions,” Lavender admitted. “There is a part of me thinks that as Luna asked me to investigate, then I should report all of this to her, but...” Her voice tailed off into a sigh. She stared at her hands, still wondering.

“You believe Miss Lovegood isn’t strong enough for the truth?” Professor Dumbledore sounded sceptical as he pondered her decision.

“Oh, I know she’s strong enough,” Lavender replied. “But I don’t think I should be the one to tell her that her mother killed herself. Plus �“” She bit her lip, unsure whether to continue, but two sets of eyes were boring into her, and she knew she had to continue now she was on this path. “It was Xenophilius who bought the Sleeping Draught, and although suicide isn’t a crime anymore, assisting with one is.

“Luna is someone I spent most of my time at Hogwarts either mocking or avoiding,” Lavender continued. “I’m not proud of that fact, especially when in our last year here, she proved her value to us all in so many ways. Despite everything she’s been through, she has retained an innocence that the rest of us lost a long time ago.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the sight of a champion lying dead in Harry’s arms, of Professor Dumbledore inelegantly sprawled on the Hogwarts grass, and finally of Fred Weasley, who they’d all thought indestructible.

“I don’t know if Xenophilius will tell her a version of the truth, or what actually happened that day. I just know it isn’t my place.” She caught Professor Dumbledore’s eye, before switching her attention back to the Headmistress. “Have I done the right thing, Professor?”

There was a pause; Professor McGonagall stared back at her, then her gaze shifted to the Pensieve before she turned to the window. Outside the sun was finally breaking through the mass of cloud, a few rays picking out the dapples on the shimmering lake.

“I believe you have, Lavender,” she murmured. Then she smiled and raised one eyebrow. “I have to say, Miss Brown, that I admire your diligence in this affair. If you’d applied this much endeavour and integrity to your school work, then you might have been my star pupil.”

“My focus was always on other things, Professor. Trivial things, perhaps, but they seemed important at the time.” Giving her a smile, Lavender stood up to leave. “I should get back. There’s an unwritten article burning a hole in my parchment, and I need to make the deadline.”

“Are you still writing about Xanthe Lovegood?” asked the Headmistress.

Lavender shook her head. “Not this time. I will ... one day ... but for this week, The Quibbler readers will have to make do with my story about vegetarian vampires.”

“Sounds most unlikely, Miss Brown,” Professor Dumbledore replied, giving her a wink.

“Unlikely,” she agreed. “But not impossible. Nothing is impossible, not in the world of The Quibbler.”