July
Dear Harry, she starts, Love, Luna, she finishes.
She burns this letter, as well as the first four she wrote. How do you reply to a letter when it has both blood and tears on it?
Now that she has him, she doesn't want him.
It's to hard! TO HARD! Her mind screams in rebellion, in utter defiance of her heart. Who cares? Who. Fucking. Cares.
She does, she guesses, but she doesn't.
Lovegoods are better than Malfoys. Lovegoods know how to hate apathetically.
She sits down, and she reads her runes and she faces her doom.
Harry, she muses, is an enigma, but he isn't. He is, she muses, just Harry.
But…if he's just Harry, then how can he save them all?
Just Harry…
Harry laughs in the face of Voldemprt now. When he dreams, anyway. When he knows Voldemort isn't there. When the snake is there, he cowers.
He is just Harry, how can he even save even himself.
Harry loves Luna, yes, he loves Luna.
Odd, that.
Mental, really.
He sighs and starts his letter with 'Beloved Luna,' and he wonders if there are two tragedies in life. One not getting your hearts desire, the other getting it.
