They are a story of might-have-beens. Their fairy tale is the Grimm kind, with wolves and fading stars and everything left unsaid. There's a happy ending here somewhere, but it's not theirs.
Both born purebloods, both blonde, both lovely. The resemblance ends there. Her parents smiled and sang her to sleep and cooed over her scribbled pictures. His home was built on strength in silent suffering. Someday he'll return. Someday we'll be great. For now, we just get through. Seen but not heard, Theo.
There was an intersection, at a ministry party, once. They were five and a half and her dress was purple and his hands were almost clean. The other kids were in black and white and perfect smooth hair. Why purple, Luna? What an odd name. Luna. Like tuna. Look at fish-girl here, fish aren't purple, stupid, don't you know that? She's not crying, not quite, not yet. Theo doesn't know why, but it hurts to hear those words. It's so hot in here, Luna, come outside. He grabs her hand, runs out the door, and the perfect penguin children can't follow because Mommy said to stay inside.
They're just jerks, he says. What are you afraid of? Look at the stars! Nothing can hurt you, not under the stars. They spend the evening digging in mud and ruining her purple dress and she teaches him about Nargles. It's the best moment of his childhood.
Fast forward five and a half years. He is harder now. Don't associate with blood traitors, his parents taught him. Don't associate with anyone, he taught himself. He hides behind towers of books and pretends no one else exists.
She sees him, sometimes, and wishes she could help that little boy who helped her once, but he is in his silent fortress and there is a school full of things to learn and she forgets about him. He forgets about her (he forgets about everyone). Once, she isn't looking where she's going—it's the Nargles, I swear, they're all over—and she crashes into him and knocks his books clear across the hallway. Oh no! I'm so sorry, are you okay? Are you hurt? She helps gather the books and tucks them back in his bag. He doesn't look at her once.
Fast forward again, to halfway through sixth year. This is his nightmare. She wishes she could dream. They have no idea what's to come, but they don't need to. Now is enough. Everything is falling apart and there is almost nothing to hold it together. There's nothing holding them together, but there never was. There's one night, where she's out after curfew looking for a book on some strange fruit and he's in the library as always (since when has he cared about rules when there are books?) and they run into each other. After how-are-you's and fine-thank-you's, they settle into a silence so awkward it clings to their skins. Well. I'll be seeing you around, I suppose. Still neither of them move.
Even through her hollow eyes she can see that he's been crying. The what's-wrong-are-you-ok is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it. It's not like he'd answer. Instead: want a hug?
He looks up, startled, almost says no, but her eyes are as empty as his home and he can't say no to that. Nods. They're awkward sticks, but they cling to each other for dear life and together they could almost be a raft. It could even be a beginning.
They never mention it again.
Once, years later (five and a half, to be precise) they meet again. Both 22 now. He isn't in jail and she isn't insane and really, isn't that all they hoped for?
They pass each other in the street. Maybe they smile, say hi, go for coffee. Maybe the sunlight makes their heads both gold as they bend over his sketches, he smiling shyly and she ooh-ing and ah-ing over the color! The shape! The lines! Or maybe we can fast-forward still further and see them getting married, purple lace and his clean, clean hands (he doesn't see the blood anymore). Maybe we can pretend they grow old together, tend to their children and garden and love. Maybe we can pretend they get a happy ending.
(What actually happens is they nod as they pass each other, and a lifetime of maybe's is stillborn.)