A/N: Written for no apparent reason. Occurs in a barren hallway after the Battle in the Department of Mysteries, during which Ronald Weasley died. Luna and the others are in mourning. Roger Davies, a year younger than depicted in the original series, goes to consult her.
Quicksilver robes pool around her ankles, running away like streams. Like animals. Like children. Sometimes you wonder what she thought of you the first time you ran from her, dancing out of her reach while she attempted to snatch those twine sandals from your grasp.
You were all high and mighty back then, weren't you, with your tricks and escapades and kleptomaniac tendencies. You'll never confess any terrorism, of course. You'll never commit to the countless first years locking themselves away in bathroom stalls, sobbing buckets. You'll never commit to the harassment, accompanied by their dull flushes which never provided you with enough satisfaction anyway. You'll never commit to the stolen shoes and her stoic serenity.
You'll never commit to the two dozen girlfriends these past months, either. Or the numerous visions pertaining to a certain gray-eyed girl.
You even try ignoring the fact that the two dozen girlfriends all had stunning blonde ringlets- but sometimes, it's no use.
"Dodger, why are you crying?" she asks suddenly, wrapping her arms around her waist. Her wrists are thin as bowtruckles. Pallid. Unblemished. You wonder if she deprives herself of nourishment, like the rest of them do. Improbable, but self-deprecation takes many forms. Tears, for instance. Do Luna Lovegood's tears reflect her sorrows?
"Don't you know better than to use false hypocrisy?" you ask, approaching cautiously and sliding down into a sitting position next to her. Your black robes create a trail in their wake. Squid ink, she would say, to mask any futile grief.
Yours is futile, anyhow.
Hers is pure.
"My mother died when I was nine," she says, pointedly ignoring your comment. "It was all very tragic. She had worn her mercury robes that day (for luck, you know), and I remember the way she melted into the floor." She smiles eerily, and you desperately clutch at your robes. To get a hold of something. Anything. "Perhaps I should always wear silver robes when in mourning. A befitting colour, isn't it?"
"It befits the pretty girls." You wish there were a charm to bury yourself alive, but you make do with a façade. "It offsets your eyes wonderfully."
She fiddles with her butterbeer cork necklace, and you're close enough to read the dates she's written across the cork in fine print. The largest reads December twenty-first, 1996. "Rodney, it's a wonder you made it to NEWT Charms," she says dreamily, causing your eyes to drift back to hers. "You know very well Ginevra dislikes silver- Slytherin's colour, you know- and she is situated in deeper mourning than I. You waste so much brain potential with your useless insults, I'd be surprised if you didn't befall the fate of Ronald Weasley. Perhaps the Wrackspurts have gotten to you?"
"Luna… Luna, you asked why I was crying," you prompt.
"Because everyone is crying. There is joy, and there is sorrow, and there is both. I think you are anything but intrepid, Robert. I think you are insecure, and therefore you belittle women, whom you believe to be the inferior sex. But we all have our share of Dabberblimps. Catharsis helps." She lays a hand on your knee, in a motherly fashion. Your own mother is alive and well. Hers remains scattered in the wind. "I can see now. You have nice eyes, Roger. I wish you were a nice man."
The quicksilver shifts amongst her feet as she slowly stands, and her toes are barren as she flees. She is young, and she is peculiar, and you hate her for everything that she represents. Change.
Maybe you want to change.
"Luna. Luna, wait!"
You reach into your robe to extract her twine sandals
But she is gone.