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Chapter 1 : The Anemones Won't Die
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There will only be silence left in the end.
The screams will subside, the fires will burn themselves out, all the hatred in the world will become as dark and all-consuming as it can become, and it will end.
Then, everything will begin again.
Those lifeless eyes will come to life again and the glimmering beauty will surround you, engulf you. Your beautiful mouth will move again, it will go up in just one side, creating that fine-looking crooked smile of yours. The creases around your eyes will re-emerge, the gash along your long throat will heal all by itself. The blood will wash off and the metallic smell of death will be blown away with the wind. It will all be blown away with the wind.
Summer will come. Finally.
The sun will shine for the first time in forever, and the warmth that shines will warm up this cold hard ground underneath you, the ground will give you life. The sun makes it all reawaken.
I touch your pale skin, my warm hands surround your beautiful face, I will warm you up again, love; I will make you alright. I lower my head next to yours and press it against your icy cheek; the coldness creeps through my skin and sinks deep down into my bones. I close my eyes.
I will make you alright.
When Luna was a little girl with no horrendous past, she had long blonde locks of curly, curly, curly hair, hair that only her mother would comb. When she was that little girl, Luna had had a small garden. She had had a small garden in which she had grown all kinds of things; carrots, a small crippled cucumber, a million strawberries.
She had also grown anemones.
Of course, she had been five and that is not very old and her mother had helped her look after the garden. Her mother would always make sure they wore matching outfits, with small yellow gloves and pink wellies.
“Let’s look after our small children, shall we, Buttercup?” Her mother always asked her and she would laugh and giggle yes, and they would dress up in their matching outfits and would work on the garden even if it was lousy weather with pouring rain.
And when summer had come, the flowers had all stood tall and beautifully, swaying in the wind, all burgundy red, red, red.
Luna had plucked the blooming flowers and brought them to her darling mother and her mother had smelt them and closed her eyes murmuring that, “These flowers are a bit of heaven.”
(It all begins here).
The pool of liquid is red, red, red. And it is all over her hands, she tastes it, the taste is stale and it is red, red, red. It is all red, red, red. The room is covered with it. And Mother, oh, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy. She looks like what Luna always had imagined Snow White to look like; red and white. But mostly red, red, red.
Daddy’s scream still wakes her up at night sometimes.
“But, Mummy needs to help me, not you, Daddy!” She stamps her foot down furiously and batters her tiny arms over her head. Her father just looks at her sadly and shakes his head. Says, “Oh my Luna, Luna, Luna.”
“Let’s go take care of our children, Buttercup.”
And Luna caresses all of the flowers, every one. Except the red, red, red ones. On those she picks all the petals, she collects them and stores them in her pocket. Saves them to that rainy day when she walks to the grave and spreads them all over the green earth. Kisses each petal before letting go.
If dealing with a slightly erratic father and having no mother is impossible, Luna Lovegood has done the impossible and she is still doing quite well – if she has to say so herself.
And she does have to say so herself, because no one else is listening and no one else cares.
When Luna starts going to school it has been two years since her mother’s death and her dad still has not remerged from the big stack of papers in his office. They still go on adventures to find Snorkagle and so forth, but that is the only time in which she really sees him. Hunting imaginary fables.
But on top of those mountains where they go, by the deep rivers and around the long green fields she spreads the petals. There they lie like drops of red (blood), leaving the trace behind them. So She will find them - if they ever get lost.
(She's already lost, don't you see?).
Her father follows her to the train station, explains that the entrance is magic and that she must pass it. He kisses her forehead, whispers, “Bye, my Luna.”
When she enters the platform it is filled with people. The train is what catches her eyes; it is red, red, red. It steams and steams and owls hoot again and again and Luna enters the train quite quickly after that.
All of the compartments are filled, so she closes her eyes and goes eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Inside the compartment a red-haired girl with small hands is sitting with her legs resting on the seat opposite her with an owl hooting (more like peeping) beside her. She has a smear of freckles all over her nose and cheeks and bright, bright, bright brown eyes. She looks up at Luna when she pushes aside the compartment door. Luna smiles hesitantly,
“Can I sit here?”
She removes her legs and smiles, says in a small voice, “Sure.”
Fate has always had a generous hand when it comes to Luna Lovegood.
