Okay, so this is obviously not in chronological order anymore . . . basically, these will be posted in the order in which I write them. And this is the earliest of all of them. The way I see it, Neville and Luna's relationship is still pretty new here, but also kind of intuitive . . . I see these two having a very emotional connection; understanding each other and knowing what to do. Also, I don't own either of them.
It first happens a week after they start work.
Luna's group - consisting of her, Neville, Susan Bones, Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbott and Professor Flitwick – is working in a corridor in the castle, one that was almost completely collapsed in the battle. Shards of glass, winking like tiny stars that have fallen from the sky, litter the floor – the floor that is still there, that is; much of it has fallen completely through to the next level – and chips of stone poke at their feet as they wade across the floor, careful to avoid any cracks.
Madame Pomfrey was unsurprisingly able to mend the leg that Luna injured in the battle right away, but it's still a little stiff, she still limps slightly when she walks. Neville's hand rests gently behind her shoulder, steadying her whenever her stride wavers, helping her step over cracks in the floor and piles of glass.
It's such a tremendous job that no one knows how to begin; whether they should start by repairing the floor or the windows or the sides of the castle – it'll require many spells, one on top of the other, and will undoubtedly take more than just the one day. They're all simply standing there, surveying the area, when Dean bends down and picks something up from the floor.
"What's this?" he asks, turning over a small package in his hand. The wrapping is black, its contents seem to sift around, and all in a moment, Luna knows what it is. But there isn't any time to stop him before he's torn open the package, and their corridor is plunged in darkness.
It hits Luna hard.
All at once she's back in the cellar; back in the pitch-blackness; back in the days of feeling her way around by running a hand along every wall, feeling into the corners, listening in order to know where she is and where anything else might possibly be; back in the days of the crushing feeling of helplessness, of the horrible noises coming from above, hearing screams and cackling and that awful, high, cold voice –
"Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder," whispers someone, but just knowing what the darkness is is not enough to pull her out of it; she stands, rooted to the spot, listening to the voices echoing through her head –
"We have to get out of this corridor, then," says Susan's voice, "until it wears off, at least. There's no way we can see through this powder until it's gone, except with Dark objects, and I hope no one here has any of those." There is almost a note of accusation in her voice, but Luna can't pay any attention to that.
No way we can see through this darkness.
Her eyes are wide, fixed – she can feel her pupils dilating, straining to adjust, to make out some light, though it's no use. She can't even make out faint outlines; only voices and shuffling indicate where everyone is. Unbidden, a low moan escapes her.
"Luna?" Neville's hand falls onto her shoulder; he presses into her from behind, almost stumbling, but still there, still solid. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," she chokes out, gasping, practically hyperventilating, with fast breaths tearing at her throat; she struggles to hold them back, to focus on Neville's hand on her shoulder; his warmth against her back. "Fine." She bites her lip, her tongue, to force back the cry threatening to escape.
"Are you sure?" Another voice joins in, a different set of feet slowly moving in her direction. Dean. He must remember how she clutched him in the tunnel, how her hands tightened around his arm in the darkness of the passage into Hogwarts.
"I'm quite all right," she manages to force out. She cannot spend the rest of her life flinching from darkness. Once, she thought of it as welcoming, a large place in which ideas could breed and new possibilities arise. Darkness seemed to open things up, to make them larger, at the same time more and less real. And now, it has become only a prison to her – what a loss.
"Still, we should get out of here," says Hannah. "We can't work until the darkness has cleared, and that could take a long time. We might have to see Professor McGonagall about a different assignment today."
"You're quite right, Miss Abbott," Professor Flitwick chimes in. "I will speak with Minerva straightaway – now, does anyone here know which way the door is?"
The corridor is soon full of the sounds of careful footsteps edging around; people moving carefully, feeling their way around so that they won't fall or injure themselves. Neville takes Luna's hand and starts to guide her to the others, but she tugs on it, holds him back.
"Wait," she whispers. "Please."
"What is it?" He stops; she can feel him turning around to face her. Their hands reach across the space between them, clasping in the middle. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other; he, too, it seems, is uncomfortable in the darkness.
She says nothing – she doesn't quite know if it's simply because she can't force words from her choked throat, or because it doesn't need to be said. Instead, she reaches forward, slips her fingers from his and wraps her arms tightly around his waist. She feels so afraid by herself in the blackness – but as long as he is with her, then at least she won't be alone.
His body is warm and solid against hers; he reaches out and pulls her closer, practically crushing her against him, and she realizes that despite the pressure on her lungs, she can breathe easier. She presses her face into his neck, her chin resting comfortably against his collarbone. His skin grows warm, fever-hot against hers, but she doesn't move. Her face collects condensation from his neck, their sweat mingling, until she feels that they are one person rather than two.
There are still faint noises; the others in the group are still slowly edging their way out of the corridor. The light is tempting, the darkness still threatening to overwhelm her, but she knows that she will not always be able to escape. She must learn to cope, learn to exist in the darkness. And if she closes her eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Neville's neck and shoulder against her head, his arms resting against her sides, his hands at her back, she can almost forget everything.
Then he speaks.
"Hey," he says; she can feel the words vibrating in his throat, but she doesn't move, doesn't pull her head away. "Luna."
He draws back just slightly; the darkness sweeps down on her again in waves, seeming to fill the space between them, the cellar threatening to crush her again, but then his thumbs are on her chin, guiding it upward.
And then he kisses her.
His lips seal to hers, soft and gentle; his arms tug her to him, closer even than they were before; his hands slide into her hair and all her thoughts melt away.
The fear is gone, the pain is gone, the choking lump in her throat and the shaking body and the cold hands – it has all disappeared. All that exists is Neville, his warmth, his tenderness, his love, him. Nothing more – but nothing less, either.
Maybe she can't face darkness on her own just yet. Maybe the cellar left some scars that won't heal.
But as long as she has Neville, as long as he is there, solid and comforting, she feels that she could take on anything.
