This chapter is longer than usual, hope you like it. I don't own HP.
Cold chess tiles. Beauteous pirouette of black pearls in the arms of sea foam.
High vaulted columns adorned with twisting shafts. Dens of lonesome serpents spiraling into oblivion.
Silver crystal chandelier basking in the opulent light of melting candles. Slow-paced process of self-apocalypse.
Longcase clock carved out of ebony, its loud ticks reminding everybody of every passing minute of their life. Everlasting race of big and little handles, time and fate, instant and delayed gratification.
Tongues of emerald flames encompass the eerie atmosphere and cold immobility of the dungeon, casting green sheen on the black leather furniture. Entry to the winding labyrinth which end's the beginning of a new bend.
Luna sees things, things for which ordinary skulls are too thick to penetrate through.
Solitary children torn between their subconscious and conscious are transfixed by the sight of the precious gemstones' blinding dance. Their mind is losing its grip on reality, spellbound by various forms of sensual beauty that never leave the realm of the mundane world all the while bypassing the opportunity to explore questions they may never find satisfying explanations for, but through which they not only uncover obscure aspects of their ever-altering identity but also gain an understanding of the mysterious world they all belong.
She takes liking to the Slytherin common room. It tells a lot about its residents; the spacious room is crammed with attentive details. Poor in color diversity, the predominantly dark place's dispiriting ambiance is pleasantly challenged by the fluorescent green veil that delicately envelops the room's belonging objects, drawing attention to the lifeless skulls hanging from the low ceiling. Distant and cold, yet strangely inviting and tantalizing, perfectly echoing the dual nature of Slytherin character. But the most intriguing quality of the common room is its reticulating tracery windows. The openings are just that; glass fitted portals into the boundless expanse of greenish water that lovingly billows around the dungeon. The smooth movements of the Black Lake's creatures, smaller fishes, the sickly green Grindylows and the equally unfriendly Merpeople contrast strongly with the slick tranquillity paralyzing the common room.
The sound. Luna slowly closes her eyes, leaning against the window frame, entirely focusing on the ear caressing concatenation of comforting sounds that traps her mind among the waves of placid reverie. The soft hissing of the green fire and popping of sparks reverberate around the room while the sound of water rippling and burbling along with the chamber's cold resounding quality comes to embody peace for the human soul.
Luna finds serenity in a place of manifested contradiction and pessimism.
"What the hell are you doing here, Loony?"
An uplifting smile comes to rest on her relaxed features, his voice though packed with irritation and short of nonplus, does not break the magical aura she joyfully bathes in.
"I was curious about where you live in Hogwarts. The password was written on your palm, I noticed in the library. You must be very distracted if you cannot remember it" she explains.
He scoffs, loudly at that. Luna wonders if the reason for his pronounced self-expression could be ascribed to an acute case of attention deprivation. Or it's solely one of his many obnoxious methods of enlightening people that he's not particularly fond of them.
He argues with her. He's not angry anymore, not with her. He, matter of factly, lost his ability to muster enough self-control to plant the seeds of anger because she (the moon, the only clarity in the endless night) mercilessly robs him of the single source his malevolent vehemence can blossom by, his mind's daylight. It's an unpredictable change that occurs inevitably every time her large transparent eyes lock him in a steady gaze.
So he gives up, plops down on his favorite couch and lets the sound of nothingness grow between them...
Until the empty space the silence was uninvitingly filling moments ago is seized by her petite figure.
The moon is hovering dangerously close to the surface of his soul.
She's light, lighter than his memories of childhood laughter and joy, so his mind doesn't register the soft caresses to which she's subjecting his right hand. When he does, he awkwardly flinches then curses under his breath for showing such pathetic display of weakness.
Her hands are cold, but the tips of her fingers are cozily warm and pleasant. It feels alien, her touch, this disorder of unfamiliar emotions swirling somewhere inside him.
His expression hardens. "Do you want to sit here holding hands in the darkness, Lovegood? Feeling romantic, eh? Sorry to break it to you-"
"Your Jupiter is high and spongy," she interjects his malice infused remark.
He mentally prepares himself for his daily dose of lunacy.
"Here, just under your index finger, there's a bump," Luna taps her finger on the prominent mount, "It indicates how you want to be seen by others and is closely linked to prestige, self-pride, superiority, and respect. Your's exceptionally developed meaning you're self-centered, arrogant and envious though very ambitious."
The pulling magic of moon is playing tricks on his senses but he's cursed, he can't run away."Look, Loony, I have better things to do than sit here with you listening to your spiritual bullshit and tolerate your weird ways of bullying me," he rolls his eyes but makes no efforts to retrieve his hand.
Her snow-white fingers travel around his wrinkly palm, sometimes tickling his sensitive skin, other times applying pressure just on the right places to send his tense touch receptors into a biology-defying frenzy.
"…Outer Mars seems to be high too, no courage…"
Irritation bubbles up inside him. "Well of bloody fucking course, I'm in Slytherin and not that muggle-loving Gryffindor for a reason!"
