make no exclamation of disbelief

Uh so I never write drabbles and I’m not confident in my writing skills at all but I did something with the Elf Girlfriends with Bee’s help and kinda wanna share it
Feel free to reblog or give feedback but please keep in mind I am a wee writer so be gentle!

The story isn’t documented anywhere else other than descriptions under my sketchdumps and art posts, so I’m sorry if none of this makes sense but I hope it’s fun to read anyway!

short drabble under the cut:

Keep reading

fa-nart-deactivated20170613  asked:

So I have a headcannon that all the creatures Luna talks about are like Tharestrals (sorry if that's bad spelling) where only certain people (or via certain things like Luna's glasses) are how you can see them.

I love this headcanon. This is a delightful headcanon. I’m not sure if you’re asking for a drabble from this or if you’re just making conversation, either of which is lovely. But I’m going to give you a drabble anyway :)


If you asked almost anyone worth asking, they would tell you that the centre of activity in wizarding Britain was not the Ministry of Magic. Not Diagon Alley, nor the smoke and coffee filled writing rooms of The Daily Prophet—not even Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

No, if you asked anyone worth asking, they would tell you that the epicentre—the very beating heart of Great Britain’s magical community—was a ramshackle farmhouse several stories high and half held up with stilts in a field just outside the sleepy English village of Ottery St Catchpole. Very few of the people worth asking, of course, could tell you how to find this curious dwelling, and not even those who could would. But anyone who was anyone could tell you this much: the house in question was called The Burrow.

Now anyone who had visited The Burrow might tell you that there was a large and lovely tree in the back garden, just before the dry stone wall that separated the house’s land from the tall grasses of the field beyond. They might also inform you that the tree was in fact a Cherry tree—not an Ornamental Cherry, but one that bore succulent and delicious fruit year after year, and was picked from by the numerous children who ran bare foot through the house, giggling and covered in sticky red juice that the wild-haired matron of The Burrow would cry out in horror at, flicking at the children with a dish-cloth until they ran, giggling still, to the sink in order to wipe themselves clean.

Yes, anyone who knew The Burrow well could tell you about the Cherry tree, about the sugar-sticky youngsters and the exasperated red-head who would bake the fruit into delicious, crumbly Madeira cakes for her children and grandchildren to steal.

But there was only one person who might be able to tell you (though if you asked her she would most likely smile and walk away) that late on a summer’s evening, there was no more beautiful place from which to watch the setting sun than from high up the branches of that grand old Cherry tree, and her name was Luna Lovegood. 

Now unlike queries about The Burrow, to which there was only one answer to be had, questions about Luna Lovegood might result in a hundred different answers, ranging from tranquil smiles to great heaving sighs of exasperation, or even dismissive sneers. Luna, for her part, was used to the sneers, and minded them little. She needed no-one else to affirm her convictions, as they were her convictions after all, and so long as she had the courage of them, all was well.

Many of those who knew Luna well, as much as one could know one such as Luna well, might if asked after her respond with fond smiles and softly shaken heads. They might tell you that Luna had—had always had—a habit of allowing her wild and endlessly bold imagination to run away with her. They might say that she spoke often of strange creatures that did not in fact exist.

Were they to say this, of course, they would be wrong. They would be perfectly sound in maintaining that she saw things that others did not, but their error was in assuming from this that such things were not real. The truth of the matter is that Luna could see such things because she was special.

Luna would disagree. She would say that most anyone would be able to see just as she did were they to open their minds and open their hearts. Luna was a modest girl, and generous in her view of others. No, Luna’s sight was not so clear because of the openness of her mind and heart (though you would not find a mind or heart more open anywhere, that much is true): it was because she had a Gift.

Were you to ask Muggles of the Fair Folk, they might say things like ‘Pixie’ or ‘Goblin’, ‘Troll’ or ‘Elf’. They would, as Muggles often are about such things, be mistaken. Such creatures might be seen by anyone—even a Muggle, were they to cross paths—while the Fair Folk might not.

