Date: October 31st, 2025 5:17 PM
Author: Skinheadlad1488 (πΎπ£)
Luna doesn’t scrub. She converses with the fabrics. “You’ve had a long week chasing Nargles,” she tells her radish earrings’ matching scarf. The clothes wring themselves, politely, like well-mannered bowtruckles.
She strings a clothesline between two ancient apple trees using twine braided with Hippogriff hair.
Socks are paired by personality, not color. The left argyle with the tiny hole insists on hanging beside the polka-dot knee-high.
Once dry, she lays everything on the grass under the stars. The fabrics absorb “a dusting of cosmic clarity,” ensuring her robes never wrinkle and always smell faintly of rain on heather.
If forced to use the Burrow’s ancient washing machine (Molly insists), Luna would add a single Billywig sting to the rinse cycle “for buoyancy” and leave a saucer of milk for the house-elves, just in case they felt underappreciated.
Her clothes always come out clean, slightly sparkly, and smelling like a memory you can’t quite place.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5792101&forum_id=2most#49391356)