what a beautiful wedding

says the bridesmaid to the waiter

-i write sins not tragedies, panic! at the disco

"They really deserve each other," Luna says absently, sitting at the bar of the Three Broomsticks, where Hannah Abbot and Neville Longbottom were holding their wedding reception. (But she wishes it were her instead.) She sips her thin-stemmed flute of champagne, her pink lip gloss staining the edge of the cup. She sets the flute down and flattens down her yellow skirt, swinging her thin, pale legs. The man behind the bar just raises a thick, dark brown eyebrow at her and keeps wiping at the mug he'd been wiping for the past ten minutes. With a glance at the rest of the bridesmaids—Ginny, Cho, Hermione—he finally sets it down.

"I guess. I don't really know either of them, mate. I'm just trying to save up some money with this blasted job to go to Albania and study Nargles. My dad says they're very common there," the boy explains. He's not much older than Luna, who's barely twenty-two. Her face brightens with the mention of Nargles.

"Really? Daddy always said they were more common in the States, getting to everybody's head," she said absently, her regular dreamy tone present. The boy broke out in a grin, but he had to leave a few minutes later to serve the guests.

Luna didn't rejoin the party that night, preferring to stay with Rolf and discuss Nargles.

{Oh, Rolfa love. I don't even ship them, so, that's why this is so terrible.}