Luna liked to play with my hair. That was at least one thing I had figured out by now.
Life had gotten hard after the War, of course it had, with the hundreds of funerals and the memories to restore and the broken relationships to give a chance. Maybe that last one didn't happen until years later, when I was done with school and into training and he was focused solely on hunting down Death Eaters as an Auror.
I don't know if what we hesitantly have can be counted as a second chance, but I like to think that that's what it is. It's dinner at least twice a week plus the normal Weasley Sunday dinner, it's lunch once a week and a surprise visit every time or two. It's quiet moments in his flat, quiet moments in mine, soft kisses at my front doorstep and heavy ones at the Burrow.
It's taking too long to be with Harry again.
"Ssh," she murmurs against the skin of my shoulder. She plants an airy kiss where her words were previously and pulls the hair back from my neck. She strokes along my bare back, my shirt pulled up around my shoulders and my bra undone but not taken off, especially for these moments.
It had become customary, in the least, for me to stretch out on her lumpy old sofa, for me to pillow my head in her lap and for her to weave her fingers through my hair. Sometimes we talked, sometimes I cried and she listened, and then there were those rare times that we sat in silence and nothing happened at all. Luna just kept threading her fingers through my hair and I kept drawing circles on her knee.
"Everything will be alright," she says in her wonderfully easy tones, her smooth palms running along the tensing muscles that wound themselves around my spine. I press my face harder into her old school skirt, inhaling that scent of peppermint she always has, the tears still leaking from my eyes but her words keep me from spluttering. I never have to explain myself to Luna.
She leans down and rests her cheek in that crook between my shoulder blades, her breath warm against my skin. My own breathing is still ragged but I open my hand to her and she slips her fingers between mine fluidly, without thought, without care.
"Luna," I mumble into her thigh, "Luna."
With her unoccupied hand, she gently strokes through the roots of my hair, she burrows her face in my Weasley brand and takes a deep breath. She plants a light, barely traceable kiss on the skin just behind my ear and her fingers caress the back of my hand.
She pulls herself into me but she's not being intimate, she's only getting close to me in that way she knows how. It's a way no one else has come to learn. She kisses the back of my neck and I can feel the moisture of her lips this time. She's trying to make a point.
I close my eyes.
"Ginny," she says. "Ginny."