“Ginny Weasley.” She does this sort of bob of her head, tugging a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Luna sits down, finds her Quibbler and looks out the window. Ginny’s parents are waving to her; it is easy to spot them as their eyes never leave their daughter’s profile in the window. The girl’s eyes still have not left Luna’s face.
She looks up at her, “I’m Luna, Luna Lovegood.”
Luna learns to appreciate the shortness of wording uttered by Ginny Weasley, she even comes to adore her family.
(This still takes time).
The first time she meets him, (and oh, there will be many, many times,) it is because Ginny has dragged her to see her brother with red cheeks. He does not say anything, but he just has that small smile playing at his lips as he watches Ginny bickering with her brother. His uniform is untidy, with the top buttons unbuttoned and his tie somewhat miserably tied.
His green eyes flicker between Ginny and Ron, while he is pretending to be deeply immersed in one of Gildery Lockhart’s books. At one point his eyes flicker towards her with some kind of mild curiosity. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ginny grabs her arm and pulls her with her, “Come, Luna, I’m finished talking with my dumbass brother.”
It will show that life is going to come in between them like this always.
She writes her father every day. Letters filled with small tid-bits of information about the life she leads inside the walls of this fathomless school. She tells him about Ginny and eventually also of Harry and sometimes even Harry’s two friends.
Eventually his name reoccurs repeatedly throughout every letter.
She does not notice this at first. At first she just jots down whatever crosses her mind, but as time goes by and she rereads the letters, all she can see is his name smeared all over the pages. (This should have been a sign, her own warning bell.)
And it is when her father’s scream wakes her up at night that she will check her hands, because in her head she still feels like they are red, red, red.
Family means love. Family means trust. Family is everything to her. Family is the summer holidays, family is Christmas with the small secretive smiles and presents and sweets and food. Family is what will remain after everything else has fallen away. Family connects you by blood.
If this were the case, Luna would not have a family. She would have a dad and that would be it. But Luna does not believe this, to Luna, family is the kind eyes with which Ginny and everyone look at her. Family is Hermione’s (albeit hesitant) hand which she offers her as they walk through the crowd. Family is Harry’s tingling touch on her arm when he guides the correct wand movements in DA. Family is DA. Family is Ron’s forever guarding look on Ginny and at times even on her. Family is Hogwarts and the wonderful professors. Family is what keeps her together.
She is a jigsaw-puzzle of coincidences, glued together by fate.
When she paints the ceiling with their pictures and connects them by those small silver threats, Dad shakes his head at her. He has got a spot on the ceiling too, right behind Luna. When she is finished, she admires her piece of art somewhat proudly.
When a boy tells you he loves you, it's because it's meant to be the truth. Her mother had told her that whenever she read those old tales to her.
“You’ll get your prince one day, Buttercup,” she had smiled and closed the book. She had kissed her on the forehead and Luna had closed, closed, closed her eyes. The things she would do to just have her by her side right now.
By the grave, with the red, red, red petals covering the ground at her feet, she stands.
She lets the silence fill her mind’s numbness, lets the chirping of the birds fill her head and the wind blowing in the trees; she lets it all fill her mind, she allows the sound of life fill every hole. She lets it fill everything, until she finally kneels down to cry.
(Because she isn't there).
“You shouldn’t fight.”
Her eyebrow arches and disappears underneath her fringe.
“Is that so?” she sneers.
He sinks and smiles softly,
“Your dad… You’re all he’s got left… What if you died… I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if that happened and I’d had to tell him…”
There is some sort of hollow loss in those eyes, a fear that she will be joining him in the sorrow. It seems impossible, but there it is: the refusal to let anyone feel the despair he feels.
The bottom of her stomach is non-existing. She steps forward, grips his arm, shaking it, asking him, her eyes searching his frantically - hopelessly:
“And what if we lose you?”
In this cold damp room where water runs down the walls it is easy to imagine they are quite alone. It is not difficult feeling like no one else is living through these things they live through, but Luna has never felt alone and right in this moment she feels more connected to him than she has ever done to anyone in her entire life. Her hand ties her to him.
It's more: threats are woven; she is getting secured to him by everything; his eyes, her hands, the air they share, their loss and his breath that hits her forehead. The crinkle delving deep into the corner of his eyes. The sharp stubble across his jaw. She can see ancient histories of losses greater than her fathoming hiding in the corner of his smile and she is awestruck by the beauty. By his beauty.
