I.
The New Year's revelers spill out onto the street, pulling him along, unasked and unseen. Though he'd rather sit at the bar, fingers wrapped around a warm glass of scotch, he is being pushed, jostled, and forced though the narrow streets, ears filled with the ringing laughter and raucous singing of hundreds of witches and wizards welcoming the new year completely pissed.
He can't stand it.
Forcing his way to the edge of the crowd, he pushes an overly friendly red-haired witch away from him. Where once he might have taken her up on the obvious invitation, he now recoils in disgust. The crowd, the noise, the stench of warm bodies and stale vomit--all of a sudden it is too much. He must escape.
He steps into an alley and watches the crowd dance by. When at last his heart stops racing and his breathing returns to normal, he turns on the spot and Apparates away, his mind fixed loosely on a place he has not seen in years.
It is an odd place to think of at such a time, and the momentary lapse in concentration brings him to a clumsy landing on a stony beach at the foot of a low cliff. He falls awkwardly on his ankle, swearing profusely at his own stupidity in botching the trip.
It is also cold and his cloak is lying in some pub, probably trampled into rags. He grumbles again, because he paid a good deal of money for that cloak. It has earned him a number of impressed comments from men and women alike over the past year, empty words that somehow still make him feel like someone again, even if it is just the man with the expensive cloak. Now he feels like he has lost a part of himself, once more run over by things out of his control.
He picks up a stone and flings it into the water in irritation, but it does not make him feel any better. He turns to limp away, but is stopped by a pair of protuberant eyes staring owlishly at him in the moonlight. He gasps and jumps back, stepping awkwardly into the shallow water.
"Great, now I've ruined my shoes as well," he mutters as he shakes them off.
"I can fix them," says a light voice, and a wand comes up. He steps away, soaking his shoes once more, his wand coming up in defense.
"Back off," he says, trying to stay cool and confident even though he is surprised to run into anyone at all on a cold beach at midnight.
"I'm not going to hurt you," continues a very feminine, singsong voice. His feet grow warm and dry, and he reluctantly thanks his mysterious rescuer. She steps back, and though he cannot see her face clearly, the moonlight illuminates white-blond hair and a silver cloak. He wonders if he has come across a veela, or perhaps an angel come to claim his miserable soul.
"Throwing stones will only wake the plimpies," she murmurs, and a memory is triggered in the back of his mind, though he still cannot place the voice. "And you might frighten away the mooncalves."
"Plimpies?" he asks, limping toward a nearby rock. "Mooncalves? What are you on about?"
She does not answer, but follows him silently. He grows uncomfortable under her direct, studious gaze. "What?" he finally snaps. "Haven't you ever seen someone botch an Apparation?"
"You're Draco Malfoy," she replies instead. The non-sequitur throws him and he responds defensively.
"And you're bloody brilliant," he snaps back. "Do I know you?"
"Yes," she replies calmly, unoffended by his tone of voice. "Although you've probably forgotten me by now, given how unremarkable our relationship was at Hogwarts. We went to school together."
Draco narrows his eyes at her, trying to place her face, now that he can see her properly in the moonlight. It finally occurs to him, and he frowns. "Luna Lovegood? What the hell are you doing out here?"
She merely raises her eyebrows. "I could ask you the same thing, but seeing as you've asked me first, I'll have to answer." She pauses, as if she is waiting for him to answer anyway. He is about to speak again when she continues. "I'm staying at the inn on the cliffs. I come here often with my father."
"And why are you wandering the beach in the middle of the night?" he grumbles. "Alone?"
"Oh, it's perfectly safe, thank you for being concerned," she says, and she actually smiles at him. It is an odd vision, because he is so used to woman smiling at him to get something; Luna smiles at him in perfect, innocent gratitude.
"I'm looking for mooncalves," she explains. "They come out at the full moon to dance. They quite like this place, I've seen them here many times before."
Draco frowns, trying to puzzle out her story. "But the full moon was last night," he finally says. "You're too late."
