He remains awake far longer than he should, reading through Alnair's journal. It had been he who had pressed to read the journal of the one not native to his own lands. It means that anything he doesn't understand; he takes note of upon the parchment beside him. Consequently, he may present these unknowns to Hariel, allowing her to answer any queries on her world and, hopefully, recognise the one that stands out. The one that should link to his world. He has, however, slept fretfully, mind awash with visions and dreams of the realm his father rules. He cannot even begin to guess upon the fallout of his absence, cannot begin to assume what chaos the seven kingdoms are currently in. Oh, the sun will continue to set and rise, but the states of the land it graces its light upon? No, he needs to return as swiftly as possible.
So, while his eyes burn from the absence of sleep and his head pivots unreliably upon his neck the moment he sits up, Rhaegar believes he has solved the puzzle. Though the technical language is far beyond him, terminology that he can only assume is magical, the phrase 'to traverse between worlds' is particularly damning.
Peeling back the heavy covers, Rhaegar slides his legs to the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing over the polished floorboards. He has no idea of the time; there is no way to wake himself through the use of a melting candle and nail, for there are no candles at all. Instead, the light comes from what he can no identify as 'lamps' which run through magic, as all else in this land appears to do. He wonders if Hariel has awakened yet, wonders if it would be considered rude to break his fast without her present. She is the lady of this house, though it would appear only she resides here. She and this 'Kreacher'.
The other being had not remained after presenting them with the journals of Saererys and Alnair Black, disappearing to whence it came. How it had even known to appear at that point in time though… The portrait had been calling for it, under the expectation that 'Kreacher' would answer her call. While Rhaegar is not utterly certain on the sanity of the portrait that resides behind those curtains… this is a world of magic.
"Mistress' guest calls, oh yes he does."
Having flinched back at the thunderous crack that announced the being's arrival, Rhaegar takes a moment to observe Hariel's servant, trying to take everything in.
"Would it be considered rude to break my fast without the lady of the… house present?" He stumbles slightly over just what to call the dwelling he currently resides in; it is far finer than any castle or keep he has ever stayed in, but it is also far from the structures he is used to. House seems to be the most appropriate word and, given how the servant does not huff or scowl in response, he has perhaps picked the correct term of address.
"Mistress allows her guest to eat whenever they wish it. However, Mistress Harrie is already dining, yes."
"I see. Thank you for your aid, Kreacher."
The thing grins, all sharp, brittle teeth before it disappears from sight. Unsure if the servant has actually left or simply removed itself from his sights, Rhaegar stands, making his way to the wardrobe. Within, it houses a selection of clothing, some similar to the garments he had witnessed in Diagon Alley, others leaning more towards the attire he had spotted during their walk from Grimmauld Place to Gringotts. Tentatively, he selects a pair of trousers similar to what Hariel had chosen for him yesterday, opting for a pale blue tee-shirt that boasts a silver arrow upon the front (not stitched on, but a part of the fabric, though how that is Rhaegar cannot even begin to guess). Above the design resides the words 'Appleby Arrows – Quidditch team'. He has no understand on the first three words, but the concept of teams is known to him. It is tentatively that Rhaegar decides to wear the shirt; Hariel has been good to him so far, he doubts she would allow him to dress like a fool in her presence.
Entering the washroom that adjoins his bedroom, Rhaegar makes for the sink. The claw-footed tub he understands; the tall stall is a different matter. There is piping of some sorts that sprouts from the wall, perhaps to imitate a waterfall. He cannot say for certain. He is, however, unsure of how to turn it on and he shan't experiment. Not yet, when he is unsure of his standing.
Once he has washed and dressed, Rhaegar strides into the kitchen with Alnair Black's journal tucked under one arm, the parchment containing his notes held alongside it.
Sitting up to the large table within her kitchen, Hariel Potter lifts her gaze to regard him with tired eyes. Glass, residing within a whip-thin frame of gold, rests upon her face in two pieces, similar to the sunglasses they sported yesterday. The front half of her hair is peeled back from her face, captured in a tie atop her skull, exposing the simple silver studs that have replaced the rubies within her ears. Unlike he, she looks well-rested, awake though reluctant to be in such a state. She is also unquestionably in her sleeping attire still, only a thick robe of soft fur hanging open to expose 'pyjamas' similar to what she had gifted him.
