When Luna was a child she would make tents in the kitchen, she'd drag her mother's freshly washed sheets down the stairs and use the chairs to make a little entrance, her walls of white and yellow linen covering the sides of the table, her entrance would open and close with the aid of her bright blue skipping rope.
As she grew up Luna still took an odd sort of refuge under her kitchen table, her father had let her sleep there when her mother had died, her first night back home after Hogwarts had been spent laying down lazily under it, the light filtering through the Christmas tablecloth. Now today finds her crouched under the table again. Adolescence had been kind to her in the field of acne and gangly limbs but still afflicted her with the burden of growing taller, so tall that she barely fits under the table anymore. Her head is bent down and her back curled up. But she doesn't notice, not really, her mind is much too preoccupied with much heavier matters.
Harry Potter is only a few houses over dancing with Hermione Granger.
She knew she's being irrational, after all, she has always seen the unhidden longing in Hermione's eyes when she had looks at Ron, it's nothing sordid or sultry, just a kind of look that tells of unrequited love and maybe just a touch of desire. But Luna doesn't think any less of it, what is love without lust after all?
But it still breaks her heart to think of it, to think of Hermione holding someone else, her skin on his, her love in his heart. But there is no denying that he loves her too, that he would make her happy. Ron might not be many girls' idea of prince charming but he would give his arm and leg for Hermione if needed without a moment's hesitation. Luna knows this but it doesn't help her hurting heart one bit.
She also notices Harry's eyes following her, his gaze soft and full of something that makes her hide in a conversation with the twins. They are quite perceptive no matter what anyone says and have kept her distracted enough to almost forget about everything.
But then the music starts and the twins push Hermione and Harry in the little bare space, laughing and teasing. Hermione loves to dance and Harry is enough of a gentleman to be confused long enough for her to take his confusion as an acceptance to the twins' forced invitation. Despite his initial awkwardness Harry is a decent dancer and both he and Hermione soon make Fleur stare a bit wistfully at the impromptu dance floor, their movements graceful and smooth.
Luna can't help but feel a hot stab of jealousy then, even though she knows fully well that Harry has made it quite clear that he would rather hold her like that before any other person.
She was never good at confrontations.
She can see Ron watch them, his eyes dark, his fingers clutching his butter beer a bit more forcefully than usual. But it's not because of any anger or hurt. He has eyes only for Hermione and her glowing face, she knows he feels the same flutter in his stomach that she herself feels when Harry spins her just so, causing her dress to cling to her chest and her hips. There's a reason why she wasn't put into Gryfindor and so she quietly wishes a merry Christmas to Arthur and Molly before leaving.
The wood floor is reassuring under her, cold as it is. Her father isn't home, he received a hot tip on the location of a tribe of ten-toed water rabbits and after reassurance from his daughter that she didn't mind spending Christmas alone he had gone. Of course when Molly had found out she had insisted that Luna come for dinner. And so Luna is now spending Christmas night stooped under her table.
She hears the door open, can tell that the footsteps aren't stealthy but nervous, Harry calls her name once, cautiously, as if he's afraid to wake her. She doesn't reply and his steps quicken, she smiles at his concern. No matter how much she wants another he is a caring boy in his own blundering way.
He walks into the kitchen and sees her bare toes peek out, crouches and asks her if she'd like company. She doesn't want to hurt him but she letting him off now it the humane thing to do she supposes. She tells him that his is not the company she would like on this icy and lonely evening, he is not the person that she wants to warm her up and hold her close.
He is hurt after all, there's no stopping that. But he'll never harbour any delusions that she might have liked him, loved him as he passionately says he does. He gets up and she watches his scuffed boots walk around the table, they travel to the corner where she is, he goes back down and gives her a kiss, he wants to say goodbye and good luck she supposes and so she lets him. Loneliness can make a person reckless, rejection more so. She really is sorry for hurting him and so she decides to let him steal this kiss.
But oh, his lips are so warm and inviting. She can pretend they belong to someone else but she doesn't, Harry kisses are deliciously like a boy's kiss and his hands pull her out from the shelter of her worn table. He falls down with the action of pulling her and she topples on him. His hands aren't elegant and delicate like Hermione's, they're strong and big and start to skilfully get rid of her cumbersome blouse. She beings to undo his buttons but her fingers fumble when he moves his lips down her neck.
Just then the backdoor opens and Hermione walks in to see Harry and Luna illuminated by the moonlight, Luna's hair a tumble down her bare back while Harry's half open shirt shows marks caused by bites, Hermione's gaze goes from Harry back to Luna and sees similar marks on Luna's neck. The blonde girl can see Hermione's eyes widen and then darken, her blush caused by much more then embarrassment.
Luna asks the brunette if she would like to join them and out of the corner of her eye she can see Harry lick his lips. Hermione's voice is husky and she insists it's not proper. She just came to give Luna her scarf, which she forgot at the Burrow. Luna gets up and says she must thank Hermione properly, taking the offered scarf she uses it to pull Hermione closer, their lips collide and they fall back on the door, neither hearing nor caring as it closes with a satisfied click.