"Oh, you're very good," she almost squeals, obviously delighted that he knew when the full moon had been. "But I've been here all week, so I saw them last night. I'm just hoping a few come back. Mooncalf dung is a wonderful fertilizer for dirigible plums."
It is all he can do to not laugh in her face as he suddenly remembers her all too well from school: the starry-eyed gaze, the dreamy voice, the strange things she would say and do. Yes, it would be just his luck to run into Loony Lovegood as he finished off a terrible year and rang in a miserable new one.
"Well, good luck," he says, standing and stretching his ankle, determined to leave. "And Happy New Year."
"You don't have to leave, you know," she says. "The mating dance of the mooncalves is particularly beautiful against an aquatic backdrop."
"No thanks," he replies. "I should go. I have to get back…" He trails off, because he has nowhere to go: no one to return to, no friends who will be missing him, no lover waiting for his embrace. It's so damn depressing that he can't help but laugh bitterly, and she once again misinterprets him.
"You mean you're uncomfortable staying here with me." She cocks her head and gazes placidly at him. "But perhaps you've come here for a reason."
"I landed here because I've had a few and got washed up in a bit too much revelry in Knockturn Alley." Draco sighs. "And yes, I'm uncomfortable. I've already wished you a happy new year, can we just leave it at that?"
"If that's what you want," she says with a small, unconcerned shrug that somehow stings. "Happy New Year, Draco."
She flits off down the beach, likely after her elusive creatures and their wondrous dung. Draco watches her go, the empty feeling inside him echoing with her words: it isn't what he wants, but when does he ever get to follow his own dreams?
II.
The breeze blows gentle waves onto the shore, and the sun peeks through the grey clouds of an early spring day. It is cool but comfortable as Draco walks along the beach, content yet also dissatisfied. He is not sure what has drawn him here again; he had been half-drunk the first time he had found himself on the beach, and it had been the middle of the night in the middle of winter. Now it is morning, and spring, and he marvels at how different everything looks even as he wonders why he is there.
It is not the first time he has returned since New Year's Eve, though. It is as if escaping to the isolated beach in Cornwall awakened something in him, something that yearns for the open horizon whenever he feels his life closing around him. He had come back a month into the new year and had enjoyed the relief that washed over him with each crash of the waves on the rocks. If he had been slightly disappointed to find himself alone that first time back, he had buried the feeling deep down where he hoped he couldn't find it again.
Yet now he feels it once more: the small tug of regret that he is still alone, even after so many return visits. The irony stings. He comes there to escape from others, yet he craves something he knows he will never have: companionship. Love. Trust. Only the seabirds pecking at the sand nearby keep him company, until they disappear in a sudden cloud of feathers and wings, their discordant squawking at odds with the otherwise calm and quiet cove.
Frowning, Draco glances up to see someone coming toward him. His heart skips a beat because it is not just anyone--it is her. He had refused to let himself think about her this time, and yet now she is walking toward him, smiling at him with the same genuine warmth she had shown him at midnight on New Year's Eve.
"Hello, Draco Malfoy," she says. Draco raises his eyebrows, but does not let himself smile--not yet. He merely nods his head in greeting, stuffing his hands in his pockets to quell his nerves.
"Funny meeting you here again, Lovegood," he says.
Luna inclines her head, studying him. "It's not that humorous," she finally replies, and Draco suppresses a grin. For some reason, her literalness does not bother him as it might have at school. It is so naïve that he almost wants to laugh at her innocence, but he refrains. Some small part of him does not want to hurt her.
"I didn't mean it that way," he says. "I meant, what a coincidence, after running into you here on New Year's Eve."
She nods in understanding. "Not really," she says. "For one, you didn't run into me, you Apparated, and it's not really that odd, since I did tell you I come here often with my father."
"Searching for mooncalves," he replies. "I remember."
"No, not today. They only come out at night." She does not elaborate, and he takes a deep breath, willing himself not to grow exasperated too quickly. Her simplicity and honesty is almost refreshing, and he latches onto it to stay grounded.
"What are you searching for today, then?" he asks.
"I followed a horklump down the path," she replies.
This time he bursts out laughing, but feels terrible when he sees the brief look of hurt that flits across her face. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I've just never been one for magical creatures."