"Good morning, Rhaegar," she murmurs, disrupting the glass that sits before one eye with the edge of her hand, knuckles digging into the soft corners of her eyes as she paws the sleep free. In his homeland, it would be unthinkable to meet royalty dressed as one would be for bed. However, he is swiftly accepting the fact that this is not his home. These are not his traditions, nor should he expect to see the morals and values he grew alongside. This is a different land with different circumstances. As such, Rhaegar takes a seat at the table, managing not to startle when a plate and empty cup appears before him.
"Good morning, Lady Harrie."
The 'Lady Harrie' outright snorts at his term of address, one hand supporting her head as the adjoined elbow rests upon the wooden table-top. The collar of her shirt is ajar, exposing one collarbone but covering the other; there is a spot by her hairline, just off the left cheekbone. It's all jarringly relaxed and only succeeds in discomforting him.
"Kreacher? Will you get a full breakfast for Rhaegar, please?" Hariel addresses the open air before she turns her attention back to him, the sunlight glinting off the two plates of glass that bracket her nose. "If there's something on it you don't like, leave it be. We can change what you get in the morning to whatever you like."
As if on cue, the plate before him fills with food, some he recognises, some he doesn't. He's relatively certain the pink meat comes from a pig, the sausages are recognisable enough, but the black circle is a mystery to him. It is with a great hesitancy that he begins to eat, savouring the flavour of the meats and leaving the mystery black circle after one tentative bite. He notices that it is absent from Hariel's plate; perhaps an acquired taste then? Certainly, he is in hurry to do so.
He sets the mystery circle aside, approaching the pink pig's meat instead. It's sliced neatly with little fat to bracket its edges and cooked well. This 'Kreacher', if it is indeed the cook, is a skilled one.
"So, I found nothing in Saererys' journal, other than a great deal of poetry written about her husband-" By the twist of Hariel's features, Rhaegar will assume the contents are the kind of private prose that should only have been read by the subject. "-though she does hint towards Alnair using magic to travel between her land and his."
"I have come to similar conclusions," he professes, reaching for the journal and parchment he set upon the table top mere moments ago. He offers it to Hariel and, as she takes it, he catches a glimpse of the wand holster hidden by the long sleeve of her pyjamas. Is that what the people of this land do, come down to their halls to break their fasts armed? Carry this instrument with which to conduct their magic always, slotted neatly up their sleeve? He assumes there is a quick way to draw it; what use would it be, hidden beneath a sleeve that they have to shimmy aside to reach their weapon?
The long, low whistle Hariel passes between her lips snaps him from his thoughts. When he tilts his head in an unspoken question, the woman just smiles, turning her attention back to his notes. "You're handwriting is pretty," she mutters, in lieu of an explanation, strange glass circles shielding her eyes with their reflective surface. "And you're also completely right. This looks a lot like Ancient Runes- ah, the stuff we use for rituals," she hastily tacks on, placing the parchment and book back upon the table top. From there, she taps thrice at the edge of her plate and it disappears. He assumes the servant Kreacher is behind it but cannot say for certain. Hariel is magic, this land is magic. Who is to say the plate does not simply appear for the duration of a meal and then disappear into whatever abyss it came from once its task is complete?
"Are there books upon these 'Ancient Runes'? I assume so, given their use in rituals, but you speak as if you are unfamiliar with them."
"Yeah, I didn't study Ancient Runes and with Hermione out of the country… our best bet is probably gonna be Luna. I'll send a Patronus and ask if she's free… I'll go get dressed. The library's down the hall, if you want to do some research while you wait." With a plan in place, his host finds it prudent to get up and vacate the room, leaving Rhaegar with a half-finished meal. He looks down at the meats, vegetables and… the mystery circle, weighing up his options. On one hand, he has less than he usually would. However, he has also been offered access to the library. A library that he assumes will house books on magic. Perhaps, if he is lucky, even how to perform it with the wand he has acquired. Food shall hopefully remain in his future, but he does not know when he will get such a golden opportunity to raid the literature of this land. Rhaegar taps upon the plate's brim, just as Hariel had done moments ago. It vanishes in much the same manner as the one before it and Rhaegar rises to his feet. In Westeros, it would take at least an hour for a woman to dress. However, this is a land of magic, a land where intricate dresses are not the fashion, nor are the complex braids favoured. It is with haste and silent feet that he makes his way down the hallway, mindful of the thick curtains.
