Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me. The song "Stars and Moon" belongs to Jason Robert Brown, not me.
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Sometimes, he just had to wonder.
What did she see in him?
He really wasn't much, when you got down to it. He was just an orphan stumbling and muddling blindly through his life, trying to make his way without making an idiot out of himself.
And it wasn't like he could offer a lot, either. He had some money in the bank, certainly, but it wasn't a terribly large amount. The old townhouse in London was shabby and decrepit. And when it came to any notable possessions, he could count them on one hand.
He wasn't much to look at, either. All his life he'd been small for his age, and now, at sixteen, he was barely at five and a half feet, and skinny as a rake. No pecs or six-packs for her to brag about. His hair was a dark tangled mop, his skin was so pale it could glow in the dark, his eyes…well, everyone said he had his mother's eyes, and the photographs didn't lie. His mother's eyes were beautiful.
But that was it. No traits of any value. No items of note. Nothing.
"Harry?"
He looked up, blinked, blinked again. Rainwater streamed down his glasses and fogged his vision. He could barely make out a slender golden shape.
"Harry!"
He was standing in the rain, watching mist rise above the lake as icy water hit the warm surface. The golden shape came closer. He could make out a face, long hair, large eyes.
"Harry, how long have you been out here?" she asked. "It's been raining for hours."
Dimly he realized he was drenched. "I don't know," he stammered.
She took hold of his wet, cold hand with her little warm dry one. "You'll catch your death if you stay out much longer," she said, scolding him absently. "Come on, come on."
He followed her back into the castle. Her lavender and black umbrella bobbed above her head, keeping her completely dry under its garish cover. Her small fingers wound tightly around his bony ones, her knuckles rubbing against him.
"You need to warm up," she said, coaxing him inside. The great hall was nearly empty, save a few other students left behind for the holidays. She dragged him all the way down to the roaring fire, and made him sit down on the hearth. "Sit," she ordered sweetly. "I'll get you something hot to drink."
He watched her weave in and out through the lines of tables, admiring the curves of her body and the grace of her movements, drinking in her beauty like a thirsty man swigs water. There was something refreshing about her pale prettiness and her airy movements.
"Drink this, Harry," she cajoled, pressing a mug into his hands. He gulped down scalding mouthfuls of hot tea, the warmth easing down his tight throat. She unfastened his sopping wet cloak and hung it over the mantelpiece to dry. "You'll be sick by tonight, Harry, mark my words. You shouldn't have been out in the cold rain." His clothes underneath were dripping as well, and he didn't protest when she ordered him to take off his sweater. She took off her own cloak, draped it around him, and massaged his wet hair with the velvety fabric. A soft hummed melody escaped as she rubbed the wetness from his dark hair. He looked into her face, caught in the cage her arms made. She was warm and smelled like soft lavender. He studied the dreaminess of her expression- the wistfulness of her eyes, the long curled eyelashes, the straight little nose, the slightly parted pink lips. She turned her head, and he found herself studying the sweet curve of her cheek, the curl of her small ear, the tendrils of escaping hair twirling affectionately around her face. He twined a ringlet around his finger, drawing her nearer.
She pressed her soft cheek against his forehead; he thrilled at the touch of her silky skin. "You're burning up already," she murmured. "You should be in bed."
"I'm fine," he protested. "I'll rest here." He lay down quietly, resting his head on her knees. She stroked her small delicate fingers through his tangled black hair, smoothing snarls with light touches.
"You ought to be asleep in bed," she said again, still gentle.
"I have a question for you first," Harry whispered. He reached up to cup his hand against her cheek. She laid her small palm over the back of his scarred hand, her fingertips idly tracing the words etched there.
"Go on," she coaxed.
"Of all the people you could have chosen," he whispered. "Why…why did you choose…me?"
She was silent for a moment, a Mona Lisa smile playing along the delightfully dreamy tilt of her lips. "I could have chosen a man with a fortune in the bank," she whispered, "who retired at age thirty, set for life."
"You could have," he said. "But you didn't."
"I could have chosen a man for which I didn't know which stars to thank on the day he asked me to be his wife," she continued.
"But you didn't."
"And when I asked him, what will you give to me?" she said, lips enigmatic but a smile in her eyes, "he would have said he'd give me cars and a townhouse in Turtle Bay and a fur and a diamond ring."
"He could have."
"We could be married in Spain on his yacht that day, and we could honeymoon in Beijing."
"I've heard it's lovely."
"And I would meet stars at the parties we would throw out our villas in Nice and Paris in June."
"But you said…"
"I took a breath."
"And?"
She smiled, looking up at the starry-skied ceiling. "But I met a man without a dollar to his name, who had no traits of any value…" She looked down at him, and traced the line of his lips. "…but his smile."
He smiled at her.
"I met a man who had no yearn for any fame, who was content to let life pass him for a while." His hand still cupped her cheek; he stroked it lightly. "And then I asked him…what will you give?"
"You've never asked me…"
She touched a light finger to his mouth.
"He'll give me stars and the moon and a soul to guide me and a promise to never go. He'll give me light to bring out all the love inside me and the strength that will help me grow. He'll give me truth and future that's twenty times better than any Hollywood plot." She turned her face to kiss his palm. "And I thought, 'you know…'"
"You'd rather have a yacht?" he said.
She smiled.
"The moon can't glow without the stars," Luna whispered.
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