She nods again, as if she truly understands him. And when she speaks, he wonders if she does. "I shouldn't wonder," she says. "After what happened during your third year."
He idly rubs his arm where the hippogriff mauled him, but does not say anything. To his surprise, Luna continues the conversation on her own.
"What brings you here today, Draco?" she asks. "Or what brings you back?" She pulls her hair into a braid behind her, and Draco is struck by how long and thick it is; her face looks thinner and more defined with her hair pulled back. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes a startling blue that seem to stare deeply into his soul as she waits for his answer. He swallows the odd feeling that has suddenly come over him.
"I needed to get away again," he finally murmurs, turning away and gazing out at the sea. "This place is good for that."
She comes to stand next to him, staring out at the water, her arm grazing against his. "And how do you know this place? It seems an odd place for…well, for a Malfoy. Far too common."
Whereas he once might have reacted with indignation, now he only feels resignation. Instead of quick anger, he feels only shame. She is right, after all: it was an odd place for a Malfoy.
"My parents brought me here as a child," he finally replies, indicating the inn on the cliffs behind him. "The former owners were family friends."
"You mean the Baddocks?" Luna asks, and Draco nods in surprise.
"You knew them?"
"Yes, my father knows them." She pauses and turns to gaze at him. "Unlike a lot of their other friends, he's stayed in touch with them since they lost the inn."
Draco ignores the guilt; it was not his fault the Baddocks had lost their money. It was not even his father's fault, for once. The family had simply fallen on difficult times, and Draco had been told in no uncertain terms that Matthew and Malcolm were no longer appropriate acquaintances.
He idly wonders what his father would think about Luna Lovegood.
"Is that why you still come here, then? Some twisted sense of loyalty to their memory?" He regrets the remark almost as soon as it leaves his mouth, but he cannot recall it, and she does not seem ruffled by it. She does not seem bothered by him at all, and that both frustrates and intrigues him.
"No, not to them. They no longer own the inn, so there would be no point in my coming here to support a memory that does them no good." She gives him a very direct look. "The new owners, the Greengrasses, are very nice. I come here because I like it. And it’s a wonderful place to fish for plimpies."
"So you mentioned last time," Draco murmurs. He takes a breath and swallows his pride. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."
"I'm not offended," she replies. "But I am still curious why you come here if you have such horrible memories of it."
"I don't!" he exclaims in spite of himself. "I loved it as a kid, it was great. And when the Baddocks lost it, I really missed it." He suddenly felt defensive. "Besides, I can come and go wherever I please. I don't owe you an explanation."
"Then why are you giving me one?" she asks calmly, but he thinks her eyes are twinkling.
"I don't know." He scowls at the horizon and does not say anything else, until he feels like he might burst and cannot stand the silence any longer. "I should leave. Good bye."
He turns to stalk up the beach a bit before Apparating back to his wretched, dull life. She does not stop him, and for some reason that bothers him. She does, however, call out to him.
"See you next time, Draco."
And he hopes he does.
III.
He returns less than a month later, because he cannot stay away. Whether it is the pull of the open ocean or the lure of her clear blue eyes, he does not know. He only knows that something happens to him on the shore: he feels free for the first time in years. Even if he is alone, it is better than the stifling world of the manor, the dull, proscribed life he's lead since the end of the war. The ocean waves lull him into thinking he is in control, that he chose to be there, and like the restless roll of the water, they cannot stop him. He ignores the small voice in his head that laughs at the ridiculousness of it, but clings instead to the tiny hope the sandy shore keeps alive.
He does not see her there, not for several weeks. He buries his disappointment again, only to experience deafening joy when he arrives one morning to find her sitting on a rock, as if she were waiting for him. He joins her and they are silent for a while. Soon they start talking. It is like nothing he expected. She is open and honest, and he finds himself wanting to be open and honest for once in his life as well.
He soon meets her every week on the beach. Sometimes they walk and sometimes they sit. Sometimes they share a meal and sometimes they simply share one another's company. They talk about her strange magical creatures, about life after Hogwarts, and even about the war. Talking about the war is uncomfortable: he was a part of it in a very different way than she was. She resisted; he followed. She fought back; he left. She has moved on, but he still feels trapped by his past.