And she has to reach out.
There is love for the loveless.
Harry presses his chin against her cool hand, eyelids fluttering in a quiet surrender,
“I’m meant to be lost.”
She gasps, her grip tightening, fingers digging into his skin,
“How dare you.”
(It will begin now).
“You shouldn’t...” Harry mumbles, “You shouldn’t let them talk to you like that.”
He states it plainly and looks down at his hands. Her eyes widen and for (perhaps) the first time, she is left speechless.
“You... You’re beautiful, Luna.” He whispers softly at the floor and leaves the classroom swiftly, the door banging shut behind him.
Luna stands in the small classroom of Charms, her brain not really coping; the fact that someone cares is mind numbing. Finally a smile spreads across her face and off she goes; skipping along the cold stone floor.
That flutter of her stomach upsets her when the lights go out.
His eyes are like gateways to places she has dreamt of; places she would rather not see – not that they are horrible places, not at all, but if she looks it will do her no good. It's like a child playing with numbers. Go too far, and you're dead.
But she wants to look.
She wants the riveting romance, the heartbreak, the earth shattering splinter of her heart as he swallows it whole. The scar cutting his forehead in half is like a flashing neon-sign. Warning. Keep out.
But what do you do when you're already in?
They could build houses, live on the bottom of the lake. The possibilities are endless, she can feel them stretch out endlessly, ready to grab her and tie her down.
Yes, she wants to look.
Quidditch matches take his full attention.
No one really notices because everyone is the same and quite frankly; there is a great need for something other than schoolwork or the War.
She kind of loses her friends at times like these.
When she wakes up in the dormitory in the blackness of the night, covered in sweat and her heart beating unsteadily against her chest, she will still, (shhh...), check her hands before going back to sleep.
Sometimes they remain red for quite a while, but if she just keeps on staring at them eventually they will turn back to the normal colour and she will sleep again.
“Neville, no...” She pushes the round-faced boy gently away with a small apologetic smile.
They are at the annual Christmas dinner and the beer has been flowing and she is in a yellow dress with roses in her hair and Neville’s hands are trying to make their way down the top of her dress.
“You’re drunk.” She states and Neville shakes his blushing head vigorously,
“No, I’m not.”
"Yes, you are.”
The sun is shining brightly that first time when he kisses her.
Her yellow boots are dirty and she does not know what to do of her hands. His one hand rests underneath her jaw, on her beating pulse. Like he's checking to see, to feel. They are breathing.
The other hand is buried in her hair, twirling strands between his fingers. He says he likes it this way.
Her radish-earring is still missing, though. The clock ticks in the background and she pulls him closer. Her Butterbeer cork-necklace is caught between them but she urges him forward.
The clock ticks on.
There is some sort of shift in it all. The two of them share a secret, only for them. Ginny does not understand anything and turns on her over and over again,
“What’s the deal with you? You’re all smiley all the freaking time!”
And Luna cannot help but smile, smile, smile, because life is good. Harry pulls her into small broom-cupboards and even though it is too damned clichéd and totally third year, the thrill which runs through her stomach is very non-clichéd.
“The Nargles will get you, you know.” She looks up at him with her arms thrown around his neck. He sniggers, his hold around her waist tightening slightly.
“Oh will they now?” he breathes down at her, looking down his nose, his glasses adorably askew. And his lips are inching their way excruciatingly slowly towards hers.
“Hmmmm...” Luna murmurs, tiptoeing to reach him. His lips brush against hers with no hesitation. A moan is caught in the back of her throat.
See Mother? Princes kiss in broom closets, too.
She is sitting in a deserted corridor, face to face with his best friend, and her heart is beating loudly in her head.
“Harry is different, and – and – very –“ Hermione pauses and sighs, looking up at her with grave eyes, so grave Luna suddenly feels like crying.
“Just – don’t hurt him. He’s special.”
“Oh, I know.”
She still grows anemones in her garden.
They still turn out red no matter what she does. But all of a sudden she has got no trouble with that – well she does, but she has got her very own sun and that makes it all better.
Harry tastes like summer and no worries and lazy Sundays. Luna loves Sundays and swears off Winter.
After the fight at the Ministry everything changes.