A short passage of time later, Rhaegar Targaryen finds himself sitting within the comforts of one of the large leather chairs, his wand drawn while a quill and piece of parchment lay upon the desk before him. 'The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1' remains open in his lap, turned still to the first page. It had seemed the simplest book with which to begin, what is one being the first numerical value in counting. However, Rhaegar is beginning to wonder if perhaps this land runs on different means. What is to say one represents what he knows of one? What is to say one does not represent the hardest level of difficulty, as if it is the top tier? He cannot say for sure but, in the written word, the spell seems simple enough. No, he must be misunderstanding some word, must be taking some out of context. This 'wand-lighting charm' cannot be the most complicated spell for the people of this land to master; they have managed to capture the very same magic in the metal mockery of trees, after all. He had seen it the night prior while looking out his window, inspecting the look of this land in the absence of the sun. The stars are exceptionally dim here.
Adjusting his grip upon the thin column of ebony, Rhaegar completes the circle with a whispered "Lumos." He almost drops the wand in shock when the tip glows ever so slightly. With wide eyes, he draws the stick up to his face, inspecting the tip of the carved, polished wood. Sure enough, a faint light still resides there, a miniature star at daybreak, barely a scrap of a thing but it is present. This is it, the proof that Rhaegar Targaryen has magic, can perform it. This is the first swing of the sword, the first stroke of a pen. His belief has wavered these past few years yet, perhaps, he might just be the Prince that was Promised after all. That which threatens his land will surely not be able to stand up to the might of magic, should he prove capable of mastering it as his Valyrian ancestors once did. He very deliberately pushes aside the connection between magic and dragons. One thing at a time. It is not as if his family has access to any dragon eggs as it is; the fires of Summerhall, the grim tragedy of his birthplace, had ensured that.
"I take it our magic is different to yours?"
Startling, Rhaegar watching the weak starlight blink out on the wand-tip. He turns his gaze to Hariel as she leans against the door, one hand jammed into the pocket of her trousers. If they could even be called trousers. There is an awful lot of leg exposed, everything from the knee down and a fair portion of the thigh too. Her feet are clad in leather, though the sole is lifted at the back. They look strange, forcing Hariel to stand as she would upon her tiptoes, heels resting on the… thick wedge of the shoe. Her shirt is once again of high quality, a pattern of golden dots bearing wings painted onto the material. It hangs open at the front, buttons undone, exposing a black top beneath that stops just as her ribs do. Despite the overshirt being tucked into the waistband of her… short breeches, there is still a slip of stomach laid bare at the front.
"Excuse me, Lady Hariel?"
"Harrie," she corrects with a mutter, scraping a hand through the hair she wears loose. The thin plates of glass in their wire frames are gone now. Perhaps an addition that does not match the impression this outfit is intended to give? "You were practicing, right? Don't worry too much, Lumos is always small on your first try."
"As a prince, I never much had the opportunity to study the magical arts," Rhaegar shares and it is not a lie that leaves his lips, instead a selectively crafted truth. He could have studied magic, could have made the opportunity for himself if he had insisted. But it had seemed unnecessary to study a discipline with no practical application. Only, that is not the case now, is it? What does weigh heavy upon his mind is Hariel's words. The Lumos being small upon the first try. But this is not his first try, is it? It is, in fact, his ninth. How is he to ever be able to learning enough magic to progress his homeland if he… if he struggles to perform it? Never before has he faced such a challenge in learning something, never before has he not been… naturally gifted in a new art. In the harp, in singing, in swordplay and in jousting, he has always succeeded with a natural grace, with inborn talent. Perhaps even if potential is not unlimited, as his father had so often proclaimed. But magic? Magic… magic, it turns out, does not come with ease to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
"Well, we can get you some books to take home, if you want... I had to practice in secret sometimes too." The last few words are shared in a low whisper of a voice, a soft utterance than Hariel Potter immediately attempts to bury beneath another statement. "Luna said she's free, so we'll head over to the Rookery now. We'll apparate; it'll be quicker and there'll be no fussing with the Knight Bus."
"I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with this 'apparition', Lady Harrie."
"Just Harrie. It's another way to travel. You turn on your heels and picture where you want to go and then, well, you get there? I don't really know how all the magic works. But you need a license from the Ministry to do it legally. Just to make sure you don't leave any bodyparts behind."
"Excuse me?!" Rhaegar asks, alarmed by the very thought. Leaving bodyparts behind? The concept of the Knight Bus is suddenly a lot more appealing now.
"Don't worry. I've been doing this for two years now."