Worse of all is the gnawing guilt he feels for what his family did to her. They did not capture her nor did they order her held, but it was in his home that she was a prisoner for so long. It is a wonder she does not hold it against him, but it is obvious she does not, and when he finally blurts out an apology, she pats his hand in that infuriatingly calm way she has and tells him it was not his fault. They keep talking, and they keep meeting, and for the first time, Draco feels as if he is beginning to find himself.
Soon it is midsummer, and she tells him she is going away for the holiday. He resists the urge to ask her to stay--or worse, to ask if he can join her. The only thing he looks forward to now are these meetings. They are his one and only escape, the small reward at the end of the week that keeps him going, walking through his life as if in a dream, only to awaken on the beach. He wonders if she knows that, then wonders why she comes. She's always flitting after some creature or another, or visiting with her father, but deep down he wonders if she comes for him.
"What's wrong?" she asks. They are sitting in the sand, just at the point where the waves break on the shore. She is sitting close, her bare legs almost touching his as she lets her toes get wet with each approaching crest. The growing swells of the ocean and the warmth of her skin under the summer sun make him increasingly aware of something he had been thinking about, but never seriously considered. He is suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of pulling her down to the sand, claiming her lips, running his hands down her legs and having her right there…
He licks his lips and instead of looking away, as he might have once done, he smiles at her. "Nothing," he says, though it's a lie: he's confused, and he does not like being confused.
She nods and without warning leans in close to kiss him. It is light and ethereal, nothing like any other kiss he has experienced. It is also very quick, for she pulls back, a hand to her lips as she begins to apologize.
"I'm sorry," she says. "You licked your lips, so I thought maybe you were thinking about the same thing I was."
"You were thinking of kissing me?" Draco croaks, his voice a dry whisper of shock. He clears his throat. She nods.
"I was," she murmurs. "It's probably not very wise of me, but I almost couldn't help myself. I apologize. I hope you won't leave."
"No, no--I'm not leaving," he says, and he swallows all the inarticulate words that come to mind and tries to form a more sensible sentence. "You were right--I was thinking about it."
"You were?" she asks, glancing at him in surprise. Merlin, her eyes were strangely beautiful--so big and round, so clear and deep, so mysterious. He sees himself reflected in those eyes, and for once in his life, he likes what he sees.
"I was," he nods, but does not say more. A bit of confidence is returning, and he decides to try and take back a bit of control.
"So I was right," she murmurs. "Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?" he asks, the unexpected question throwing him off. She smiles, but it is not the sly smile of a girl playing with him. She is innocent, with no ulterior motives whatsoever. While at times it compounds his own guilt, at others, it makes him feel like a new man.
"Why didn't you kiss me?" she asks. "I thought I was sitting close enough. I even brushed against you, like this."
Her hand touches him lightly. It is like a brush of fire, and he knows his mouth has fallen open in shock, but he cannot help it. He closes it and moves closer still, laying his own hand on her thigh.
"I'm sorry I missed the invitation," he says, staring intently into her eyes. "Is this better?"
"Much better," she murmurs, and when she licks her lips, he grins and claims her mouth in a deeper kiss this time. She gasps against him, her eyes floating shut. He closes his own eyes and loses himself in that first true kiss, his hands moving over her legs, up her side, through her hair. She wraps her arms around him, and they tumble to the sand, side by side in the surf, and his vision from earlier is realized as they explore one another right there, under the sun, before she leaves.
He only wishes it could last forever.
IV.
He returns to the beach, though less and less frequently as the weeks go by. He finds that though he misses her, something within him has changed, and he is able to face his life now rather than run away from it. It is as if that last day he spent with her infused him with perspective, or courage, or something he cannot name, and gave him strength. He finds a job, finds a flat, even finds a friend or two.
He does not find love, or companionship, but now he knows he can, when he wants to. Only he doesn't want to. Deep down, he wants her, and he is simply waiting for her to return to meet her on the golden sand again. But the days pass, and she doesn't return; three months go by, and he starts to doubt it ever happened.
