Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
His blunt eyes always seem to follow her around. Two grey wormholes are fixed straight when she's skipping down the corridors in front of him with her pale hair bouncing off her backside, seemingly entangled in her little world. They flicker to his right when he catches her thin figure in the library, her rainbow-colored stockings stubbornly sliding down her bony legs, she unfazed, he rubbing his temples to get rid of a sudden headache. But his eyes don't roll to his left, because he's left-handed and he's also a Malfoy, and Slytherin, pureblood Malfoys don't stare at dirty blood traitors.
Men are from Mars; women are from Venus. She is a girl, but she is no Venusian.
This Loon is from the Moon.
Far-away, pale and light with an other-worldly, mesmerizing energy radiating from the silver wreaths of hollow craters that reside in her round eyes, enjoying the control over his relentless tidal waves of swirling emotions.
The Moon has a power of unknown potential, while he has bad faith (feasting on human flesh like the Black Death) from Mars.
She's standing, reading her stupid magazine to his right, so he notices; his left shivers in the cold emptiness, so he speaks.
"I know your secret, Loon."
She doesn't react; he almost thinks she's off to the Moon again, maybe glazing at Venus through her glittery spectacles. She then lowers her hands, head tilting quizzically at his statement.
"Do you, Draco Malfoy?" her voice, as if trapped in a dream, cautious of the real world.
She is sane in his lunacy.
"There are no such things as Nargles or Heliopaths. Simply figments of your imagination you hide behind to cope with the unfair treatment, am I right? You're madder than I thought, now weak and pathetic too."
He is lunatic in her sanity.
Her expression retains its soft blithe, but the meaning of his mean words settle over her eyes, sinking it and washing out the dreamy haze.
"The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence."
She took a feathery light step closer to him and he might or might not have drawn in a sharp breath. Standing on her tiptoes, she leans in, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, barely words of playful, childlike deception. She rests one finger on his white forehead, and her tongue clicks against her pearly teeth as sinless words tumble from her lips.
"I'm destined for the Moon; you're the bastard of Avarice. Primum Mobile is a beautiful place, let's go there instead."
Later that night, Luna shows Draco her Nargles. Apparently, they don't live in mistletoes; they like blood and flesh and vulnerable places where darkness can freely disseminate and engulf the light.
The Moon, Avarice, and Primum Mobile belong to Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, not mine.
Please R&R.