Before he can protest, Hariel has managed to shuffle them both out of the door. From there, all he can recall is a hand resting upon his arm and then the most awful squeezing sensation. He had believed the Knight Bus to be an awful form of transportation, but what he has just suffered… well, he shan't complain about the horseless carriage again. Fingers curling into the grass that resides belong his knees, Rhaegar squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep his brain from spinning any further. Does he truly wish to bring magic back to his land if this is the common sensation? Then again, it seems that only magical transportation has brought about these awful reactions, so perhaps he just won't share that particular knowledge with his people.
"Chin up, Rhaegar. You get used to it. Eventually." It is with a great effort that he lifts his head, squinting up at the standing form of Hariel Potter. Truly, he must make a pitiful sight indeed, for her smile softens and she squats down beside him. "Seriously, it does get better. I had the same reactions with magical travel when I first used it. Hermione said something about your own magic learning to counteract the upset, but I'm not too sue about the specifics. I'm not book smart like her." Here, she shrugs, offering a bashful smile that puckers the corner of her eyes, pulling at the thin scar upon her forehead.
When her hand (scarred and callous) is presented to him, Rhaegar accepts the unspoken aid. He finds his feet soon enough and takes the opportunity to glance around their location. They must be outside of the city now, for great fields of wildflowers stretch out in all directions, the picturesque landscape broken only by the rising rock formation before them. It is only after looking closer than Rhaegar realises it is not a rock formation at all, but instead a home for there are several windows dotted upon its surface. There must be some form of magic holding the building steady; it looks as if one strong gale would destabilize the whole construct.
"Welcome to the Rook, home to the Lovegoods. Specifically, Luna Lovegood. She studied Ancient Ruins when we were in school and I know she's been practicing rituals, if only to locate… things." With her lips pulling into a taunt line, Hariel starts forwards, gesturing vaguely in what Rhaegar assumes to mean 'follow me'. As they progress towards the building, a stone pathway bleeds free of the flora, winding through the flower fields and stopping only once it reaches the steep steps of the black home. It resembles a failed turret, large in girth and with fewer window then he'd have expected at first glance. A multitude of wooden boxes resides beneath each one, plants spilling over the edges. Hariel doesn't even get the chance to knock upon the door before the threshold is pulled open.
Standing in the doorway, a small slip of a girl stares back with protuberant, silvery eyes. Her eyebrows are faint, unhelpful in providing anything but a look of dazed surprise.
"Harrie. And you brought a dragon with you!" She claps her hands after that whimsical address, utterly ignorant to the startled look Rhaegar shoots her way. What dealing has this woman had with his family, to identify him so easily as a dragon? "He's come with a lot of Wrackspurts, Harrie."
"Hello Luna, it's good to see you. This is Rhaegar Targaryen, by the way. Now, how have you been?" Unfazed by Luna Lovegood's perturbing behaviour, Harrie climbs the seven steep steps to greet the other woman with open arms and a warm smile. Standing side by side, it is clear that Luna Lovegood is indeed smaller than average, though the strange footwear Hariel sports does not aid in this.
"I think I am recovering from the torture. I can almost make it through the night now without having a nightmare." Awkward tension fills the air as Harrie steps back from her friend's arms, a look of guilt and worry crossing her features. Rhaegar remains at the bottom of the steps, his gaze sweeping over the young woman who speaks so brazenly of torture. A casualty of the war then, and not simply as an uninvolved civilian. Uninvolved civilians do not get tortured. This Luna is clearly a close friend of Hariel and Hariel won the war. Perhaps a prisoner of war stands before him now and, while she may look healthy, there is clearly a lot that magic can hide.
"That's good to hear, Luna," Hariel says softly, a sad smile upon her face as she turns back to Rhaegar. It is a clear invitation for him to join them at the top of the stairs and he does so with only the slightest bit of hesitation. Luna Lovegood watches him approach; with her dirty-blonde hair and silvery eyes, she appears a poor man's Valyrian. Perhaps one of Saererys' children married into this family and the bloodline has diluted down to the woman that stands before him.
"Yes, I'm quite happy with it too. Come on, Daddy won't be home for another three hours. We can talk in my room."