The leaves change, and the air grows colder, and still he waits for her. He tells himself this is the last time, but he always comes back. He has taken to coming at night, after work, and tonight he watches the moon rise into the stars, when he hears a sound behind him. He does not turn.
"Hello, Draco."
It is her voice, and his heart begins to race. He wants to run to her and kiss her, and yet he wants to ignore her and snub her at the same time. More than anything he wants to know where she has been, why she was gone for so long, why she didn't even write…
"Hello, Luna," he finally replies, his voice soft on the wind as he turns slowly toward her. She is as beautiful as he remembers, but he stops himself from reaching out to her. She smiles at him, though it is not warm: it is sad. Something is wrong.
"How are you?" she asks, fiddling nervously with her hands. It is another clue, because he cannot recall her ever once expressing any sort of anxiety. She always seems unflappable, confident, and unaffected. What has he done to make her upset?
"I'm well," he answers. It was true until a moment ago. "And you?" He pauses and cannot help himself: he steps toward her and begs for answers. "Are you all right? You've been gone so long, I didn't know if you had come back. I wasn't even sure you were alive or if you just hated me and--"
She puts a finger to his babbling lips to stop him, and he closes his eyes at her gentle touch. "Hush," she murmurs. "I'm here now. I'm safe. I've been back for a while."
He opens his eyes to gaze into her face. He sees sorrow and pity and shakes his head away. "But you didn't think to let me know, to come here and at least tell me you were all right." It is a statement, not a question, and to his surprise, she nods.
"I didn't know how," she says. "Draco, we should talk. Will you sit with me?"
He nods wordlessly, though he knows it cannot end well. He suddenly regrets ever coming there and wants more than anything to just leave before she can say whatever it is she has come to say.
They sit together on a rock. Though they are both bundled warmly against the autumn chill on the night air, when they touch he feels the same electric thrill he felt three months earlier when they had lain in the sand. He turns toward her and kisses her deeply, and she returns his embrace until she pulls away with a gasp.
"I said talk, Draco," she says, moving away from him just enough that their bodies no longer touch. "I have to tell you something."
He wants to kiss her neck, her ears, her lips, but her words stop him short. "What is it?"
She looks away, tucking a loose strange of her white-blond hair behind an elphin ear. "I'm seeing someone," she finally whispers. "Someone I met on holiday."
He backs away even more, his entire body growing tense. "Then why are you here?" he asks, and he knows his voice sounds cold and bitter.
"Because I wanted to see you," she says. "I wanted to tell you." There is a pause, and the genuinely warm smile she had given him the very first time they had met returns, though still tinged with sadness. "And because I like you--I really like you--and I don't want to hurt you."
"So who's this other bloke?" he demands, suddenly wanting to know everything. Only then could he maybe convince her it was wrong, that he was right, that their beach was perfect and all they needed. He hadn't waited for so long just to lose her…not when he had turned his life around, thanks, in part, to her.
"He's a naturalist," she replies. Her eyes light up with happiness, and in an instant he knows he has lost her. "His name is Rolf. I met him in Germany searching for snorkcacks."
Draco nods and stands, swallowing his pride in a way he had never done before: for the love of someone else. He does want her to be happy, after all. He is surprised to find that he has matured enough to put aside his immediate churlish response. It is disconcerting, to feel both upset but understanding, glad yet disappointed. He forces a smile, but the words come with surprising ease.
"I'm happy for you," he says. She stands and smiles, throwing her arms around his neck. He bites back a groan of longing.
"Thank you, Draco," she says softly, and she brushes her lips against his one last time. "I knew you would be."
He shrugs and lets himself be vulnerable; what does he have to lose, after all? "I'll miss you, though. I'll miss this place, being here with you." In truth, he would miss the small cove almost as much as he would miss her, because the beach had given him his life back.
"It will still be here, you plimpy," she laughs, shaking her head fondly. "We'll just make new memories here, each of us, with someone else."
Only Draco had no one else; if he returned, his memories would be made alone.