It seems that all the fun has ended and though she was there and she ought to have seen the change happen, she cannot pinpoint the exact moment where it all fell apart.
It does not matter really, because the status remains: Harry won’t touch her.
It is as if all he has ever had to do was say her name and she is his. He speaks and everything stops mattering, he speaks and she does not care about the Ungubular Slashkilters or the Wrackspurts or anything else. Scrimgeour may be rising to power as a horrible vampire for all she knows, but the way his eyes shimmer out at her makes everything fade into the distance.
There is no hesitation in her movements as she reaches for him; there won’t ever be any.
“If... If I die,” he begins, his eyes so deep she could drown herself in them. His arm is around her and she feels so secure, so loved and whole. Luna places a finger on his lips,
“Don’t. Don’t ruin this.”
He quietens, but the look in his eyes remains. She presses her lips to his, hoping to erase everything around them. The world can forget about them as they forget about the world.
It would just be a lot easier if he wasn’t the Chosen One. There is only so much his lips can erase.
She keeps dreaming about that house on the bottom of the lake.
There are things he keeps private and there are things he likes discussing. His family is one thing he will not mention. Her future is somehow the one thing which never leaves his mind.
“What about working for the Prophet?” He asks her from his position with his head in her lap.
Luna scuffs loudly, her hands momentarily stop caressing his hair,
“It’s going to take a lot more than being on the brink of economical bankrupt in order for me to write for those scumbags at the Prophet!”
A moment of silence passes, then;
“What about Quidditch On the Watch, then?”
She rolls her eyes.
A sad fact she still has trouble admitting:
That life - whether she wants to admit it or not, really did change with him. Being in love is new and frightening, but she will manage. Because if she can have his burning eyes on her and feel his lips run along her jaw all life long, she won’t mind.
More over; she does not believe she will be able to bear living a life without him present. If she cannot feel his breath against her skin, she is not sure she wants to live. If she cannot hear his strangled moans, she wants to go deaf. If his eyes no longer seek hers, she does not want to see, not one thing. And if his touch is no longer hers, she does not want any other touch, no one shall touch her. She will remain untouched, unbarred and unloved for the rest of her life.
(Be careful about those wishes...)
“Do you still dream about that night at the Ministry?”
There are conversations to be laughed about, conversations where she does not need to pay attention. But the desperate tearful eyes of Ginny Weasley, are enough of a sign to tell her that Ginny's still having nightmares.
Her arms reach around the small form.
“I just keep on seeing the brains grabbing Ron...”
“Shh...” Luna hums and kisses the top of the red-head’s head.
Everyone has scars. Everyone has demons.
“If I die –“
“If I die, I want you to –“
“Stop it!” she hisses, escaping his warm comforting embrace.
“You are not going to die! I will not allow it! You’re staying here goddammit, so stop talking about what if’s! You are fine. Nothing’s going to happen!”
He stares at her from his seated position on the bed, his arms still outstretched. He gets to his feet and walks over, places a hand on her arm,
"Don’t touch me!” she grits, shying away from his touch.
He straightens up,
“We can’t just pretend everything’s going to be fine, love. I might die.”
"You won’t die.”
Luna knows she is being stupid, but everything is so unfair. This is not how it is supposed to be. She wants him and they should not be discussing his death, but exams and where they are heading in life. Where he is headed in life.
She wants to talk about who's dating who, about OWLs, stupid teachers and about a future that's rosy red in its brilliance. She wants to be immature, dream up impossibly beautiful futures for them with ten kids and a mansion with endless fields of buttercups.
“I might, though.” He says gently and chills run down her spine.
“No you won’t.” She turns to look at him with tears in her eyes. She states it before walking out the room, her chest heaving desperately,
“You’re not leaving me.”
The weather is beautiful that first time when he comes.
She is plucking anemones as his steps break the silence. The flowers are beautiful. Luna is bringing them to her mother’s grave; the redness of the small flower reminds her of the blood. The room had been filled with the red sticky liquid when her small feet had carried her through the door. She had made small miniature footprints.
She can remember the silhouette of her mother’s body in the middle of the room, her white hair had not been white anymore, but red, red, red.
Anemone coronaria. The name lies good on her tongue. The flowers are beautiful; they look like buttercups only that they are all the wrong colours. Who has red and white buttercups?