Luna's room hasn't changed all that much from when Harrie last set foot inside it. The portraits are still there, occupying the ceiling space in all their painted glory, 'friend' encircling them again and again and again. Perhaps she has forgotten how overwhelming some part of the magical world can be, Harrie thinks as she watches Rhaegar take everything in. His eyes trace every wall, the entire ceiling, his face softening as he registers it is no golden chain framing the faces but a single word, repeated unendingly. He mouths it and Harrie is struck, once again, by just how shockingly beautiful her company is. She's not really surprised that he's a prince; he's got that princely image to him, after all. The noble jaw, heavy eyebrows, the white-gold of his hair. The only thing that doesn't match up is the… sadness that swims in his eyes. She hasn't seen it leave. Sure, he might express confusion, surprise, gratitude. But it's always with that lingering sorrow beneath. Yet, she is not Ron. She doesn't blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, doesn't point out the obvious because, socially, that's unacceptable.
"You're very sad." Luna's social cues, however, need work.
Rhaegar blinks once, the motion slow on his pretty face. He's braided a section of his hair back once again; she gets the feeling it's 'in fashion' where he comes from. It's unusually, but it's not like it doesn't look good on him. Everything so far has looked good on him. Even the melancholy.
"Don't worry. It won't last forever. Harrie makes her friends happy."
"Thanks, Luna." It's a startling amount of trust and something Harrie needs to hear right now. Especially during a period in her life where she's so… uncertain. Ungrounded. Unsure of her worth to the world. Now that the war is over, now that Voldemort is gone (truly gone)… she's still grappling for purpose. Thankfully, Rhaegar has presented her with a task she can focus on. "We've brought Alnair Black's diary; do you think you can look it over, please?"
"Of course, Harrie. I'll miss helping on your adventures."
Before Harrie can follow up on that little bombshell, Rhaegar has already extracted the journal from the little bag he seems to have permanently attached to his jeans, offering it up to Luna without a mote of hesitation. Her friends takes the book like the precious piece of history it is, flicking through the pages as Rhaegar helpfully informs her to look on page seventy-two. Harrie… Harrie wants to know what Luna means by her last comment. Helping on her adventures? Is Luna planning a little getaway as well? She's finished with Hogwarts now, having completed her final year and her NEWTs, unlike Harrie herself. The world is at her fingertips and, if she knows the Ravenclaw half as well as she thinks she does, Harrie would bet the Potter vault her friend is going on a Wrackspurts hunting expedition. But just because Luna is going away for a bit, doesn't mean that she can't get involved in whatever high jinks Harrie gets up to in the future, does it?
Unless… unless she's planning to settle down with Neville in the next few months?
Suddenly, the great big gaping hole of emptiness opens up in her chest once again. Ron and Hermione are together and Harrie's happy for them, she really is. But seeing them together every day, it just reminds her of the empty space to her right. One that Cedric had come close to filling before. Before Voldemort had ripped that possibility away, as he did everything else. Parents, boyfriend, godfather. He's gone now, but that doesn't mean Harrie isn't still feeling the after effects. She can't afford to get closer to anyone, not when there are still some loyal Death Eaters out there, yet to be brought to justice.
"This is a really good ritual, Alnair Black was very clever." Luna hums to herself, rocking back on her heels as she continues to peruse the journal. She's piled her hair up into a bun that rest on the top of her skull, held in place by the wand stuffed through the centre. Harrie can all but hear Moody howling in his grave.
"Can you recreate the ritual to take me home?" Rhaegar asks, his iron tone somehow incredibly soft as he speaks. Merlin, the loo he's giving Luna is breath-taking, head tilted down slightly with the dark indigo of his eyes peering up from beneath his lashes. Even Luna, lovely, oblivious Luna, stares for a moment, her lips parted ever so slightly. Then, she turns to Harrie, smiling all the while.
"The ritual needs a half moon to work and the next one is on the Fourth of August. I can perform the ritual, if you can get all things we'll need, Harrie," Luna murmurs in her usual dreamy tone, blinking those wide eyes of hers as she smiles.
"Yeah, we can do that. Thank you so much, Luna. See, Rhaegar? We can have you home in eleven days. Plenty of time to get supplies together for your trip." Harrie cocks a smile at the prince she's accidentally kidnapped, having said those words as if she knows exactly what this 'trip' will entail. It'd probably be best to set him up with some kind of protective amulet to begin with; he had, after all, spent a fair amount of time unconscious after arriving here.
"I can make you a list, Harrie. Can you get me everything for the end of the month?"
"Yeah, you can pick it up when we go out for dinner."
