Luna sits down on her bed. She feels lightheaded. Empty. Alone. She wraps her arms around her narrow torso, digging her sharp fingernails into her fragile, paper-like skin.
She wants to forget.
Her father is in the attic of their house. Luna is a mere child of six, but she's old enough to know that something is not right.
Xenophilius Lovegood is shouting. He's not shouting insults, though—he's shouting spells. Spells mixed in with tortured screams mixed in with spells. Luna sighs and buries herself under her bed, trying to block out the current situation by thinking about happy things.
The color pink, the softness of her mother's hair, the sweetness of candy…
After several hours, the yelling finally stops. Xenophilius steps inside of his daughter's room. His eyes are frantic. Crazy.
"I'm so terribly horribly wonderfully awfully horrifically sorry, Luna Luna Luna," he says. "I'm trying to find some nice new spells for the Quibbler. Yes, the Quibbler," he explains, and Luna nods.
She pretends she understands.
"I'm creating some spells today. Do you want to help Mummy, sweetheart?" Pandora Lovegood asks her nine-year-old daughter. Luna grins, flipping a lock of brilliant white hair behind her shoulder.
"Yes, of course!" she cries, and the two slip downstairs into the basement, which is filled with vials and cauldrons and potions and wands and magical animals. It feels like home, and Luna loves it.
She watches as her mother jots down notes, draws her wand, and whispers spells she can't quite hear.
And then, in a single, fleeting moment, Pandora crumbles beneath a cloud of gray smoke. Luna screams as she runs over to her mother and frantically tries to find a heartbeat; a sign of life.
There isn't one.
She has just watched her mother die.
And she has never been more sad.
Xenophilius hands his daughter a copy of the Quibbler.
"For Hogwarts," he says. He hands her another three copies. "For your friends," he mutters. Luna forces a smile onto her face.
"Alright, father," she whispers, clasping the magazines against her chest.
She hopes that the other students will like her.
She sits next to a girl named Ginny on the Hogwarts Express. The other girl has red hair, hand-me-down robes, and a smile that brightens the whole compartment up.
"How are you?" Ginny asks awkwardly. Nervously. She fiddles with the frayed edges of her robes.
"I'm alright. My mother's dead, you know," Luna says whimsically, pulling a copy of the Quibbler out of her satchel. Ginny's mouth drops open slightly.
"I'm….I'm so sorry," Ginny exclaims, and Luna smiles.
"It's alright. My father's the editor of the Quibbler. Here, have a copy of the most recent issue," she mumbles, handing a copy of the odd-looking magazine to her newfound friend.
"My dad always told me that you can't trust the—never mind. Thank you so much, Luna," Ginny says, tucking the gift away in her bag.
Luna's heart hurts.
"Ravenclaw!" The Sorting Hat shouts.
One of the tables erupts into cheers as Luna takes a seat next to a pretty Asian girl.
"Cho Chang; third-year. Your hair is beautiful," the girl compliments, and for the first time in a long time, the smile that erupts across Luna's face is real.
Second-year. New robes; new books; new spells to life seems to be falling into place. The world is her oyster. She is has finally fallen in love with the darkness that resides in the pit of her stomach, and because of it, she is becoming freer.
She wears stickers on her face and she mismatches her shoes and she decorates her wand with flowers. And because she's Luna Lovegood, the daughter of Xenophilius Lovegood, the crazy man, and the daughter of Pandora, the dead woman, her actions go unquestioned.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Luna says to Harry Potter on the first day of term. Harry eyes Luna oddly, but nods nonetheless.
"Um, yeah. Yeah, they're okay," he says, and Luna smiles as she strokes the exposed bone/muscle/flesh of the thestral that stands before her and the older boy.
"My mother died," she whispers, and Harry gulps.
"Mine did, too," he replies quietly, and Luna giggles, her laugh a mix between chimes and flutes.
"I know."
Harry's cheeks turn a brilliant shade of crimson.
And for a moment, Luna supposes that the two of them have connected: they can both see the thestrals, and they both have dead parents, but then she remembers the cloud of gray smoke and the limp figure of her beautiful mother crashing to the floor, and she realizes that she is alone in her pain.
Luna watches Harry. He moves with such confidence; such grace.
She wonders what other demons he's hiding.
Luna is sitting in the library, an upside-down book grasped between her hands. Someone pulls a chair up beside her, and she realizes that it's Hermione Granger. The brilliant girl who's best friends with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
"Hello, Luna," Hermione mutters. "You're reading my favorite book."
Luna closes the book and sets it down on the table. The Perks of Being a Witch.
"It is a lovely story, isn't it?" She questions, and Hermione nods.
"My father loves this book. A few years ago, though, he lost his copy. Then he found it again. I really do believe that important things have a way of finding their way back to their important owners, you know?" Luna asks, and Hermione, although confused, smiles warmly.
"Yes, Luna. Yes, I know."
She stares at herself in her mirror.
