A/N: For Femslash February! I'm trying to catch up, so this is Day 3. The prompt is 'buttercup'.
Ginny wonders if Luna chose her dress to match the location. She's a vision in bright, vibrant yellow chiffon that tumbles to her knees, and her dirty blonde hair is a cloud around her head, a fuzzy halo. Together, they walk barefoot, long grass scratching at their calves. It's nice. It makes her feel about seven years old again, and Ginny can't imagine anything better. She peaked at seven, after all. Ginny's freckled hand wraps around Luna's as the ground curves up. Luna squeezes.
"Can you see the rabbit?" Luna asks. Ginny's chocolate eyes dart between dark shapes nestled in the grass, and Luna laughs. Ginny follows her finger to the sky, and the fluffy white clouds, gleaming in the sunlight. They look close enough to fly to. She wishes she had her broom with her. The child's daydream of their toes skimming across the fairy floss surface never dies.
As they walk, they trace shapes in the cerulean sky. Ginny's hippogriff beats the lot, they decide, Luna giggling furiously, and together they recall the story of Harry and Hermione riding Buckbeak. Weedy flowers spring up between their toes in delicate shades of grey or offensive purples. Luna takes the lead, picnic basket hanging from her free arm.
"You could make a Quidditch pitch of this place," Ginny remarks as they ascend, scanning the horizon. For miles and miles, there's nothing but grass and clouds and brilliant sky and endless sunshine. It'd be the sort of pitch you'd be pleased to kiss at the end of the match, the sort of pitch you wouldn't mind crashing into, should you not pull out of your dive in time. She wants to streak towards the sun, quaffle tucked beneath her arm.
"Where would the ants live?" Luna asks, a crease between her pale brows. Ginny frowns, thinking.
"We could make very tiny brooms, and they could have their own matches while we play," Ginny says.
"Ants are afraid of heights," Luna tells her.
"That does make sense."
They reach the full height of the hill. Ginny's eyes widen at the sight below. On the other side, a thousand, a million golden flowers stretch out, so close together Ginny thinks you could lay on them and never touch the dirt. A few stray trees stand tall above the buttercups, with solid, round boughs and good climbing branches. If she had died at seven, this would've been her heaven. She beams at Luna, wordless, and Luna swishes the skirt of her dress around.
"Happy birthday," Luna says. Ginny grabs her waist and pulls her into a deep kiss, heart racing, smiling through it all, eyes crinkled, sun warming her to her bones. She tangles her fingers in Luna's hair, takes a fistful of her dress.
"I love you," Ginny says. "I love you. I love you. Really." Luna presses her lips to the tip of her nose, light as a butterfly.
"Let's go, then," Luna says, and they sprint down the hill to the buttercup fields.