"…flat Apollo, poor aesthetic taste, over-indulging in luxury, too focused on material life…"
The sudden burden of compelling urge to defend his dignity weights his lids down, giving his eyes a menacingly hooded look. He rips his hand out of hers, but it soon appears inches from her face.
"And this spot," he points to the apex of his palm, under his middle finger, "this bump stands for cowardice, am I right?"
She excruciatingly slowly lifts her clear orbs to his seething ones (to send ice arrows through his heart, but instead of a frosty pair of eyes there are only two abundant flower yards in their place).
Peaceful and overwhelming.
"You think I'm a coward because I had a sudden change of heart, took pity on that old geezer and thus I couldn't kill him?" He hisses, eyes narrowing dangerously, "That's not how cowardice works, Loony."
"Let me tell you something, feel honoured," he forcibly continues as her observant silence unnerves him, "It's not able to act upon your faith. And that's exactly why my family fell out of the Dark Lord's favor. Who needs followers that cannot swallow their cowardice to bring about changes that would eventually benefit them? Aren't those Christians who worship their muggle God the same? Believing ensures loyalty, some sort of alliance with God, but what are they exactly doing to help their Lord? Are they sacrificing their personal serenity? Are they overcoming fear and stepping out of their comfort zone? Do you bloody understand me?!"
He deeply inhales, the new dose of oxygen calming his strained nerves. "The likes of me, there are thousands out there! Half of the wizarding world wants privileges, superiority over the mudbloods, but they are merely silent followers the Dark Lord does not give a fuck about! If I don't prove my devotion to Him both in mind and action, then I might as well die in the war fighting for whatever we even stand for."
Draco Malfoy is not a coward because he lacks bloodthirst. Cowardice is not a scale, not numbers, not something grey. Cowardice is not having the guts to look into the eyes of the man, the living fucking embodiment of an ideology to which Draco could and would never adhere his life, and kill the bastard, finally getting the dirty work done.
Draco Malfoy has great faith, he believes in pureblood hegemony, closed stratification system, in himself and most of all in Malfoy supremacy just like Luna Lovegood believes in world peace, infiltration of mudbloods, Potter, poetry and Van Gogh.
But unlike her, he is never really free in his beliefs.
"What you consider cowardice is bravery to some."
To her. In her twisted reality, he's…a hero? A savior? Someone he was never meant to be.
He remains motionless, but a fleeting thought births a new opinion: not even the people on the good side can escape the claws of selfishness that lurks in the pit of their hearts.
"Give me your hand!" He commands, but he's already extending his arms with the intention of encircling her tiny wrist.
"This here. This part is high, what does that mean?"
Her gaze (gardens that never stop blooming with different hues of cool blue) drops to where he's anxiously pointing. The edges of her cupid bow lips quirk up in a playful smile. "It's the Luna Mount. It's associated with creativity and imagination, love of nature-"
"Well, isn't it a coincidence. Your head is always up in the fucking clouds. Of course. Thinking up abstract and weird imaginary creatures to…" He abruptly halts, sudden awkwardness washing over him, "Er, and drawing…And taking care of those creepy skeletal ponies. I don't envy your madness. And this one?"
"Mount of Venus. Related to love and affection. It shows I'm rich in sentiments, I have lots of love to give and I enjoy the benefits of true friendships."
A mocking smirk wavers to his ashen lips, suddenly finding himself feeling nostalgic. For the good old time's sake, he honours his exceptionally well-mastered jeering talents that made him famous as the school's official bully. "I can almost see your big heart, Lovegood. That's why you always harass me? You want to share your little love with me?"
Love. Luna has love in her heart, her stomach, her ears and in her eyes.
"I think I would be capable, but I won't."
Even her name spells Love.
"And why not? Afraid of losing Saint Potter's friendship? Or you don't fancy fraternizing with the enemy? But haven't you already proved yourself wrong, Luna?"
Draco is familiar with selfish love, fake love, motherly love, and self-love. But his hungry ego has never swelled with Good Love.
"Because your fragile state of mind would crumble under the weight of my love."
His mind floats somewhere in the surreal space between his distressing sense of anticlimax and the evaporating illusion of brief catharsis that never came exploding in small sparks in his system.
He senses softness and rhythmical pressure palpitating below said delicacy.
What a delicate, velvety neck he's holding captive between his long fingers.
"Where the tap of your love, Lovegood? Here, at the vocal cords that produce that annoying voice of yours?" He gives her flesh a little squeeze, but her pale eyes never cloud with mist of fear (flower yards, flower yards, where are your purple lilacs?).
Would it scare you, if I clogged the drain? Would our little Lovegood drown in her own love?"
Luna forgot to mention which mount of Draco's palm rise above all bumps.
Mercury.
Too bad for Draco, Luna isn't afraid of empty words.
Thank you, my first commenter for your encouragement! Also, I don't intend to make Draco a complete psycho, don't worry, but this fanfic is no fluff. There will be heavy topics and scenarios, just informing you dear reader.