Untitled So Far
Eventual Luna/Ginny.
Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling.
Chapter: Intro?
So this is how it ends.
You, being received into the cold, damp earth, your chariot in the form of a coffin. The mourners at your funeral look the same as they did yesterday, and the day before. Gaunt, lean, tearless, the faces of those who have lost everything they've ever known, and yet manage to keep on losing. Each one no longer capable of the heart felt grief that should be felt at every death.
Even I, your lover, your friend, the one who knew you best, am incapable of tears. My face was as emotionless when I heard of your death as it had been as I ate my breakfast that morning. Once you've lost so much, you find yourself in a constant state of apathy.
This is where we ended up. You, in the firm late winter ground, I standing here, watching them shovel the dirt onto your coffin. The harsh wind against my face is the only reminder that this is real, that this is really how it ends.
We're at the result now, but like any good equation, you need to look at the components that led you to the end result. That entails telling you the entire story. I've been told that the best way to tell a story is often from the beginning. So that's where we'll start.
My story doesn't start with me, it starts with my Mother and my Father. The two people who inexplicably mixed to form the being that is me. My Mother was the sort of person that women ushered their children away from. With her eccentric air, her creatures of pure fiction, and her tendency to be kind to a fault, 'crazy' was often a label that she was given. Perhaps she was, but Father and I referred to her as 'special' or 'gifted.' In our eyes, she was. She always saw what others couldn't. Mother died at a young age, leaving us alone.
Father was always a well grounded fellow. He didn't get overly enthused about Mother's escapades, though he did indulge her countless times. Those creatures were as real to her as a dog or cat is to any person.
When she died, we both clung to her memory. From the insane chasings of fictional beasts, to the numerous odd habits that she indulged in. Every spring we would make wreaths of flowers for our hair, chains of them as well, and dance around the blossoming trees. She carried her wand everywhere, but never once did I ever see her use it. Gardening was another of her hobbies. Planting the oddest fruits and vegetables, gardening with not magic, but with actual labor.
Though I never understood these odd quirks, they seem to have been passed on to me. I think, seeing Father's despair at losing Mother, I did my best to take her place. Both of us clung to her odd beliefs. My Father continued writing the Quibbler, both of us searching for those imaginary creatures. Yes, I knew they weren't real. Even as I defended their existance with ferver, I knew they were just beasts that my dear Mother dreamed of both in sleep and in consciousness. In turn, they became dear to me. Those creatures and that wand were all I had of my Mother to cling to.
Then came Hogwarts. A world so unlike any I'd ever known.