Harry never goes to the parties anymore. He can't stand the awards ceremonies, self-congratulatory fetes that treat the war as if it had been easy, or at least enjoyable, a political election, an inevitable tide, a slightly inconvenient changing of the guard. Five years later and they haven't stopped inviting him, but at least they've stopped expecting his presence, and the gilt-edged cards arrive fewer and farther between.

Most of the time he spends away from the parties he spends with Luna, in her curtained London flat, helping her sort through boxes and boxes of damaged memorabilia, odds and ends she's recovered from her ruined childhood home. Xenophilius still publishes the Quibbler, allegedly ensconced in a library somewhere far away (Luna visits every Thursday), and Luna researches the bulk of his articles as her primary occupation these days. She's got a garden, too, overrun with what Harry suspects might be Moon Frogs. Harry watches her, helps her where he can, sits out on the balcony after work and studies for his upcoming auror examinations, kisses her goodbye in the annex with a window overlooking the city.

Harry likes to read her work, her distinctive spidery hand spread across yards and yards of parchment, pink and yellow and virulent rhubarb-patch green. Her writing takes a factual tone, for the most part, at least as far as Harry can tell, but a good deal of it's creative, poetry in the place of myths, verse instead of fanciful dreams. The war has left her quieter, perhaps solemner. She produces pages and pages every week, but she never stops him reading, only asks why he doesn't write something of his own.

"I wouldn't know what to say," he offers, which seems accurate. The war has left him angrier, but no closer to truth.

Luna just tilts her head, balancing a basket of bubbled green glass shards beside what appears to be the remnants of her lion-headed hat. "I don't think anyone knows what they're saying, until they've said it."

Which seems to say it all, so Harry leaves it at that.

Day five of anonymous Scottish seaside and there's Luna across the booth, menu up, gold-rimmed faux-Phoenix-feathered sunglasses creeping inevitably down the bridge of her nose. Harry's caffeinated, quiet, contently sunburned in a way he's never been, not even that summer he'd turned fifteen and spent every waking moment out-of-doors, wandering up and down Privet Drive waiting for his bill to come due. The way this holiday sunshine affects his skin, you have to peel it to believe it. Luna's humming quietly along to whatever's coming over the loudspeaker, something Harry knows that he knows but nonetheless can't quite place.

"It's The Roches," Luna observes, following his train of thought in that prescient way she has. "They were the most influential Muggle musicians of the last century."

"Did ... did you ever take Muggle Studies?" Luna seems sure of her answer, but Harry doesn't think she's quite right.

"No, they were my mum's favourite," she replies, not unkindly, and Harry feels stupid, of course, he did know that. The waitress brings them toast, after repeating that "no, we don't carry any sort of green jams, sorry, miss." Luna smiles winningly as she begins to peel her egg with her fingers.

It had been Luna's idea, all those months ago at Ron and Hermione's midwinter wedding. Harry had been a bit tipsy at the time, flushed with peripheral happiness and unhappily considering his return to the office come Monday morning. Luna had considered him for a few minutes in the dim candlelight of the reception hall, and then she'd taken his hand. Luna had said, "Harry, I think you could use a holiday," and then kissed him goodbye just as usual, sliding her hand down his shoulder. She didn't mention it again, but the idea stuck with him, growing in size and import until he couldn't breathe but for the thought of running, couldn't bear to look out the window without the promise of some uncharted vista firmly within his grasp.

He apparated to her doorstep one foggy March morning and it was a matter of moments before she emerged, tripping a little on her long violet scarf, no bags but a few boxes tied together with string all packed and ready. He felt a bit triumphant. Like he'd won, not a Quidditch match this time, but the lottery. She said, "You've got spring fever, have you? I hear it's quite dangerous," beaming so brilliantly he couldn't help but grin back.

They spend days at a time at the beach, sleeping in the eye of the sun and running out under the electric waves when the sky turns grey, hands clasped together so they won't drift apart. Luna was four years old the first time she saw the ocean, she tells him, but he can see how much it still means to her in the way her eyes shine at the sight of it, see it in the musical sway of her body forward, feet planted in shifting sand.

Luna lets him set the schedule, reservations, maps and directions, at least nominally, which is quite nice, though Harry has a sneaking suspicion that Luna has been directing the entire operation from the start, subtly manipulating puppet strings from day one. He doesn't mind, though; Luna's influence is benevolent, and if it means arriving at the seaside early in the morning to beat the crowds when he'd rather have spent more time sleeping, well, it's not much of a sacrifice in the scheme of things.

Harry likes the way her eyes gleam at him across the darkening night, the silhouette she makes against the sunset-flaming sky. The beach is emptying of holiday-makers, and Harry feels almost alone with her, adrift at the end of the world. He gets up, goes to her, dodges the sandcastle they've made on his way. Sand sticks to his legs, heart sits lodged in his mouth. Her sundress is full of saltwater, standing as she is in it up to her waist, the pale ends of her hair lost to dark waves. Harry feels naked, clumsy, missing his wand, needing his magic, its surety and its style. They'd agreed to leave their wands behind, take a risk for a week or two. Let's pretend it's Hogwarts, and we'll be expelled if you use magic in the summer holidays. Let's not worry about who we were, what we've done. He'd agreed with a bit of an ache of nostalgia in his chest, but he's regretting it now, wanting magic in a way he hasn't since his school years. Luna nods at him, contemplative.

"It's all a bit quiet now, isn't it?"

They go back to the bed-and-breakfast and sit up all night casting spells. Wingardium Leviosa. Luna's notes scatter across the room, nestle in the rafters and on top of the ceiling fan. Neither of them have to work hard for Expecto patronum. Harry practices his defensive spellwork and Luna sends a flock of butterfly-shaped bubbles swarming out the open window. It's flying cars and talking beasts all over again. Who they are, what they've done. They're not afraid, anymore.

Luna is so close, he can smell the salt on her skin, and he's close to shivering out of his own. She's laughing at the look on his face. "Harry Potter, you look at me right now," she whispers. He locks his eyes on hers, lets the happiness in. They're not afraid.