Lavender really likes cards. And living alone. And cats, and jewelry, crystals and divination, tea and lemon scones. She likes a lot of things, in truth. She’s vain, in that she always needs more of something in her life, even though she loves living by herself.
But she really, really likes cards. They’re always her games of choice, and muggles make deliciously stylish decks, so who can blame her for ordering some custom purple and gold playing cards?
Her therapist thinks her interests are healthy, but Lavender just thinks they serve to remind her of her own loneliness.
She’s 25, and living alone in the woods. The woods. At 17, nobody would have caught her dead living so far away from society. It was her long-time plan as a Hogwarts student that she and Parvati were going to travel Europe for a living.
And then she got bitten.
And because she is, she has no one to play cards with.
Parvati thought it was absurd when she told her. She asked her how she was going to live. Like, actually live. Lavender told her she’d manage without over-priced city lattes. Parvati said she couldn’t.
Lavender’s not a stubborn girl, most of the time. If she doesn’t like something, she’s quick to back out. But she enjoys living alone far more than she ever gave herself credit for. Maybe it’s the werewolf, or whatever.
She goes back into the oppressive, overwhelming city once a week. She goes to therapy, she shops, and then goes back home. On the way out, she’ll stop once a month to grab her supply of wolfsbane.
At her bedside table lays her new divination deck. It’s purple and rainbow, hand-painted and as luxurious as it gets.
A tragedy it is, that she can’t use it for anybody.
--
“Have you thought about joining a club?” Madame Lorene asks her. Lavender can never stop staring at her neon purple hair and over-large thick rimmed glasses. She glances off to the side and grimaces. For a mind-healer, Madame Lorene is blunt with her approach.
Mind Healer’s aren’t very reputable in wizarding Britain, so Madame Lorene’s office is simultaneously the most well-known room in the country, yet the most empty following the end of the second war. The plum wallpaper is curling at the corners, and the bright jewel-toned decorations are more gaudy and cluttered than fashionably maximalist. It all reminds her of Professor Trelawney, so that’s probably why she keeps coming back.
But one difference between them is that Madame Lorene doesn’t have a crystal ball.
Lavender had initially expected Madame Lorene to be more wishy-washy. Coddling, whimsical and sugary sweet. It’s why she refused a mind healer the first three months after the war. She couldn’t bear turning her head back around, and acting as if she was the same girl enamored by star sign compatibility. She was grown, changed, and scarred.
Madame Lorene is a Taurus though, so that means she’s stubborn.
She tests Lavender’s boundaries often enough, questioning the way she views the world and her body to actually make her consider things in a grander perspective. She’s less concerned about her milky right eye and jagged torso scars than she was when St. Mungo healers were first handing her care potions and wolfsbane.
Lavender is used to doing it alone though. Parvati is living in France, focusing on her career in potions-based cosmetology, and Dean is pretending like the war never happened at all. He hasn’t put down the paint brush since he first took on portrait commissions. She can’t blame him. It must be nicer to focus on art than grief. But it just won’t leave her head.
“I’d rather not be in the city longer than I have to,” she answers. “And what kind of clubs are even around? I’m not a Hogwarts student anymore.”
Madame Lorene levels her with a stare. “You aren’t,” she states. “It’s hard to find friends, but you clearly want them.”
“I have friends.”
“One in France and one indoors. When was the last time you sent an owl?”
“Just last week, actually.” Lavender smiles. “To Parvati. It was her monthly horoscope, if we’re on the topic.”
“And when was the last time you received an owl?”
Heat blooms inside her chest and under her arms. Hopefully she doesn’t start sweating. Merlin, what a nightmare.
“Oh,” Lavender falters. She rakes a hand through her curls, twirling the ends with her finger. “Er. I’m not sure, actually. My mum sent me some biscuits last week?”
She glances towards the gold clock on Madame Lorene’s desk. In a few more minutes, her session will be over.
Her Mind Healer’s face softens a bit. “There’s a lovely book club hosted at a local cafe,” she says. “They’re always looking for new members. A very welcoming bunch, and the coffee is good too.”
“Right.” Lavender bites her lip. “Okay.”
Madame Lorene hands her a flier. Lavender throws it in the bin outside on her way out.
—
Before going home, Lavender indulges at the local bakery. It’ll be a full moon in two more days, so she has an excuse to indulge. She’s not even bothered by the cashier’s stare lingering on her lone milky-white eye.
She buys herself another deck of cards. In a few more weeks, Parvati should be heading back home from France, and Lavender will finally have someone to play skip-bo with.
