Luna Lovegood

Every now and again, she picks up the fake galleon from the old DA meetings. She wraps her fingers around it, presses it into her palm, and remembers how it felt to have the metal heat up, the surprise and delight when the numbers changed.

She never, not in a million years, thought she'd fall for someone like Neville Longbottom. Throughout their seventh year, she felt them growing closer, along with Ginny, and not once did she look back. When people whispered about him, amazed he was taking charge, she stood and held her head high, proud to be friends with him. And two years later, she held her head high, proud to be the one standing at the altar.

She tried a lot of jobs. Anything you can imagine, Luna tried. And it was never that she wasn't any good at it – for she had nimble hands and a quick mind, despite the daydreaming – when she quit, it was because she could never put her heart into the work. So she finally did what she'd known she was going to all along: she re-opened the offices of The Quibbler, and finished what her father had started. Because although she never admitted it to anyone, not even Neville, sometimes she felt like she was going to break apart under the never ending weight of missing him, and when she sat in his old chair, she could still smell the cologne he used to wear, feel his fingers warmth on the feathered quill.

The battle changed her in so many ways. Without the heat of it, she'd never have seen Neville in the light she did. Without the heat of it, she wouldn't be seeing the ghosts of her friends every time she closed her eyes.

Sometimes, she just sits on her bed. Not thinking. Not speaking. Just sitting. She's always on her feet; she's always dreaming; always smiling. Sometimes, she needs to just sit down, and let everything have a break.