She looked so peaceful.
Nine-year-old Luna Lovegood looked down at the beautiful face of her mother, lying in her wooden casket. Her dirty blonde hair, the exact same color as Luna's, was neatly brushed through and spread out around her. She was dressed in a beautiful, blue dress with a lace collar. Her face was pallid and solemn, so unlike her usual warm smile. Her beautiful blue eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, framed by long eyelashes.
As Luna looked down at her mother, she felt a large hand grasp hers.
"My Luna," said her father, Xenophilius. He looked completely unlike himself. His eyes were dull and unquestioning. His long, blonde hair was unkempt, and his face was red and streaked with tears. He bent down and kissed his beautiful wife's face, before embracing Luna.
Xenophilius held up a chain necklace, on which hung a butterbeer cork. "S-she would have wanted you to have this," he said, another tear rolling down his cheek. He placed it into her outstretched hand.
Luna curled her fingers around the necklace, fighting back the tears that so wanted to erupt from her. It had been her mother's favorite accessory, made to keep Nargals away. It had been a wedding present from her father. Luna opened the tiny clasp with shaking hands, and clumsily fastened it around her neck.
She looked down at her mother once again, and carefully closed her eyelids.
"There," Luna told her father. "Now she might be sleeping."
She took her mother's hand, and there was a blinding flash of light. Disoriented, Luna looked up, to see a tall woman in high heels sauntering toward the casket where she stood. The woman was eccentric looking, with bright pink fingernails and an alligator handbag.
"Xeno!" she cried, throwing her arms up in the air, and, in the process, knocking the hat off her shorter, less appealing photographer.
"Rita," said Xenophilius stiffly.
"And this is your daughter, I presume?" she said, bending over to look Luna in the face. "Hello. I'm Rita Skeeter, journalist for the Daily Prophet," she said, shaking Luna's hand. Her breath smelled of bad eggs. "right, then."
The woman named Rita straightened up, and addressed her photographer. "Charles, get a few shots around here," she said, indicating the casket. She groped about in her handbag, and pulled out a notebook and a bright green quill.
"Quick-Quotes Quill," she told them, as if they had asked. "Best way to record an interview. Hands free, yes?" She smiled at them, a smile that confirmed Luna's dislike of her.
"Why are you here, Rita?" Xenophilius demanded.
"Oh, Xeno!" she chuckled, "I'm doing an article on your wife's tragic death. Our readers-"
"The Quibbler's already publishing that story," he replied heatedly.
""Of course, of course," she replied, obviously not listening. "Just a short interview on Candie, then."
"Her name is Celina!"
"Right then." Rita looked to Luna. "Sorry, Lila. I'm just going to steal your Daddy for a moment then." She turned, and then stopped. "Now Lila, how old are you?"
"N-Nine." The Quick-Quotes Quill began scribbling away at the notepad.
"And you would say you were how close to your mother?"
Luna frowned. "Very," she responded. "We used to fish for freshwater Plimpies together in the stream by our house."
"Ah," said Rita, as the Quill continued to scratch feverishly. "And, how does her sudden death make you feel?"
"That's enough, Rita!" Xenophelius was fuming, but Rita remained unabashed.
"Very sad, I imagine," she told the Quill. "Tragic. Shall we then, Xeno?" And with that, she turned away, Xenophilius trailing reluctantly behind.