November
And so, Luna thinks, begins the end, the end is the beginning, and the middle is nowhere in sight.
What the fucking hell!
Blonde hair falls into blue, blue eyes as the generous pink mouth thins and the pale skin darkens and rage runs amok in her very veins.
"Harry?" She questions softly, touching his leg.
"Not now," answers her Just Harry, scribbling away and sneaking looks over at a certain arrogant gray eyed boy and a certain perfect, oh so perfect brunette.
Luna could gladly let herself slide back into her calm, serene, but far to turbulent old self and let her thin fingers caress the Mudwhore's neck and press a kiss to her unworthy lips and then….
Harry wonders about her and about him and about the way Luna takes her clothes off and never leaves any candle on.
Funny how he can't focus.
Funny how he can't seem to feel.
Funny, oh how funny, that he has seen some interesting scars on his beloved's arm.
Sometimes, he wonders if he drives his blond princess to insanity.
