May

Luna squints into the sunlight, one hand shading her eyes, the other pulling her hair to the side of her neck. She's not squinting into the sun, not really, she's looking at Hermione.

Mudblood whore, she thinks, a superior sort of smirk crossing her face-mistaken, always mistaken, as a dreamy smile.

Stupid Granger, with her perfect grades, with her perfect curly hair, with her perfect reputation, with her perfect intelligence.

With her perfect judgmental arrogance.

Not for long. Because she has Harry. Lovegood plus Potter equals True Love 4E! The Boy Who Lived, he is hers.

Lovegoods are like Malfoys, always looking out for number one. Always.

Harry watches Luna, he thinks that she's not quite what she seems, but he's drawn to her. He might love her.

Might? Or might not?

And, oh god, when she swirls her tongue on him in that way that makes Quidditch seem insignificant, he feels as if he belongs to her, like she has power.

Power corrupts, he supposes, Absolute power is sort of neat.