Newsflash: I do not own Harry Potter. Newsflash number two: If you thought I did, please check yourself into an asylum right now.
Anyway, here's some nice H/L. Enjoy!
Before the war, she doesn't need to be noticed. She doesn't mind, of course, when people stare at her: it's just the way it is. But she is mostly ignored, the Loony-Bird from Ravenclaw who slinks through the hallways and stared at the ceilings.
She thinks that she has things to say, but nothing that anyone needs to hear. She has things to say about the way you can see sunlight through butterfly wings and how if you open your mouth outside in summer you can taste nectar and pollen in the air.
She talks to herself in corridors and no one hears her. Or, when they do, they stare at her like she's just melted into the sky, and are quiet.
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She doesn't remember being afraid before.
She's seen her mother die before her eyes; but she remembers only the color of the sparks and the thick pooling redness at her feet.
She's fought Death Eaters since she was fourteen, and all she feels is mild surprise when one of them falls down dead from the light from her wand.
She's been dead, once; drowned and revived; when she thinks of it she remembers how cool it felt on her skin.
She is afraid, now. She is afraid it won't be enough; that everything she does will be forgotten in the end and that no one will remember the taste of nectar.
People don't like to listen to her, because everything she says is true and it is easier to lie. It's safer to ignore her. Besides: she isn't Ron, or Hermione, or even Ginny, and Harry doesn't need her that way.
She loves him simply for surviving.
"Listen," she always says before she speaks. "Listen: do you see the veins in the back of that leaf?"
He smiles.
"Listen," she says. "I think that beetle in the corner might be a Bunkerknuck."
He laughs, and keeps on surviving.
They let the Bunkerknuck go; it resembles a black marble as it rolls through the high green grass. Harry grazes her hand, and she doesn't even have to ask him to listen. He already is, and this is what she is saying:
I love you. I love you because you are Harry Potter and you would be even if you were happy. I love you because even though you laugh you can't help believing.
He shakes his head as he watches her eyes. "Yes," he says, though she hasn't asked a question. She laughs and kisses his cheek, before she dances away, laughing.
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Fighting is dirty and brutal, which is something she hasn't expected. They hide in underground tunnels and everything is dirty and she feels sweat on her back. There are hands on her back, and her face is pressed into someone's back.
She finds dried blood and dirt under her fingernails when she bathes, and that is the first time she cries (pressed up against the cold porcelain, scrubbing so hard her hand felt numb. It doesn't matter, her tears mix with the rest of the water, anyway).
Her eyes are red and blotchy when Harry comes to her that evening. Her shoulders ache, and so does her throat, but she smiles for him.
"I'm okay," she says before he asks. He needs her to be untouchable by anyone but him; he needs his own savior and she isn't one (but she can pretend).
"I know you are," he murmurs into her neck. His nails are still dirty, but she grips his hand and tries to take it all away. He presses his face into her shoulder, and they both pretend he isn't crying (Luna almost believes it).
He kisses her, and their teeth clash. She tries to make room inside herself for all of his pain; but she is already full to bursting.
She kisses him again. You are worth it, he hears, and he's never needed her to say it aloud. You will have a happy ending.
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The first summer of the war, Harry reminds her of the nectar. He wakes her at dawn and she tries to remember a time when she wanted to do anything other than sleep.
The ground outside the house where they are hiding is fragile; purple and white with flowers she planted last winter when she was still herself enough to care. They are just now opening their heads; they are as bright as they would have been if she had planted them before the war.
She doesn't bother to put shoes on. Wet dirt pools around her toes, and she is quiet and remembers when she used to love this.
They make their way to the patch of grass she left in the center of the yard. Harry lies on his back and closes his eyes. She hesitates before slowly taking his hand and falling onto the soft earth beside him. Her nightgown will stain; but she doesn't mind.
"Can you taste it?" Harry asks, inhaling deeply. "Is it time?"
She closes her eyes and feels the sun on her bare arms.
"Almost," she says.
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She is still mostly alive after the war, and so is Harry. He needs her, now, and she still loves him, so they move in together.
Their house is beautiful. It's out in the country and the walls and ceilings are glass and the carpet is almost an inch thick. She lies in their bed at night and picks out the familiar stars in the sky and watches the moon dance under the horizon.
She still feels a bit dirty, but she can ignore it and love him, instead.
He looks at her and expects things and she feels the weight of a future pressing down on her shoulders.
"I love you," she says, and that's true; but it's all she can manage. She isn't brilliant or beautiful or any of those things he wants, but she'll try (just for him).
She doesn't ask him to listen, anymore. She doesn't have anything left to say.
I'd really appreciate feedback, and since you made it all the way to the bottom of the page, why not spare a few more seconds to review? Besides, I have some nice, fresh cookies here that make you skinny when you eat them! How could you resist?