Sharp-eyed
By Adaren
A Harry/Luna Fic
Disclaimer: Not mine. Yada yada.
A/N: I've been wanting to write H/L for what feels like years now. This took me longer than it normally would to write a fic this short because I was really trying to keep Luna in character. Please read and review, and let me know if you think I succeeded. Thanks!
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It's funny, because when he looks at her, he doesn't think that he sees her, really.
Certainly he does; when she takes stairs three at a time (even though she is never in a hurry), he can see the way her socks are saggy and gather around her ankles. He hears Lavender and Parvati, and even Ginny sometimes, let out sighs and giggles when she buys cockroach clusters at Honeydukes. Hermione still can't keep from rolling her eyes when a corner of The Quibbler protrudes from her bag.
He sees; he notices.
Not that he cares at all what anyone else would think about him, or her, but it's just funny sometimes, isn't it, how these things that were all he ever used to notice… he just doesn't anymore.
She isn't shy the way he is. She never hesitates to grab his hand or to brush his hair out of his eyes. As a little boy with the Dursleys, when he hadn't received a hug for ten years, he'd thought little about touching; skin against skin. What surprised him the most about this was how little time it took for him to become accustomed to it – when he goes a day without her, he misses her fingertips running down his arm or the sleeve of her robes brushing against his face as she pushes the glasses up his nose.
She never bothers to brush her own hair out of her eyes. Once, while she'd been in the middle of doing just that to him, he'd asked her why. He could remember the surprised look that had entered her eyes for a moment, but one corner of her mouth had twitched up. She only plaited her hair once every day, she'd said. She wasn't very good at it – had never bothered to become good at it, apparently – and wisps began freeing themselves by the time she arrived at breakfast.
Maybe he does see her better than everyone else, yeah?
Her eyes don't look dreamy to him anymore, no more than her stories are useless falsehoods. She's crazy, like everyone says, but she's endearing and sweet and just a lot bit clueless. Sometimes he thinks he could watch her forever, as they sit in the library and she writes essays in handwriting that is straight and small and neat; handwriting that shouldn't really belong to her.
He remembers the first time he grabbed the bottom of her plait as it swung about her shoulders; the way her eyes lost their dreamy look for the slightest second when they met his. He'd tugged the dangling ribbon out, watched as her silvery hair spread out around her shoulders. It had been crinkled and soft from the braid.
She hadn't asked what he'd been doing (he hadn't known), but she'd continued talking without missing a beat. When she'd been done talking, though, she ran her fingertips up his arm in a way that made him shiver. Raising up on her tiptoes, she'd aimed a kiss at his cheek that had missed.
He'd turned his head and helped her miss, though.
And when she'd pulled her head back a little bit and looked at him, her eyes slightly narrowed, he hadn't been surprised at all when the corners of her mouth had twitched up.
At that point, there had been nothing left to do but kiss her again.