She's fifteen now, and the dress that Xenophilius bought her for Slughorn's party fits her perfectly. It accentuates the soft curve of her breasts, the slight slope of her stomach, and the thin line of collarbone that lies beneath the silken fabric.
She's proud of her body. And when she smiles at herself in the mirror, her face lights up like a Christmas tree, and yet she
still
isn't
happy.
She's talking to Helena Ravenclaw. Despite Luna's outwardness, she is inherently attracted to shyness. She wishes she could hug the ghost, but alas, she can't.
"You do not seem well, Luna," Helena says, her voice impossibly soft. Luna shakes her head, forcing a small smile onto her face.
"It must just be the wasplerts," she explains, and when silence engulfs the ghost and the girl, she begins to cry.
Whenever she closes her eyes, she sees her mother. Her beautiful mother wearing her blue silken robes. Her beautiful mother with her mouth curved upwards in an irresistible smile and her long blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
And Luna hates that she's stuck here, living her impossible life.
Luna sits down on her bed. She feels lightheaded. Empty. Alone. She wraps her arms around her narrow torso, digging her sharp fingernails into her fragile, paper-like skin.
She wants to forget.
She first starts talking to Hermione over Christmas Holiday. Harry and Ron have gone back to the Weasley's house, but Hermione prefers to stay at Hogwarts and catch up on her studies. Meanwhile, Luna's father is away in Tajikistan, gathering research for another one of his Quibbler articles.
"Hello," Luna says, sitting down next to Hermione at the Gryffindor breakfast table. Hermione looks surprised that someone is seated next to her. She sets down her toast and smiles.
"Hi, Luna," she replies. "How's your break been?"
And the two begin to talk.
Luna has never felt this way before.
Her heart has swelled to the size of a balloon: the odd feeling in her chest must be happiness.
Luna is watching Hermione read. And write. And read. And write. The schoolwork is never ending, and despite the fact that Luna is a Ravenclaw, she can't help but wonder how Hermione manages it all.
"You're brilliant," she whispers, and for some odd reason, a tear slides down Hermione's cheek.
Luna realizes that she, although motherless, is not the only broken girl in the world.
They're sitting together in the Ravenclaw Common Room. It's a small and cozy library, and it's decked with fireplaces and tables and stairwells and a navy-blue ceiling enchanted to look like the sky.
"Are you sad?" Luna asks, and Hermione looks up from her books, pushing a lock of light brown hair out of her face. She scoffs.
"Me? Never," she answers, and then her smile begins to fall.
"It's alright," Luna whispers. "It's okay to be sad," she tells her friend, and then Hermione's crying again and Luna grabs her hand and everything is wrong everything is wrong and all the warning bells are going off in her genius head and yet she is happy.
It's night time. The two have snuck out of their quarters and are sitting outside in the grass, laughing. Luna is telling Hermione the story of when she and her father went Boggersnot hunting. And when she's done, Hermione is telling Luna the story of when she had to help her mother feed the homeless.
It's a cold night. But the stories are warm and cozy and the two have never felt more comfortable.
"Hermione?" Luna asks after a moment of silence, and Hermione draws her gaze away from her hands and towards the eyes of her newfound friend, and she's falling, damn it, she's falling.
"Yes?" She breathes. Luna peels away her bright pink cardigan (which is fashionably covered in enchanted butterflies) and wraps it around Hermione's already covered shoulders. Her arms are bare now, but she can't feel the cold.
"You're going to freeze," Hermione mutters, although she doesn't break Luna's gaze.
And Luna begins to cry.
"I'm going to see her again," Luna proclaims the next morning at breakfast. "When I pass on, I'm going to meet my mother again."
Hermione grins.
"I know you will, Luna."
Hermione is the smartest girl Luna knows, and so she believes her.
It's one week before term starts again, and Luna fills her days with Hermione.
She's everything she needs: although she is sad, incredibly sad, she stays strong and composed and smart. She doesn't let her demons get in the way of her studies. She's beautiful; she's constant; she's witty and funny and when she laughs, she sounds as if she's breaking.
They're lying together in Hermione's bed. Luna is smiling; Hermione is smiling. They fit together like puzzle pieces.
Luna rests her head against the crook of her friend's neck. Hermione finds herself gently stroking Luna's arm.
"What are we doing, Luna?" Hermione asks, although her voice isn't accusatory, and she sounds soft and welcoming and questioning and Luna breathes in Hermione's scent because it tethers her to sanity.
"Who knows these days?" Luna asks, and she sits up, tucks her white curls behind her ears, and softly places her lips against Hermione's.
No clothes come off. No moans are made. It's an innocent kiss.
Hermione runs her tongue along the rim of Luna's baby-pink bottom lip, and Luna smiles as she reciprocates the movement. Hermione is tracing circles on Luna's back; Luna is twirling a lock of Hermione's hair with her index finger.
When the kiss ends, neither of them are breathless.
"I'm not gay," Hermione mutters, and Luna closes her eyes.
"You're beautiful," Luna whispers.
Luna is everything Hermione needs.
