I know it's trite but I've never met anyone like you.
I know.
You look at her and wonder how you got so lucky. Remus rags on you about robbing the cradle, and you merely raise an eyebrow and point at Tonks, or "Nymphadora" as you like to call her to make her mad. Her hair turns red and you laugh, your gaze turning back to her. To Luna.
She has grown into her elfin looks, pale blonde hair curling to her waist, limpid grey eyes just slightly too large now. The smile that dwells perpetually on her lips enchants you.
"Luna, my Luna," you whisper into the soft cloud of her hair, into the delicate curve of her ear, and she only smiles and tightens her grip around your waist. She is surprisingly strong for one so small.
You met her at Hogwarts, how trite, but true. Tagging along behind Harry, a dreamy smile illuminating a too-pale face. Barefoot, and the lack of shoes caught your attention. You asked her what her name was, and she said "Luna," and you were smitten. You didn't know it then, but you were, lost in her eyes, in the feel of her fingers clasping yours.
You don't deserve her, you don't deserve anyone, but she never agrees with you. In moments of recrimination and doubt, when the guilt threatens to drown you, she pulls you tight against her, unusually somber, as she whispers shy ghost tales of Nargles and Blibbering Humdingers into the curve of your neck, as she hums the lullabies of her childhood and cards her fingers through your hair. As she tells you how much she loves you.
"I love you, too," you mouth back, the words caught in your throat, but she knows, she catches them like fragile paper butterflies and guards them in the pocket of her jeans, next to the thistle blooms for the crumple-horned snorkacks, and the pennies she keeps for the cat to lick. Her smile is the sweetest balm, the brightest line of sunshine to ever pierce the clouds that Azkaban has thrust tightly around you.
"Will you marry me?" you ask, one chilled September morning. The sky is grey above you, as grey as her eyes, and you hold your breath, waiting for her response, your hands twisting in the overly large sleeves of your new robe, the one she had made for you special last month for your birthday.
"Yes," she says, and the kiss she bestows on your lips is sweeter than the finest wine, more addictive than the blue fairy floss sold on the corner every Tuesday, and you are lost.