Harry stands a few feet away from her, just staring at her. She keeps on picking flowers but she can feel his gaze lingering on her.
“We don’t have time for being mad, you know.” He utters the words after a while of silence. She stops up and looks at him. Her arms are filled with flowers. Smiles wistfully,
“Why would I ever be mad?”
He steps forward, his hands reaching out for her. The perfectness of him being inside this wood of flowers only occurs to her and it seems she cannot help but laugh.
This puzzles him.
“What’s funny?” He asks and stops with quite a significant amount of space between them.
She shakes her head; he would not understand, “Nothing.” She looks up at him and smiles, “Nothing at all, love.”
“I’m sorry.” He looks away and back at her, his eyes all sad and burning, burning, burning.
“It’s alright, love.” She beams at him and it is always alright with him, it will never stop being alright.
He steps closer and before long she is in his arms, the flowers falling all around them. She lets them fall herself.
Their lives have been intertwined ever since she knew his name. The one book she got used, bore his name. She sat at his desktop with his and Ron’s scribbles all over it. He has lost his mother and so has she. The dangerous thing about all of this is that she is leaving her mark on him too, and she must not do that.
She really mustn't; because as soon as she has left that mark, there is no turning back.
The bang had been awfully loud.
And the blood red, red, red.
“I don’t want you to fight.”
It has been the same old argument all month and it does not seem to him, that maybe, just maybe it is time for a topic-change.
“Well I do.”
He blinks stupidly at her for a few seconds, clears his throat. “Luna.”
“Harry.” The air in the trees blows subtly, lifting colourful leaves up into the air, they blow around her and he catches one flying in the air.
“Here.” He hands her it and she accepts it with a smile and secures it to her hair. Caresses his cheek, and smiles. His hand comes up to hold hers.
“Shhh...” her finger touches his lips briefly and he stops, smiles and kisses it.
(We'll build a house at the bottom of the sea).
“School is ending.”
"I know.” She smiles and caresses his hair, looking down at his face in order to see his expression. They are lying in the shadow of the tree by the lake, his head is in her lap and summer is right there, surrounding them with the beautiful air of change and hope. It is filled to the brim with sadness for them, though.
The wind blows gently and caresses her face, she closes her eyes, thinking of all the great things that have happened in the year. The air that smells just like him after a shower billows gently against her cheek, soft like a lover's caress.
In a few days school is over and they will part. Her stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought and she tries not to think of all the things that can happen to him while he is gone.
“Just don’t go finding some new girl to fool around with, okay?” she says and he snorts, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.
“Never,” he murmurs and then turns his head to look at her,
“And you, miss Lovegood,” he raises his eyebrow at her, “on all of your adventures, could you please not meet some great handsome guy and forget all about me?”
Luna laughs and kisses him on his lips,
“I already have my handsome guy,” she murmurs against his lips. “And I could never forget you.” She adds as an afterthought.
Harry smiles and pulls her down and kisses her fully on the lips, his tongue prying her lips apart. His hand caresses her face as if he were memorizing her features.
“mmmm...” he hums, his eyes closed. “I’m going to miss you terribly.”
“Me too.” Luna sighs and kisses him again.
(Don’t leave me.)
She watches him leave with the arrival of summer.
With his departure comes the smell of his body as it lingers everywhere. She finds an old shirt underneath her bed and is prisoned in a hazy remembrance for days.
Her tall figure stands eerily still in the masses of people as he looks over his shoulder. (Don’t look back).
Her long white hair blows around the air, tickling her blue jacket that's secured tightly around her form. Her jaw is squared and her blue eyes smouldering. Her fingers twitch as if wanting to wave. He drags his suitcase onwards, and soon; (too soon), he is obscured by the masses.
“I don’t want you to fight.”
Don't change me into something I'm not.
“Nice to meet you, Sir.”
She is a bundle of nerves that first time when they meet. His hair is (somewhat) combed back, (there is still that beautiful little tuff at the nape of his neck, the one she always fingers.)
He shakes her father’s hand formally and smiles (almost) down at him. He has grown ever so tall, and she may pretend and she may act like nothing, but it is clear; Harry Potter has grown into some hunk over the pass of summer.
