Disclaimer: I don't own The Silmarillion or Harry Potter.
A/n: I have not read HP in a long time, so I apologise for any inaccuracies.
Maglor kicked the door shut behind him, shook out his damp hair, and held up a safely dry, brown paper bag. "They didn't have barley sugar, but I got butterscotch drops," he called. He had spent an hour searching for the barley sugar in the market while the rain soaked him merrily, and regretted offering to go.
"That will do," Luna's voice floated from the kitchen. An interesting collection of smells hung in the air: cocoa, burnt marshmallow, and sage. Maglor tried to refrain from wondering what the sage was for. He had learnt, over the past few days, that it was best not to think about what Luna would cheerily put in his stomach. If need be, he could stick his head in a toilet afterwards, when she was not looking.
Usually, he would not bother being discreet. But the Lovegood girl had been so blindly kind to him, offering him a place to stay, feeding him, and giving him new shoes (they pinched a bit, but he'd suffered worse and wasn't about to complain), that he felt awful for disliking her cooking. She had not asked much about his past save random (and to him, rather useless) morsels of information, and he had not spoken about it.
Maglor went into the kitchen, his wet shoes squeaking across the tiled floor. Luna was standing by the counter, humming to herself and waving her hand. Next to her, in mid-air, a red fork as big as her forearm was swirling around a lumpy mixture in a bowl. The first time Maglor had seen what was called 'magic' in this world, he had emitted a high-pitched screech that had frightened an extravagantly dressed elderly couple strolling nearby. Nonetheless, it could not scratch his pride; he had none left.
Luna smiled when she saw him, and wiped her hands on her bright pink apron. "Let's look," she said, and poked her nose into the paper bag, which Maglor had held out.
He suppressed a grin when she sneezed.
"Powdered sugar," she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
When the cake mixture had been poured into a mould and put in the oven, the two sat at the round kitchen table, sipping peppermint tea. Outside, great puddles were forming in the turf and rain was pattering on the windows.
"Do all elves look like you where you come from?" Luna asked, blowing on her tea.
"Are they all tall with dark hair and grey eyes? No. Many have yellow or silver hair. A few are not quite as tall as I am, and some are taller. Essentially, though, we are human. I am the same as you, more or less."
"Save the immortal bit." Luna leaned back in her chair and put her chin in her hand. Her half-moon earrings winked in the soft light. "And you say you can't do magic?"
"Not the way you do. When I play music, I can weave images before your eyes, make you feel as if you are in a different place and time altogether. But I never considered that magic. It was never out of the ordinary, never entirely different from, say, feeling tired after hunting. I am not even sure what 'magic' means."
"I don't think anyone really knows." Suddenly she smiled, and, momentarily, the burden on Maglor's heart lessened somewhat. "I like you, Maglor. It's so nice to have a friend over."
He let his gaze fall to the little knots in the wooden table. "You would not like me if you knew my history."
Luna blinked, as if confused. "You can tell me your history another time. Right now, I like you. You're polite, you insist on running errands for me, you play the prettiest music I've ever heard, and you're by far one of the most interesting people I've come across." She took another sip of her tea. "I get lonely here all by myself. And you're lonely, too, I think. We make a good pair."
Maglor cleared his throat and studied the curtains above the sink, embarrassed at how straightforward she was with her feelings. If only she knew the tales he could tell. Also, he was not sure if 'lonely' was the right word to describe himself; the type of loneliness he felt would require another word to be created. He did not want to tell her that. Why should he ruin her happiness?
He was spared having to reply by the sound of the oven door dropping open. A heady, sweet smell filled the room, and he coughed, eyes watering.
"Oh, the cake's done," said Luna, and got up. "I'll put the butterscotch drops on the icing. It can be in a heart pattern. I love hearts."
"Let me help you with that," said Maglor, going over to her and slipping on a pair of oven gloves.
Later, when the sky was clear and the stars were shining, he knelt miserably beside a toilet, heaving. Luna stood behind him in her striped pajamas and pulled his hair away from his face. "There, there," she said, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "Maybe it was something in the tea."
"Please," he said hoarsely, gripping the edge of the toilet seat, "please, let me cook next time. I haven't done so in a while, but I promise you'll like it."
"Nonsense!" said Luna, putting her hands on her hips. "You are not a servant. Elves are not servants."
Maglor sat on his backside, wiped his mouth with toilet paper, and peered at her. "What? I never said we were. Just let me cook. I won't have you doing everything for me."
They bickered, still in the bathroom, about cooking, for another half hour. At length they went and sat on Luna's bed, and the conversation turned to horses, then to magic, then to the building of houses. It was only when pale sunlight filtered through the windows that they exchanged glances and grinned at each other.
I cannot grow used to this, Maglor thought, as the closet sprung open and a pair of fresh, folded clothes flew through the air and landed on the bed. I cannot bask in her kindness forever.
When they sat at the table, eating breakfast, Maglor put down his fork and tried to muster the grace to look Luna in the eye. "I think," he said quietly, "I should tell you a bit more about myself."