She's at the kitchen table, steaming cup of tea cooling to her left, going over copy of the Quibbler's latest issue. Quill rapidly scratching along parchment, she doesn't look up, but says "hello Harry" with a welcoming smile. A kiss to the top of the head is his reply, hands on her shoulders as he glances at the notes she's making.

"You're upset about something," she murmurs, still focused on her work.

He drops a Daily Prophet across her notes, a picture of him kissing her cheek at yesterday's Holyhead Harpies matches gracing the front page.

"Apparently I've gone mental," he mutters, nodding toward the commentary written below.

"Have you now?" She replies, picking up the paper, her too blue eyes skimming the text. "Hmm, they can't seem to fathom why someone as famous as you would want to be with me. Interesting."

"Interesting?" He muses. "Sweetheart, they're suggesting I be locked away in St. Mungo's simply for being with you."

"A good a reason as any, don't you think?"

Finally looking up at him, lifting a hand to rest on his cheek, she can see the cloud of anger still floating in his eyes.

"They don't understand," he says, nodding at the paper. "They just-"

"Love isn't something easily understood," Luna replies, fingers stroking gently.

Truer words Harry thinks before placing his hand atop hers, eyes closing for a second before leaning down to kiss her forehead. Leave it to Luna to alleviate his anger with a simple statement, make his heart beat just a second faster, and erase all doubt that other opinions matter.

"What are you working on?" He asks.

"Nargle invasion," she replies, turning back to her article. "Wales is overrun with them."