“You alright there, Harry?” Her father asks and it is not without reason: he is scrawny as hell and just plain skinny. Dark circles rest underneath his eyes, and even though his eyes sparkle and glimmer out at her, it does not conceal the great traces of exhaustion which have left their undeniable traces.
He squeezes her hand,
“Yes, I’m quite good, Sir...”
She tries to forget that he's only hers for a few more days.
“If I die – “ He begins and her finger is right there on his lips immediately and she looks at him pleadingly,
“Don’t. Don’t start. Please. I can’t.”
He takes her hand in his hand and kisses each fingertip tenderly.
“I don’t want you to fight.”
Luna sighs. Says,
“I love you.”
When one day out of nowhere he stops in his steps and turns to her and whispers those words, she shall not doubt them. And Luna does not dare even the flicker of a doubt.
His eyes are clear and strong and she resides in those eyes, she holds onto that flicker. (Her mother had had that same flicker whenever she would looked at her dad). She wants this.
“Just remember; you’re not the only one who can see them. I see the Threstrals too.”
He is sitting in a corner, arms around his legs, rocking back and forth and she nears him one step at a time before he is at her feet and she lowers herself onto the cold marble-floor. She touches his knee and he shivers but does not shy away and she takes this as a sign, a sign of surrender. She moves closer, nears her head to his, and listens how his breathing comes out in choked gasps.
“I see them too.”
“That Potter-guy is quite the hero isn’t he?” Her father asks her over the dinner table one evening. Luna pours more water in their glasses,
“He is, Dad.”
Her father nods slowly and continues chewing his food before muttering,
"I hope he makes it.”
The water spills onto the table and Luna puts down the jug swiftly, drying the surface quickly. She glances up at her father, her hands busy still,
“Me too, Dad, me too.
Her fingers are still shaking as she grabs the cutlery. Her father pretends not to notice.
“If I die-“
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“He is pushing me away.” She tells her on one of those evenings when they have found each other at the same place again. They both need the talks, whether they would like to admit it or not.
Hermione sighs and smiles softly at Luna,
“He tends to do this.”
Luna shakes her head angrily,
“It’s wrong. I’m not going to let him push me away.”
“Good. I didn’t expect you would.”
Being pureblood and raised properly, Luna knows of his past and she does not need telling, nor does she ask this of him.
So when the silence stretches and his mouth becomes a thin line, when he clutches the railing all too hard and his knuckles turn white in the effort, she will lay a hand on his tense shoulder. She will put it there softly, and he will shake his head, once, twice, before meeting her gaze. That is all it takes for him to calm down. As if she holds the key to unlock everything within his heart.
It is at days like these, that she wishes his trust would reach just the smallest bit beyond himself.
She sometimes finds it is a cruel play of fate that she fell in love with a Gryffindor. Because when he wears his colours, which are red and gold naturally, she can barely look at him. Another cruel play of fate as he is leaving all too soon and he will leave her alone again.
(Just like Mother.)
His lips find hers surely. The warmth seeps from his chest pressed so tightly against hers, onto her skin. Her skin tingles as his lips kiss along her curves and lines. Every single freckle is adored and caressed beyond imagination.
The softness of his lips makes her sigh into his mouth and she murmurs gently, “I love you.”
He smiles and kisses her underneath her ear, “I love you too, my beautiful Luna.”
His hands travel softly underneath her blouse awakening her senses. She pulls him closer and closer, wanting nothing between them. He kisses her open-mouthed and their tongue caress each other, her eyes close on their own and she hums with joy.
They make love underneath the stars with the moon shining down at her from that spot up high. Luna has never been happier.
His breathing comes in gasps as she kisses his neck, ears, mouth, eyes, nose, legs, feet, hands and belly. Nothing goes free. Luna’s mind spins on and on and there has never in the world been anything that has felt as right as this has.
"Luna, Luna, Luna, Luna.” Harry chants and her heart expands and expands. Moments are indeed perfect and this moment is being stored inside her heart forever. It seems impossible that her own little heart can cape all this love but it can and their love is only expanding and expanding like the universe.
Afterwards they just stare into each other’s eyes for eternity.
“We should leave.” Harry murmurs, his eyes closed and his hand drawing circles on her arm.
“Just a few seconds more,” Luna sighs and snuggles closer into his embrace, “this moment is too perfect to ruin.”
The night is dark and the love big and numbing and they are young able to conquer anything. Together.
