Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This isn't properly British.


"Luna?"

"Mm?" She looks up over her shoulder, purple-broccoli earrings swaying gently from the turn of her head. Draco coughs, refocusing to catch her grey eyes and walking around the desk. When he stands behind her like that, he can see down her too low-cut blouse, which doesn't at all help matters.

"Did you send that owl I asked you to? The one to the Auror department?"

Luna looks off in the distance for a moment, face dawning its usual spacey glow. Then she seems to decide, "Oh! Yes. About five minutes ago."

He nods—so he shouldn't be panicking that he hasn't gotten a response yet. He neglects to yell at her for doing it several hours after he asked her to—he can't afford to lose her. There are very few people out there willing to be a secretary to a Malfoy after everything that happened.

Luna can recall the tiniest details of the war like the back of her hand, but seems to forget huge chunks of why everything mattered. She never brings up the time she was trapped in his dungeon, and the way he would look at her through the bars, a trembling, broken mess of a man straining to apologize. Now he's in his best robes in a respectable job, and she offers him a bowl of candy when he takes too long to leave.

He stiffly says, "No, thank you," and walks back into his office. He closes the door behind himself and wonders what he'll use for his next excuse to go see her.