DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, nor Edward Scissorhands [which is mentioned].
Sunlight.
It reflected brilliantly on her kaleidoscope eyes. She smiled a little bit, immediately hearing giggles of other people in the courtyard. Sometimes they buzzed around her head like Wrackspurts, they crawled into her brain, shaking it this way and that. That's why she started to wear a charm alongside the Butterbeer corks.
It pushed them from her brain.
But the snow looked like Wrackspurts. The carelessly carved crystals fell into her hair, into her ear. Like Wrackspurts. She couldn't tell the white flakes from the gray dots around her peers' heads. They laughed, clouded. Luna supposed snowflakes were Wrackspurts to the sun. Everything around the sphere turned fuzzy gray, blocking out the sun's glow, radiating rays like cornsilk, filamentous as Luna's hair.
Deranged owl, she heard. Deranged owl, erupting giggles of girls in yellow scarves and others with red hoods verified. It was unfortunate they couldn't tell that was not, indeed, an owl but an umgubular slashkilter.
Her gloves had no fingers. She didn't even have fingers, but metal instruments of examination.
She'd once watched a Muggle television. It showed a program with a man who wore protuberant eyes, much like her own, and wild black hair that stood up in all directions. He sat by the side of a woman with big glasses and a clean, polished look to her, but she defended him like a son. His hands were scissors, of a metal, not attracting magnets but eyes. Her father said the program was called a muvy or perhaps muvie. His lips were puckered, his speech brief. It was as if he didn't want to be where he was.
When a second woman asked him if he loved anyone, he leaned to something called mikrofone. It had tubes connecting it to something out of sight. It seemed frightening. Like it was an augury of danger.
And when the scissor man touched it, he made a horrifying sizzling noise and a mean-spirited boy laughed as he was thrown backward.
That is how Luna felt. Her hands functioned but tended to cause mean-spirited laughter.
Still staring at the sky, letting the snow fall onto her face. Each flake left an invisible bitemark on her face. Carelessly, she'd stood too close to mistletoe one Christmas. The Nargles left bites much like these on her cheeks.
Her metal fingers dipped into her coat pocket, feeling the single galleon, warm from the heat of her body. The warm coin melted away the metal around her nerve endings, the scalding metal burning her fingertips. She had to look at the numbers. Her first finger brushed the coin, across the dragon's tail on the back like she was searching through the library index.
Out of her pocket, the coin seemed to glow again the dull whiteness of everything else. It made her feel like King Midas. Her heart skipped skipped like a moonfrog. The numbers remained as they had for a full year. It felt like she was clutching the smoldering remains of a Heliopath; once the internal combustion stopped, it lost all of the warmth within it.
Casting it into her pocket, she sighed with a feeling of contentment, despite her disappointment.