“It is.” Harry answers and kisses the top of her head, burying his face in her hair.
(There’s no turning back now.)
“If I die –“
“Don’t.” Her hand is on his lips immediately and he smiles at her and opens his mouth to talk again,
“If I die, tell the world I loved apples and cheesecake. Tell them I never knew what I wanted to be, but if I could do one thing, it would be to marry the girl of my dreams and make a family. I would have kids with long blonde hair and blue blue eyes.” He kisses her softly on the cheek and she smiles at him, the tears stinging in her eyes.
“Tell them I was happy, Luna. Tell them I was happy.”
“I’m messed up.” He tells her one evening in the Room of Requirement. She looks up at him on the bed they are lying on and sees his face. She sits up immediately.
“I’m most definitely and without a doubt more messed up than you.”
He looks at her grimly and shakes his head,
"That’s the thing Luna, you’re perfect, you’re nothing short of miraculous, you’re absolutely sane.” He caresses her face and then turns away.
She puts a hand on his shoulder and makes him turn to her,
“You’re not a nutcase, Harry.”
His back remains turned to her,
“I hear voices.” He says finally. Her grip on his shoulder tightens; things are getting very very dangerously close to something she has hidden away very thoroughly.
“So do I.”
He looks at her. There's a shade of life in his eyes.
"Mine are very evil voices.” He says slowly.
“Mine is my mother’s voice.” She takes his hand.
“We’re all bonkers, really, love.” She kisses him deeply and hopes to God, that please, please, he will find peace. His eyes are still troubled and he is still shaking, but Luna clings onto him and slowly he calms.
“Do you think he’ll make it?”
They seek comfort in each other’s despair and somehow Hermione Granger has become a dear dear friend. So dear that one evening this small forbidden question slips across her lips. Hermione stops breathing and stares at her. Sinks. Opens her mouth.
“Yes, Luna.” She nods, the grip on her book tightening more and more, her knuckles turning white, “I know he’ll make it.”
Luna’s lip quivers, she looks away, before meeting the Gryffindor's eyes,
“Sometimes – Sometimes I fear he won’t.”
Hermione grips her hand tightly,
“I do too, sometimes,” she whispers.
When the snow starts melting away and the days become longer and warmer, her heart starts stiffening with the cold. They never have enough time and Luna feels as if she is grasping at the thin air and nothing is staying and everything's getting lost.
Harry is warm and Luna needs him – there is no other word for it. She literally needs him.
His warm hands glide along the sides of her body, caress down and up her legs, his burning kisses send shivers down her spine everywhere his lips touch her burning skin. Palms press against palms, a touch to last a lifetime.
“I love you.” His breathy moan stretches across the air. She kisses his neck softly, retracing his smile in her mind. There are many memories that will be stored in her mind forever. The first time he said he loved her, the first time they made love, the way his eyelids flutter, how he moans her name and how his kisses touch her somewhere deep inside her body. His touch stirs something inside of her: he wakes her up.
She did not know life could be like this. She did not know that her life could feel so connected to another human being. She did not know she could love like this, she did not know she was capable of living this greatly.
She will never forget this.
Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave.
The little plea is the only sentence she cannot bring herself to utter. It is not because she finds it below her standards to confess such things, but because it would mean accepting and acknowledging the fact that he is leaving, and soon at that. She does not mention it to anyone, that sometimes she feels like shouting, He’s staying. Just to challenge fate.
So she hugs him close, breathes deeply to store his scent, but says no word of goodbye. He has to do the things he is meant to do. She just wishes it could be someone else. Anybody. Just, not him.
"Will you forget me when I leave?" His playful smile shines up at her.
"Never." She kisses his soft lips.
He has come to tell her goodbye. She knows this when he walks up behind her holding his breath. He does not touch her at any point and does not make her aware of his presence.
The silence surrounds her as a thick blanket as she picks flowers all around them. She walks around him without meeting his eyes, filling her arms with buttercups. Their heads are all hanging in mirrored grief.
“I’m leaving, Luna.” His voice shakes at the edges and she stops, greets the silence before she turns around to look at him.
“I know.” She whispers, her eyes searching his. This is that moment of truth, to see if it all ever mattered to him. It is the moment where everything ceases to matter. Whether he loved her or not is of no importance because he is leaving and the status remains. It is over.
