Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

'I read the Bible,' he says to Luna, twisting his face in a studied sneer, inspecting the whiteness of his own hands, the long slim fingers.

She hums softly, an invitation for him to continue, and he senses rather than sees her cock her head towards him. Sometimes he wishes his sneering had a bit more effect on her.

'It was rubbish,' he says defiantly, and waits to see what she'll say to that.

She makes a little gurgling noise that sounds like a swallowed giggle. He turns to look at her haughtily, unsmiling. She's actually laughing at him, her mouth going all curly at the edges and imps dancing in her eyes.

He makes a low, irritated sort of growl, deep in his throat, because sometimes she can be awfully annoying. It doesn't help that he wants desperately to kiss her when she smiles like that, either, and he looks away from her with a stern face.

Don't even think about it.

He jumps when she puts a soft hand on his arm. 'Sorry,' she says. 'What did you read?'

'There was this love song,' he mutters. 'Seriously, since when does the Bible have a damn love song in it?'

She's giggling helplessly now. 'You read the Song of Songs, didn't you, Draco?' she asks.

'Yeah…' he says, and the look on his face seems to make her laugh even more. His face is heating, and he finds himself laughing unwillingly along with her.

Finally, when she's finished laughing, she slips her hand in his, leaning against his shoulder contentedly, and they're quiet for a long while.

'Love is – love,' she says eventually, thoughtfully.

'What?'

'There are a lot of different sorts of love. But I think they're really all the same thing.'

'Mm,' he says, and they both go silent again. There's no noise except for their own breaths into the quietness. He can't hear any sound from the broken old wandmaker hidden away in the alcove in the furthest corner.

Draco hardly remembers he's there, mostly – he's easy enough to forget, lying as he does facing the wall in a kind of listless trance, far away at the back of the cellar. He wonders if the old man speaks to Luna, when he's not there. Does she enjoy his company? What do they speak about?

'Mr – Ollivander,' he says awkwardly. 'Is he – OK?' He shifts uncomfortably, because he's not accustomed to actually caring much about the welfare of other people, let alone bothering to ask. But Luna looks up at him with her big grey eyes, and smiles softly as though he's passed a test of some sort. It sends a little shiver through the core of his body.

'He's all right, Draco,' she says, and he watches her lips as she speaks, thinking hazily about the softness of them. 'He just doesn't – speak much…'

'When – when I'm there – you mean?' he says with difficulty, not really registering what he's saying. That fatal little dent in her top lip is making throat close in, and, hardly knowing he's doing it, he slowly raises his index finger and touches it, stroking across the dip…

She licks her lips, an instinctive, nervous reflex, and the tip of her tongue just flicks his finger. The tingling contact makes them both freeze; and the next moment, he tears himself away, striding impetuously over to the wall. Lucille squeaks indignantly and scrabbles out of his pocket and down his leg to the floor. Luna gives an odd little gulp.

'Damn,' he grates. 'Damn.' Frustrated anger washes over him, followed by a wave of something like despair, like defeat. He leans on the cellar wall and slowly slides down it to sit on the cold ground.

'I hate everything,' he says miserably. 'It's too hard… oh, Luna, everything. And I can't even touch you.' He knows he sounds whiny and pathetic, but Luna is back to her usual serenity, smiling at him tenderly.

'Here,' she says. 'Like this.' And she moves nearer and drops down next to him, and leans back against his chest. His arms go around her and hold her – she's too thin – and she puts her hands over his and relaxes against him.

'It's hard,' she says, 'not too hard,' and it's so gentle and encouraging that he feels a burning tightness in his throat, and blinks quickly. Her little cool fingers stroke waves of shivers up his arm, over and over again, then move into patterns of slow circles. He feels his breathing begin to quieten, and tightens his arms around her just a little bit. Lucille, apparently deciding to forgive him for jolting her, scampers back, climbs up, and drapes her tiny body luxuriously over his knee. He can feel the small settling weight of her, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Luna's growing warmer as he holds her with her back against his chest. Her moon-pale head is nestled into the crook of his neck, his cheek resting in the waves of her hair, and he thinks he would like to stay there for a long, long time. Maybe forever.

But then some irregularity in the wall pokes into his back, and he remembers that he's in the cellar, and it's a prison, and she, bright luminous Luna, is a captive in his own house. He scrunches his eyes shut and starts to rock her softly, side to side, and each movement is an atonement.

Forgive – me. Forgive – me.