"Yes! For your birthday party!" Luna claps her hands before her twice in delight, looking between the two of them as if to check this is okay. Harrie… Harrie's smile strains. She's not had a birthday party… ever. Even last year, when she hadn't been under the Dursleys' roof, when she'd been a free woman with no Voldemort haunting her every waking moment… the weight of the war had been too heavy on her mind. And, in all honesty, it still is. She's not sure she could stomach a party. But Luna looks excited. All of her friends are moving on and maybe it's time she tries to do so too.
"A birthday party? Forgive me, the phrase is not one I am familiar with."
"It means Harrie is turning year older. She'll be nineteen on the thirty-first."
"Nineteen… nine and ten. Your name-day then," Rhaegar concludes, looking between the two of them with those dark eyes under heavy brows.
"Yeah, my name-day," Harrie murmurs around the fuzz in her mouth, swallowing around a dry tongue. "Thank you, Luna, I'll start looking for the things you need right away, write me a list, please?"
There's not much more talk exchanged between the two of them after that. Harrie leaves with Rhaegar, apperating again. This time, the 'dragon', as Luna had called him, manages to catch himself before dropping to his knees, and they are both quick to scurry back into Grimmauld. Harrie leaves her guest in the library, where she found him this morning. It seems only natural. When she had caught him earlier, his posture had indicated he was well used to leaning over a book to study it; he gives off that same air as Hermione. So she leaves the bookworm to the Black library with only a short warning about not touching the bookshelves behind the curtains (she still has no idea why they're behind the curtain, only that Sirius had insisted so not touch them because the repercussions would be unpleasant, if not life-threatening) in order to begin working on Luna's list. She's managed to find six of the nine items within her home, including the necklace that had started all of this, by tea-time. It is with two boxes of take-out in hand that Hariel makes for the library.
Upon reaching the door, however, she still, not yet crossing into the room. There's music coming from the room, hesitant notes rising through the air. The melody is a simple one, performed very slowly, but there's… something about it.
Juggling the take-out boxes in her arms, Harrie gives a quick wave of her wand, silencing her footsteps before she begins to walk into the room, heading towards the source of the sound.
Under the south-facing window that has been charmed to show Stonehenge outside of its glass panes, Rhaegar Targaryen sits before the grand piano that, for as long as Harrie can remember, has been covered by a sheet. His long fingers are kissing at the keys, each movement slow and unfamiliar, yet the tune that is being carried in the air is anything other than inexperienced.
"You play the piano?"
Rhaegar jolts in shock, one hand snapping down to his side, undoubtedly for the sword he'd arrived with. Luckily enough, he does not carry it openly and, consequently, doesn't have the chance to draw it on her. The melody has been cut short, the last note hanging unsatisfied between them.
"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
"No, I should be paying more mind to my surroundings," Prince Rhaegar murmurs, slowly rising from the piano bench, fingertips drifting across the ivory keys but refusing to draw one more note from them. "As for the 'piano', I'm afraid the instrument is as unfamiliar to me as it is impressive. I do, however, play the harp."
"The harp?" Harrie repeats, humour spreading across her face as she pulls up a seat, one of the big leather chairs Hermione favours during her days off, I'll see if I can get one for you. Even if you're only here for a little while, I'd like to hear you play. If you'd be willing to, that is?"
"Given how generously you have treated me so far, I could not deny you a song."
"You could even take the piano back with you, if you want. Expand your horizons and all that," Harrie murmurs, even as her own mind spins at the thought of 'expanding horizons'. She has ten full days to entertain in which to entertain her guest while also acquiring everything Luna needs. As things stand, Ginny will have her first professional quidditch match tomorrow. It'd probably be a good place to start on giving her guest a rapid-fire introduction to the British Wizarding World. They could maybe even hit up London for a bite to eat afterwards. And yes, maybe Harrie is using Rhaegar as a bit of an excuse to get out and do things she could have only dreamed of while trapped in the Dursleys house. But he doesn't have to know that and Harrie can alleviate her guilt over not doing anything productive because she's entertaining a guest. It's perfect.
"It is a magnificent instrument," Rhaegar professes, drawing Harrie's attention back to the present, "are you sure you would be willing to part with it?"
"Yeah. If I really wanted, I could get a new one. But I've never really been interested in learning to play an instrument. Now, get over here. We've got eleven, soon to be ten days to give you the full English experience. Starting with a traditional English take-away; fish and chips."
Yes, they'll spend the next ten days exploring all that England has to offer and, maybe then, Harrie will find something meaningful to do with the rest of her life.
Ta-da. I still have little idea where I'm going with this fic, barring one key-event.