—
When Lavender transforms, the wolfsbane makes it easy. Most werewolves still experience some pain on the night of the full moon. Lavender just experiences… nothing. She never remembers what she does as a werewolf— which is why she lives out in the middle of nowhere, naturally. Even if the wolf is calm, it doesn’t mean she becomes a cuddly pet. Some people do, she’s heard. Plenty of people have more regular, normal experiences with wolfsbane. She’s just one of the unlucky few who take the potion to nix the pain.
The transformation itself is a sudden, violent removal of her autonomy. The greatest physical nightmare she’ll ever endure, and she’ll never remember it. All she’ll know is the intimate feeling of dirt underneath her long fingernails and the scent of the forest around her.
When she wakes up in the morning, she’s right outside of her cottage, slumped against a tree. Instead of dirt in the crevices of her skin, there’s… something red. Not blood— it doesn’t have a smell.
Under the morning sun and orange sky, she hobbles back inside of her home, takes a bath, prepares herself some morning tea, and tries not to think too hard about what could have happened last night.
—
When someone is rapping their fist against her door, there’s not many options that come to mind. It’s either the aurors, her mum, or Parvati.
She’s only been inside after her transformation for just over a few hours, so it can’t possibly be her mum. And last she checked, Parvati was still in France
Aurors, then.
Tense, she opens the door only an inch to look at who’s outside.
“Luna?”
The girl across from her, now a woman, has the most serious expression on her face. More serious than she ever looked at Hogwarts, that’s for certain. Lavender hasn’t seen her since the final battle, years ago now. Her light blonde hair is tied up in a giant, disastrous bun with little butterfly clips charmed to flap their wings. Her entire outfit is just as eccentric as she’s always been, with the small exception being the dirt and red substance on her hands.
“You’ve torn up my merry berry field,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “Or your wolf has. One of the two.”
That explains the mysterious red substance she found on her hands that morning.
“Oh.” Lavender’s mouth gapes against her wishes. Even with the stern tone, Luna has a whimsical, musical quality to her voice. A feeling of uncertainty drapes over her. “I… don’t remember. I wasn’t aware anybody lived nearby. Er— care for a cuppa?”
Luna’s face softens, wide blue eyes gaining clarity. “Yes, please, thank you.”
Lavender steps back from the door to let the other woman in. The little bells around the waist of Lovegood’s long skirt jingle as she walks inside. Lavender gestures for her to sit on her plum couch while she makes tea.
It’s the most awkward five minutes of her life, setting the kettle and waiting in silence for the tea to finish. She has to scavenge for a second cup that hasn’t been chipped, and isn’t embarrassingly childish.
Of all the stupid, idiotic, nonsensical things she could have done as a werewolf, she really went and destroyed a berry field. Luna Lovegood’s berry field at that. Now that Lavender’s grown up and matured (a drastically altered physical appearance will do that to you), she can acknowledge what the “nickname” Looney really was: bullying.
She comes back with two cups of black tea.
“Promise I’m on wolfsbane,” she explains, handing Luna a cup. “It just doesn’t make me tired, or anything like that. It just makes the wolf… relaxed, if that makes sense? I’m so sorry I ruined your merry berry field.”
“Even the best potions have their faults. Have you looked into crystal-based healing?” She tilts her head, looking at the wall behind Lavender, then takes a sip of her tea. Before she can respond, Luna asks, “Are those playing cards?”
Lavender reaches behind herself to grab the deck from the table.
“Yes, actually,” she says. “Dean painted them for me as a birthday gift a few years back.”
“How lovely,” Luna replies. “I’m envious— the deck is so intricate. Are your souls attached?”
“Not particularly,” she answers. “It was just a gift at the time. We don’t really talk much anymore.”
Luna hums in understanding, and takes another sip of her tea. Lavender is suddenly very aware of the single sock on the carpet.
“Is there anything I can do to make up for ruining your berry field?” Lavender blurts out.
“You could help me replant,” says Luna. “And bring over a deck of cards sometime. I haven’t played skip-bo in years.”
“Really?” Neither have I, she refrains from saying. Incredulous, Lavender stares at her with wide eyes. “That’s all? Cards, and some manual labor?”
“Maybe a hammer too.” She shrugs. “I had Harry do it last time. He’s quite good with plants, you know; even tricky ones like merry berries that need to grow around rods.”
“… I can do that,” she says. “Just let me know when.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
She smiles. “Oh, yes.” Luna takes a final sip of her tea. “Merry berries are quite merry. They grow all year!”