V.
He doesn't even bother going out to the pubs this time; last year had been miserable, at least until he'd unexpectedly escaped to the coast. He stays home instead, not quite enjoying a quiet night to himself as the New Year's revelers grow louder and louder outside his flat. He tries to resist the urge to flee to the beach, but it becomes overpowering, until he grabs his cloak with a growl and Apparates to the cold shore in Cornwall once more.
He walks alone along the rocks, but he isn't angry. He isn't even sad. He feels a bit sentimental, but more than anything, he just feels empty. He simply does not know what to do next, how to start a new year, when so much of the past year had been spent on the beach with her.
Picking up a few rocks, he skips them across the sea, enjoying the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. He shakes his head as he imagines her voice beside him, telling him he's waking the plimpies. He is surprised to hear footsteps instead and whirls, wand raised even though he hopes it's her. He finds a wand already in his face.
"Who are you?" asks a voice that most certainly is not hers. He pulls his face away from the path of the wand and frowns.
"Draco Malfoy. Who are you?" he demands. He lights his own wand and holds it to his mysterious visitor's face. It is a girl, a few years younger than him, with dark hair and dark eyes and even dark, ruby lips. She is the complete opposite of the ethereal vision he encountered last New Year's Eve, and he takes a step back in surprise.
"Astoria Greengrass," she finally answers, lowering her wand. "So Luna was right."
He stares at her. "What do you mean, Luna was right? Do you know her?"
The stranger nods. "I do. We were in the same house at Hogwarts, one year apart. She sent me an owl earlier in the week to say Draco Malfoy would likely show up here on New Year's Eve. She was right."
"Luna told you I'd be here?" he repeats, slightly stunned. But how could she have known? Had she guessed, or had she truly known, when even he had not, that he would come to the cove that night?
"She did," nods Astoria. She is the same height as him and gazes straight into his eyes, unflinching. He notices that her eyes are hazel and flecked with green, with the longest lashes he has ever seen. She cocks an eyebrow at him. "She also said you're not so bad now. She must know you very well."
"I guess so," he murmurs, then realizes something. "Is that why you're here? Because she sent you to rescue me or something?"
She laughs, and it is not a girlish giggle or an obnoxious bark, but confident laugh that Draco enjoys the sound of. "No, she didn't send me to rescue you, although she did sound concerned. My family owns this place," she says, sweeping her hand behind her. "Luna has been coming here for years. I didn't realize she was meeting anyone on the beach, though."
Draco coughs, embarrassed to be caught embarrassed. "We've only been coming here for a short time, and it's not even all that, because she's with someone…" He trails off, unusually reluctant to talk about it with this strange, vibrant woman.
"I know," Astoria nods. "Rolf Scamander. He's a good man. They'll be engaged by Valentine's Day, I'd guess." Draco does not know how to respond to that, but apparently his face betrays him.
"Oh, you didn't know they were serious?" Astoria says. She touches his arm with sympathy, but he does not pull back. Like Luna, she is surprisingly genuine, and he has come to appreciate--even crave--that in people. She is wearing mittens, but he imagines her hand is small and warm, pleasant to hold.
"I didn't, but it's okay." He shrugs. "I should go," he says, echoing his own words from a year ago. "I have to get back…" Again he has nowhere to go, no one to go back to.
"You should come inside first," Astoria says, her voice firm. "We're having a party. It would be good for you, I think--better than moping about out here."
"I'm not moping--and I don't want a party," he protests, but she links her arm through his elbow and smiles mischievously as she pulls him along anyway.
"Then you can at least sit in the kitchen with me and have something warm to drink." They walk toward the path in the cliffs that will take them to the top, where the inn waits. He glances back at the beach, then down at their linked arms, and finally nods.
"I'd like that," he says. And he means it. Perhaps the new year won't be so bad after all.
* * *
Beyond The Sea by Gmariam
Chapter Endnotes: Thank you so much to Maple and Pheonix Feather for looking this over so quickly and giving me a bit reassurance that it is, perhaps, slightly plausible. I value my canon card, you know. Thank you for reading!