You're way too beautiful girl,
That's why it'll never work.
They say she's mad. It's probably why they avoid her and her strange ways. They hear the whispers and then when they look at her their vision is veiled by the lies and the tales, even though they're looking directly at the truth – that she's unusual, but the enough like everyone else in all the ways that matter, and in the rest of the ways she's better. But with them, it's all rumours and reputation; the rumours give her a bad reputation and the reputation keeps people away.
But he can see what they can't.
She genuinely doesn't care what people think of her. It doesn't matter to her that people stare, or think she's weird. She is who she is, and no one can tell her different.
He's never known anyone like her.
People surround her, dressed in their finest – it is the yule ball, after all. Every girl is wearing the most beautiful dress they could find. But nobody compares to her, dancing by herself in the middle of the dance floor, a rosy glow on her cheeks. He suspects the slight flush was brought out by the fact that she'd been doing the tango with an invisible partner, despite the stares.
He wishes he could be that partner.
But he can't. She might not care what people think, but that's all he can care about. He wants nothing more than to walk up and kiss her. If only it were possible.
So she dances and he watches.
Always from a distance.
It's one of those things that just doesn't happen, running into her on a moonlight night on the edges of the Forbidden Forest. But it does, and he's not sure what to make of it.
He'd come here to get away. To escape. He hadn't planned on finding her here. But he did.
She knows he's there, even though her back is turned, but neither of them says a word. They're enemies – in theory. In reality, he's not so sure. He feels no animosity to her, and he's not sure she even knows he exists. So he just watches her as she randomly holds a bloody, dripping steak in the air.
"They're quite beautiful," she says sincerely, startling him.
"What are?" his voice is more high-pitched with surprise than he'd meant it to be.
"The thestrals," she says. "Can you not see them?"
Draco shakes his head.
"You're lucky, then," she says. "In a way. Come feel them."
"How can I-" he begins to say, but she's already walked over to where he's standing and grabbed his wrist. He yelps, surprised, as she gently pulls him towards the centre of the clearing.
"See," she says, as a giant bite is taken from the steak. It's lucky Draco already knows a bit about thestrals, else he might have screamed at the fact that an invisible monster was eating the raw meat right in front of his eyes.
But they seem less like monsters when she's showing them to him.
She grabs his wrist gently and directs it to a spot in mid-air. His hand hits something solid that feels a little like ribs, and he shudders. "I think she likes you," Luna comments.
"Erm… lovely," Draco says, not sure how else to describe it. A nice lie was better than an awful truth, he'd heard.
"You'll get used to it," Luna says serenely as though she can see his discomfort.
"Merlin I hope not," Draco mutters.
Luna laughs.
He can see her face in his tea leaves. He's supposed to be seeing a snitch – that's what Zabini says he can see. But it's her. Her face, her hair, her smile. A perfect picture.
He wishes she really was his future.
I love you, he says in his head, but he can never speak the words. They're on separate sides, always. She might not care for things like propriety or normalcy, but he needs and craves them. His place in life is to be a Malfoy, and she doesn't even have one. She's as free as a bird, and she's too busy soaring up there in the sky to ever land. To someone chained to the earth like he is, she's untouchable.
There's no way their stories can run parallel to each other, no matter how he may dream.
She's in his basement, kept captive for the sake of the war. If only he had the courage to free her.
She fights against him in the battle, and he's glad he never faces her. He couldn't kill her. He couldn't kill anyone.
He swears as he tries to tug his leg free. It's his eighth year in this damn place, and he'd learnt to jump the trick step early in his Hogwarts career. He should know better than to stand on that step by now – especially after the battle, when anyone who came along would be more likely to hex him than help him.
He thanks whatever deity might be watching over him that the corridors are abandoned, while simultaneously cursing whoever was in charge of the rebuild after the war and had decided to leave this stupid thing in there.
Footsteps clatter behind him as someone hurries down the steps. A Gryffindor, knowing my luck, he thinks to himself. Someone who'll want to take revenge on me for my part in the war.
The reality is much worse.
"Oh, it's you, Draco," the dreamy voice says from behind him, surprised. Draco half-heartedly attempts once more to wrench himself free. He fails.
"Yeah," he says through gritted teeth.
"Here, I'll give you a hand," Luna says, walking around the front and offering him her two hands.
He eyes them suspiciously. "No thanks," he says, pride making him stubborn. "I'll just wait here."
"Don't be silly," Luna says. "You'll get bored. Trust me, I've had plenty of practice at this. Neville used to forget about this step all the time." She surveys him quietly for a moment, before adding bizarrely, "He's better now, though."
"Right," Draco says, before reluctantly reaching out and grasping her hands. They're small and warm and it feels so perfect.
She heaves and, with her help, Draco pops free. As soon as he's steady, he releases her hands like they were burning his flesh. She doesn't notice. "That's better," she says matter-of-factly.
It's awkward, and he has to say something. "Thanks, Lovegood," he says gruffly.
"Luna," she says, as she turns her back and continues on her way. "It's Luna."
"I told you you'd get used to them," she says from behind him.
He wrenches his hand away from the thestral he'd been petting and whirls around. "You scared the life from me," he tells her.
It's all so surreal.
"You were so scared of them last time," she says, offering a young thestral a piece of steak.
"Well, I can see them now," Draco says. He remembers she'd called them 'beautiful'.
Beauty's subjective. He wishes they could be beautiful to him.
"It's like the silver lining," Luna says dreamily.
"Pardon?"
"It's the good thing that comes from the bad," she explains. "It's always sad watching someone die, but afterwards you get to see these."
"Some consolation," Draco mutters, somewhat bitterly.
"It's something, though," Luna says.
His hand is running through a thestral's mane, and he stares at it sullenly. Looking anywhere else is too uncomfortable.
Suddenly, there's warmth encasing his fingers, contrasting with the cold night air. Surprisingly, it's her hand. She's holding his hand.
He pulls away, "Luna…" he says.
"It's alright," she says.
"No, it's not. We can't… we're on different sides."
"There are no sides," she says serenely. "Not anymore. The war dealt with all that."
"They're still there," Draco says. "The dividing line… the one we can't cross."
"There's only a line if you choose to see it," says Luna. "Close your eyes."
He's not sure whether she's being metaphorical or literal, but it doesn't matter because he can't. She might be able to close her eyes and ignore the line, but he'll always see it. Worse, everyone else will see it, and know he stepped over it. They'll mutter and judge and she'll close her ears, but he never can.
"I'm sorry," he says, and flees.