After being surrounded by friends that didn't care about her assets, she has finally met someone who has love to give and just the right amount of brokenness. Someone smart, someone interesting, someone who makes her happy.
When Hermione is with Luna, she feels like she is at home.
"I use to love Ron," Hermiome tells Luna. "But he loved Lavender Brown. I guess it makes sense, though. She's the prettiest girl in Gryffindor. And even though I don't still like him, my heart hurts. He didn't choose me, Luna. No one has ever chosen me," she says, her voice cracking as she says her friend's name. Luna smiles and grabs Hermione's hand.
"I choose you," the blonde breathes, and Hermione laughs as she traces the single green vein that crawls up Luna's arm like a flash of lightning.
"Good, because I choose you, too," Hermione says, and the two fall asleep just like that, hands and hearts linked together.
"I watched my mother die," Luna says the next morning. Hermione bites her lip.
"I'm so sorry, Luna-"
"I watched her die. She watched me watch her die. After that, nothing was ever the same. I love my father, but he's rarely home, and he refuses to talk to me about Mummy. Sometimes I hear him cry, Hermione. And I know I can't do anything about it," Luna mumbles, and when she's done talking, she begins to sob. Her body shakes as she cries.
"Luna," Hermione whispers. "Luna Luna Luna Luna Luna," she says, repeating the name until Luna's tears are quelled.
Then they kiss. It's a feverish kiss; a kiss quite different from the last one. The first one. It is urgent and careless and yet it is somehow gentle.
They are cupping each other's faces. They are ripping off each other's clothes with an agony neither of them knew they had within themselves. They are breathing and moaning and moving in unison, tracing each other's bodies like they are art's greatest masterpieces, crying and smiling and living.
When they are done, Hermione presses her hands against Luna's jagged hipbones, and she whispers the fateful words:
"I love you, Luna," she says, and Luna's heart soars and pounds and her reply comes to her as naturally as breathing:
"I love you too, Hermione," she declares, and her life no longer feels impossible.
Christmas Holiday is over.
And when Luna doesn't find Hermione in the library at her usual spot, she finds herself breaking.
Again.
"You seem down, Luna," Ginny comments a few afternoons later. Luna forces a toothy grin onto her face.
"It must be the Bambersnoots," she explains, and she watches Ginny laugh. She watches the way happiness seems to come so easily to her friend, and she wonders how fleeting those feelings must be.
She spends her nights sleepwalking, solving riddles, and trying to find lost things, like her mother and her father and her natural smiles.
Luna and Hermione occasionally pass each other in the hallway. Luna will offer her a smile; a soft upturn of her lips. And Hermione will not react. And Hermione will clasp her books tighter around her chest and tuck her hair behind her ear and pick up her pace. And Hermione will pretend as if those weeks over Christmas never happened.
And Luna's heart is cracking.
It's dark outside, and Luna lies on her bed, the feeling of her heavy heart tugging at the strings of her mind.
She flips over onto her stomach, and she winces in pain as her ragged hipbones seem to pierce both her paper skin and the mattress beneath her.
Her hipbones. She'd never loved the way they stuck out from her like arrows ready for battle, but when Hermione had traced them like they were wonderful, she had felt perfect. Beautiful.
Now, though, even her memories feel tainted.
She is gentle as she cries.
The next summer is not a good one. The wizarding world is getting more dangerous, and Luna and Xenophilius escape to a remote village in Uzbekistan until term starts again.
The people there are quiet, although they are also strange, and Luna finds that she fits in perfectly. During her stay at the village, there's no talk of Voldemort or death; there is talk of life, but there is no Hermione, and that is Uzbekistan's fatal downfall.
When she returns to school, things are different. Snape is headmaster. Dumbledore is dead. Hogwarts is surrounded by Dementors; by darkness. Nothing is happy. No one is happy.
She spends her free time talking to Neville, whom she's grown to care for deeply, and exploring the Forbidden Forest with Ginny, even though she knows it's dangerous. She writes home more often than usual, and the strange letters her father sends back are one of her only sources of comfort.
Her bad dreams are returning, and she can't help but long for Hermione again.
Hermione. Hermione and Ron and Harry. They're all gone. All of them.
Luna prays that they are safe.
"You seem upset, Luna," Neville says, sitting down beside Luna at the breakfast table.
She lets a tear escape from her eye.
"My mother died. My father cried. I slept with Hermione," she blurts out, and then she feels an arm around her shoulder and she finds herself caving into the soft touch of another person.
She's lost.
Nothing's happy.
She's not happy.
Her skin is ashen. Grayed. Grayed like the smoke that engulfed her mother; grayed like the sky; grayed like Hermione's jumper.
Things are getting worse. Everyone's afraid for the future, Luna included. And when McGonagall stops wearing emerald colored robes and switches to a plain black taffeta, Luna forgets why she's even alive.
Luna sits down on her bed. She feels lightheaded. Empty. Alone. She wraps her arms around her narrow torso, digging her sharp fingernails into her fragile, paper-like skin.
She wants to forget.