A whole other world, you see, lives beside our own, and in it exist a great many wondrous things. In it live Faeries, Sprites, Nymphs, Imps, Alven, Brownies, Dryads, Kelpie, Devas, Selkies and hundreds, thousands more who bare no names.

Luna Lovegood could see them all. She often took High Tea with the bolder and more inquisitive of the Seelie Court, feasting on the dew of early morning grass from folded leaves and delicate flowers found growing only in the Fairy Kingdoms hidden from prying human eyes. She gently warded away Wrackspurts, who were not cruel but had little concept of ownership and thus were prone to pinching things. She wore radish earrings so that the Nargles might have something to feast on (for the Nargles are very keen on Raddishes) and in return they did not nest in her brain. She left out saucers of cream and honey for the Brownies who lived around her home, and they would sneak in quietly at night, shy as they were, and help around the house, cleaning dishes, sweeping floors and mending clothes. When she walked in the woods, as she so often did, she had little need of shoes , for Nymphs would skip about her ankles and clear the way of anything sharp that might hurt her. In return she planted trees and woody plants anywhere she could, much to their delight. Luna could swim in any lake or river she pleased with no fear of growing cold: the Sprites would warm the water around her, playfully splashing and providing her with air so that she might swim along the bed for as long as she pleased.

And Luna, a young woman whose kindness and gentility knew no bounds, would never admit to having favourites: she loved them all, these creatures seen by her and her alone. But in her heart of hearts, she knew that her favourite creatures of all were the Cherry Blossom fairies who lived in the tree behind The Burrow, which she visited so often. When children came, bright eyed and full of laughter, to the tree, the tiny flower fairies would carefully bless each cherry they touched, leaving their parents to marvel at how they never picked a single imperfect fruit. When Molly Weasley became distracted by the clamour of her life and the Madeira cake in the oven slipped her mind, they would hum softly in her ear and tug gently at her clothes, guiding her back to her cooking and reminding her without her ever knowing they did so. And when Luna oh-so-carefully climbed up through the branches of their home and settled themselves their to watch the sunset, they would line the branches and watch with her, single gentle songs of warm days and flowers in the trees, of children playing and of growing things as she opened up a large pink napkin with white polka dots, the same colours as the flowers of their tree, and feed them crumbs of cherry Madeira cake that she had stolen from the kitchen. 

And one day, after she had been climbing the tree to eat cake and watch the sun set in the sky with her fairy friends, she climbed the tree accompanied. The boy’s hair was sun-kissed and his skin tanned from hours in the sun. He wore no shoes,and the space under his short nails was crammed with dirt. 

And on that day, the Queen of the Cherry blossom fairies hummed and darted away, returning to the pair on the branch with a single cherry clasped by the stem in her tiny hand. And when, to his eyes supported by nothing, that cherry was delivered to his waiting hand, the boy did not start or make exclamations of disbelief. 

Neville Longbottom simply smiled and, very quietly, said thank-you.

And when the fairies of that grand old cherry tree hummed, children laughing on the ground bellow and the scent of Madeira cake drifting on the warm evening wind from the kitchen window, Luna Lovegood knew that they were saying ‘Yes. This boy is good. He is the one.’

And on another day, a few short years and many long, hot summer days later, Luna would dress in white, with no shoes, for she did not need them. Beneath that cherry tree the Nymphs cleared paths for her feet, the Fairies offered the fruits and flowers of their kingdom, the Sprites splashed gently in the pond, and the fairies of the Cherry tree laid a crown of blossoms on her head as she took Neville’s hand and smiled as they exchanged wings of twisted willow and each took a seed from the tree, vowing to plant them where they themselves made roots, knowing well that together they could only grow.



Right. That turned out not to be so much of a drabble as a fairytale? I just love Luna. I love her and I love Neville and I love fairies, so… here :) I hope this makes you smile. 
@fa-nart