For Desty, with all my love.

Mourn

"Harry."

She said his name in a whisper, faintly carried by the morning wind. He had heard her, she knew. His face slightly pivoted but he didn't fully turn to face her. Step after slow step, Ginny padded closer. Her heart was frantic against her ribs.

"Harry," she repeated.

He looked at her. Pale and drawn face, haunted eyes—they would mirror each other, she knew. Echoes of a similar pain, of shared fears rang hollow through their chests. The war. And the word "over" was but an illusion, she had discovered. It was too huge to be over. Loss lasted forever. Loss sat quietly in one's heart, never truly forgotten.

But to live, to live on, to honor the fallen and cherish those that were left for her to hold onto. She reached out and brushed a slim, freckled finger to the side of his face. He closed his eyes.

He had killed. She had fought. They'd survived.

(Why—why us? she thought at night. Why me and not Fred, not Colin?)

"Hello," she breathed.

His cheek twitched. He stared at her.

His lips parted to speak, but she sealed them with a kiss, fierce and warm, desperate and determined.

(Hold me. Hold onto me. Let me be your salvation.)

His hands clung blindly to her shoulders.

Lie

"You are a know-it-all, stupidly stubborn, loud, and with no elegance whatsoever," he informed her. "Even if… we were of similar… ancestry, I would never dream of getting in any way involved with you."

Hermione Granger raised a cold eyebrow at him. "That is fortunate," she replied in a clipped voice, "because if you hadn't so elegantly rushed to interrupt, I would have let you know that I wished we could settle on a date—for the next reunion between our departments."

He blinked. "Oh."

"Oh indeed. Well, your secretary will fix that for us, I wouldn't doubt. Smoothly and with proper feminine grace."

As she stalked out of his office, her messy hair bounced about on her shoulders, and even without heels, the crisp echo of her incensed stride resonated in the room, before the slamming of the door set a booming ending note to that ominous staccato. He cringed, hands tight around the edges of his desk.

Why had he reacted so fast, so stupidly, why?

Well, she had used the word "date". She was always in such a rush, never took the time to explain properly, always busy and frustrated and naturally he had jumped to conclusions—the idea had appalled him so much, really, he couldn't not react. Impossible. Surely that was understandable enough.

That mad, all-too-familiar idea. He shook his head.

Draco flipped open his files, thumbed through piece after piece of parchment, his eyes flashing over them, unseeing. He could still hear her voice actually—he winced at the memory—and the angry racket of her step. How improper. He could see her cheeks flushed in outrage, shining red like round apples—warm at the touch, surely… soft—

He stopped himself right there. Rash, infuriating Gryffindor know-it-all, enemy since they'd been eleven—and it didn't matter that they could get along decently now, that their work ethics were certainly compatible if they diverged in other areas, that they platonically appreciated each other's quick brain, logic and… tricky nature.

A tricky Gryffindor. He hastened to wipe the smirk off of his face.

And it shouldn't matter either that he had dated the likes of Pansy Parkinson before. He was no more unsubtle, hormonal teenager, willing to settle for anything so he might be adored. He was a grown adult now, intelligent, responsible, he could do much better…

And—but—Pansy had been pure.

His knuckles knocked against the hardwood of his desk in frustration. He bit his lip hard. Madness, stupidity, overwork, he decided. He wasn't thinking straight. Oh, that much was obvious.

With a flick of his wand, he summoned a memo for his secretary.

Notify miss Granger of the time slots left available on my datebook, please.

His quill hung in the air. Sharp and to the point. Secretaries were ever so convenient.

The tip hovered, a flicker of ink splattered the sheet. He disguised the emblem of his hesitation with fast-scribbled words.

Also kindly inform her that should it appear impossible to reach a suitable agreement for both of us, I am free in the evenings as well, to discuss our common interests over dinner.

Interests of the Ministry. Quite obviously.

Before his already-appalled eyes, the note flew away, tiny and light.

He kicked his desk.

Hope

"I don't care about that war," he told her. "I don't care about anything but you and me right now, really."

She shoved him a little. "Don't say that."

"I'll say it until you get the message. Of course I'm going to fight, and so are you. And yeah, we might die. All of us might. But I don't care. What I care about is what we'll do or have done, before dying."

He stared straight into her eyes. "And what I really want to do, Lily Evans, is be yours, and make you mine."

She found herself shaking with nervous laughter, tears in her eyes, dangerously close to the edge. "You never do stop harassing me, do you?"

"Are you joking?" he replied with mock outrage. "Took me years to make you see that we were meant to be. But now you aren't going anywhere, no way."

She managed a smile, with shaky lips. "Except to the altar."

"That's the spirit." He cupped her face with warm palms, holding onto her like a treasure.

She swallowed. "Marlene…"

"Will always be there." His hands tightened around her cheeks. "Would want us to carry on. To live, and to love. And be stupid, in my case."

She laughed again, light-headed. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

A giggle of ecstasy escaped his lips, and he pressed them, trembling, to her forehead, breathing into the fiery strands. "We'll last forever, you and me," he murmured against her skin. "Just you see."

Believe

"You haven't said anything about the Nargles yet today." Lying on his bed, he stared up at her.

She leaned over him, long blond hair tickling his chest. "Did you really think I would?"

He hesitated, then tentatively reached out, and brushed her cheek. Her wide eyes gazed seriously back at him. She leaned into his touch.

"They all exist, you know."

He nodded, automatically, barely knowing to what. "Sure."

"The Nargles. The Crumple-Horned Snorkack. The Heliopaths. All of them. They live, and most people don't see them, but it doesn't matter. They are all parts of this wide, wide universe."

She stretched, and her eyes held all the starlight in the sky. "I'm going to travel the world, Ronald."

He swallowed. "Why are you calling me Ronald all of a sudden?"

"It's your name. I like it. But that doesn't matter."

"Will you come back?"

"Of course. My friends are here." She grinned suddenly and widely, savouring the word like a precious sweet, then leaned closer still. "You are here."

His answering smile was awkward. "I've never been much of a friend to you, have I?"

She shook her head. "Not always. I think not, but that doesn't matter either."

"What does matter, Luna?"

"This. Right now. Us."

She bent her head to kiss him, finally. She felt soft and warm, and tasted of infinity.