His hand reaches for hers and it clasps it and surrounds it. He kisses the back of it with his soft, velvety lips. She looks at him. Smiles.
She caresses the planes of his face, fingers the outline of his lips before trailing past his closed eyes up into his hair. She steps forward and lets the flowers fall from her embrace.
Her lips touch his softly. The warmth seeps from his skin onto hers, it warms up her bones and she hugs him closer. His arms come around her and squeeze her even tighter.
She pulls back and looks him into the sparkling eyes,
"Don’t worry; the anemones won’t die, Harry.”
Her father stands in the doorway on her graduation-day. There are tears leaking from his eyes, “You look like your mother, my Luna.”
Luna soars through the doors and all the way up the aisle to McGonagall where she is honoured along with the rest of all the heroes of the battle. (The ones who are not dead, that is.)
The time without him is torturous. She will pretend everything is okay, she will smile and laugh, but inside Luna is burning; she is burning up. At times she will sit by the small tree by the lake and look over the blank surface, imagining where he is right now.
She remembers everything as he is gone. She remembers how his fingertips would softly caress her pale skin, paying special attention to the small part right on her hipbone. She remembers his kisses, the thrill of seeing him, his glimmering eyes, his moans, his breath between her thighs, and his nibbles on her neck, his laughter, his smell.
When he first left, she thought she was alright, but that only lasted a week and now she is desperately holding onto the smallest memory of him.
Luna searches the newspapers for any kind of news, but all she reads is death, death and deaths and no real resistance. No hope.
Hope has become a distant stranger she has no illusion of reencountering.
The war comes to Hogwarts at last. He is there and she is there.
Of course she fights (against his wishes), and this is the only point since he has left that she has felt alive again.
Every single honourable and brave person fights and defends everything they have been fighting for the past fifty years or so.
Luna needs nothing more and with Ginny at her side the two girls protect their school and future.
Things happen in wars and some people win and some people lose. She did not notice the Death Eater hiding behind the statue and in a flash she is on the ground.
There are people who die, and people who live. So far she has been one of the lucky ones. But as she lies on the cold ground after she has fallen and right in front of her, Cormac’s expressionless face is staring right through her, she whispers to herself, it’s not death, it’s not death.
She still notices the red blood that drips from his open mouth into a pool by his head.
As she lies on the ground there is only one thing that flashes through her mind: Harry.
Every single day passed with him flashes through her head and she reminisces why it was she fell in love with the Chosen One.
In the distance, between the fighting masses of people, she spots a tall lanky dark haired figure staggering before falling onto the ground.
She rises up, trembling violently, and walks towards the body on the ground, her heart beating irregularly.
"Will you forget me when I leave?" His playful smile shines up at her.
"Never." She kisses his soft lips.
And when I found him, he was bloody and red, red, red. But there was a great difference; air was escaping your chapped lips and even though you were pale, pale, pale, I knew. And lying next to you on this dark ground is not difficult. Nobody listens, and I have taken your hand in mine because we shall not bleed without one another, we shall not be parted.
It is a new day. A new era.
That hole in my chest is not there. It is not there, it is not there, it is not there.
I would keep chanting but the air is escaping me and there is no air, no air, no air, and the darkness catches at the edges, blink, blink, blink, the silence will win, win, win, it will always win, win, win.
His grave is covered with red anemones.
They look beautiful in the evening sun as she stands by his tomb and lets one last anemone fall. It has been less than a week and she can still feel his hands on her skin, she can still smell his scent whenever she turns. She can still hear his voice and she still remembers moments with him. Whenever she thinks of his breathy moans, her heart skips a beat and her breathing hitches. Soon, it will all fade away and become distant memories. She tries to think of every single one and tries to refresh them again and again. So that she will not forget a single one.
It will be years later, with sunshine daisies and butter beer-smiles that she'll start to question those nights she once deemed unforgettable. The images blur and the sound is oddly muted, distorted so much that she can no longer recall the sweet sonata of his voice.
She still grows flowers in her garden. The anemones have not yet died.
"He was a good lad, that one." Her father says softly by her side. She secures an anemone in his buttonhole, nods.
"He sure was, Dad."
"Will you forget me when I leave?" His playful smile shines up at her.
Most of the time she wishes that she would.
A/N: Remember to review!! :)
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