Disclaimer: If you read it in the books (or thought you did), it's not mine.
Out of all the things I have felt, unrequited love is what stings the most. It is not loving him so much as it is knowing that he will never love you in return. In short, loving him, wanting him was the best and worst thing I ever did, and I don't regret it. There was never anything worth regretting.
It wasn't like I'd done what most girls my age would have done. I didn't choose someone who I could never get. He was my friend, and the problem was that friendship was all he wanted from anyone, not just from me. There were days – I saw them – when he'd have given anything to be someone else for just a moment. Seeing him like that hurt in a way without words. I wanted to be there for him, wanted to make him see the sunlight again, but he wouldn't let anyone into his world.
The day I truly knew that we could never be together is one I cannot forget, no matter how hard I try. I received the day's post and found, among a handful of magazines, a square envelope that looked like an invitation. I opened it quickly, expecting something quite different than what I found. A wedding invitation from him, my dear friend Neville was the last thing I'd expected, and I held the piece of pale pink parchment in my hands. My mind began to race, wondering what one was expected to wear to the wedding of a former love. Would I look proper in midnight blue, the only dress in my wardrobe that didn't recall a fiasco as a bridesmaid, or would I merely look desperate. I hadn't the money for a new dress, so it would have to do. He'd always said I looked nice in the color, I recalled with just the slightest bit of jealousy in my mind.
Through some accident in the time-space continuum, I managed to arrive at the wedding twenty minutes early. Not wanting to get in anyone's way, I slipped into the back row on the groom's side. With luck, I'd be gone before someone asked me to dance and trampled my feet. I regretted ever letting Ginny coax me into buying the world's most uncomfortable pair of black stiletto heels.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I turned my head and saw a young man I'd never met before. He had chocolate-colored hair and brown eyes, and wore a tasteful black suit.
"No," I squeaked. This was the last thing I wanted. One does not turn up at the wedding of an old friend expecting to come face-to-face with a person who is appealing in all the wrong ways.
He didn't seem disturbed by my sudden inability to behave reasonably. "My name's Edgar Morrison," he said calmly. "You are?"
"Luna Lovegood." I was surprised I was able to speak; that was certainly a good sign. "How come I've never seen you before? You don't seem much older than I am."
"I grew up in America," he said, as though it was something to be ashamed of. "My family moved back here when I was eighteen, seven years ago. I tagged along and never looked back."
"So you're only a year old than I am. That's good; no one will bash you for trying to flirt with me." Unreasonable behavior was an understatement now; I was being downright idiotic.
"What if I'm not trying to flirt?" he asked. I knew that he meant it, knew that he was just being friendly.
The wedding began a few minutes later. Given the number of weddings I'd been to, I didn't expect anything unusual to happen. As usual, I was dead wrong. There was nothing quite as dreadful as the time I nearly lost Ginny's ring, which was bad even for me, but the best man somehow caught his suit jacket on fire still the same.
Then came the reception, which I had dreaded since the moment I received the invitation. To say that I can't dance would be quite an understatement – I am a liability on a dance floor, period. But Edgar asked me to dance, and I decided it was worth a go. I'd told him about my lack of dancing ability, so I figured that he'd have at least had fair warning when I inevitably hurt him.
We talked a bit while we attempted to dance. He told me that he'd been invited due to being the bride's third cousin, which hadn't surprised me at all – there was a slight family resemblance. I explained how I knew the groom and how he had almost – but not quite – been mine. It was nice, being able to confide in someone who didn't know the situation, someone who could be on my side without knowing anything. I wasn't sure it was love, but it was something more than friendship. Attraction, I believe one of my friends once called that feeling.
It is true that no one marries his or her first love. Someone better, more wonderful, will always turn up. For me, that wedding was the end of one love and the beginning of another, more glorious one.
A/N: For the First Love Challenge (HPFFC). Also the setup for a series of stories I intend to do about Luna and Edgar. And a reasonable explanation for why Neville/Luna didn't work.