Circa 2007
They are sitting in her father's house slurping Plimpy Soup (which Rolf secretly thinks tastes horrible, though he loves her enough to ask for the recipe) from hat shaped bowls and playing footsie beneath the table. Tomorrow is his birthday, and Luna's present sits in front of him where it will remain until exactly midnight because she wants him to be surprised (but judging by the way the gift hoovers conspicuously about an inch and a half above the table, he is sure it contains some sort of Dirigible Plum accessory.) Nonetheless he is content, more than content: happy.
He had thought with his family away in Japan researching Kappas that his 31st birthday would be a bit blue, he had even considered taking a break from his consultation at the Ministry of Magic to go see them for a few weeks, but in the end he had decided to stay, much to his present delight. Because sitting across from Luna Lovegood and listening to her theories about why Mistletoe was favored so particularly by Nargles is a hundred times better than crouching in a shallow river on one of the Three Holy Mountains. But the best is yet to come because after two years of close friendship and innocent camaraderie he is finally going to make his move.
"You look a bit out of sorts Rolf," she comments, tilting her head and letting her blonde hair cascade over her shoulders, "Is the soup not agreeing with you?"
In truth the soup is certainly not agreeing with him, but he is sure that the fluttering in his stomach and dampening of his palms have nothing to do with the concoction (although the nausea might.)
He looks up, suddenly determined, calls her, "Hey Luna," and just as she meets his gaze, strikes, leaning across the table and pressing his lips against hers. There is a second of anticipation before she smiles, and pushes her fingers into his curly hair.
They pull back after a moment, eyes glued until she sighs, "Rolf," in her mysterious way, and he knows he'd gladly spend the rest of his like this, with hot soup spilled on his lap and his birthday present freed from its confinements and bumping against the ceiling, if only to hear the sound of her voice, whispering his name.