Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Harry Potter.


He goes back down to the cellar again that evening – merely, of course, to check on the prisoners. His father is ranting about something, and Bellatrix is shrieking at him, and Rodolphus is in the background swearing foully under his breath, and his mother is locked in her room again, probably sobbing behind a silencing charm. And – well – it's Christmas, and who can blame him for just wanting someone to smile at him?

Her face lights up when she sees him – he knows he didn't imagine it, and there's a little warm spot in his chest. He gives her a small uncertain twist of a smile, and she seems to know what he wants, and smiles back, open and peaceful. She's still holding the roses in her hands.

'Er, hello,' he says lamely.

'Hello, Draco,' she says. 'Are you having a nice Christmas?'

The look on his face seems to give her the answer, because she says, 'Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. It's nice of you to come and see us here again.'

He carefully looks away from her, and snorts, almost contemptuously, because, after all, he's not a nice person, and he doesn't want her under any false illusions. The trouble is, she doesn't seem to quite get it, because she reaches out and slips her hand in his, squeezing it. His fingers jump slightly in hers. It feels odd, but sort of – nice, as well.

'Sit down?' she says softly, and he does, reminding himself that he's only here because he doesn't have anything better to be doing. They sit on one of the mattresses he transfigured, and it's cold, so he casts a warming charm around them. Luna gives a little shiver of ecstasy, closing her eyes and moving her limbs about slightly in the warmth, as a cat might. Then she seems to think of something.

'Mr Ollivander!' she says. 'He's so cold, even with your blankets. Maybe you could cast a warming spell on him?'

Draco twists around, looking for the old wandmaker, but he can't see him. 'Over here, Draco,' she says. Ollivander's huddled on the other mattress, seemingly asleep, and Luna beams as he casts warmth over the old man.

'Is he – all right?' Draco asks, sitting down again and wondering why he should care.

A little vertical crease appears between her eyebrows, and he absentmindedly imagines smoothing it out with two fingertips, before he catches himself, horrified.

'He barely moves or talks,' she's saying, 'and hardly eats anything unless I persuade him to.'

They're both silent for a while, and Luna closes her eyes and tips her head back slightly, basking in the warmth. Her throat is soft and white, he notices, and the long fair curling mass of her hair is hanging free around her, dropping over her shoulders.

His mouth is suddenly dry. His eyes slide to her lips, soft and tender and relaxed, and he wants suddenly, fiercely, to kiss her, more than anything else. But her eyes are closed, and it wouldn't be quite fair to give her no warning.

'Luna,' he croaks.

Her eyes open, big and grey and startled at the roughness of his voice. Then his hands find her shoulders through her hair, and he pulls them closer together, and her eyes soften impossibly as she tilts her face gently up to his.

Their lips touch softly, clumsily, once, twice, and his head is exploding, sending off fireworks and celebrations and danger signals. They fall apart. Luna's chest is rising and falling softly, and she brings up questioning fingers and touches her lips. He grabs his head in frantic hands.

'Damn,' he says. 'Damn. Damn.' He wants to say stronger things too, but he doesn't, because Luna's there, watching him in a waiting sort of way. Then he glances up at her, and she's looking a little uncertain, and it drives everything else out of his head on a great wave of something akin to tenderness.

He reaches out, jerkily, and puts his arms around her, tugging her close so that she's nestling against him. His hands lock demandingly about her. She rests her palm and her cheek on his chest, and he rocks her, because, truth be told, he's out of his depth and running on instinct. If he thinks about it too hard, he could panic.

He feels her shift a little, and looks down, and, of all things, she seems to be laughing; soft, wholesome, tender, normal laughter. She looks up at him with her head still on his chest.

'Maybe there's mistletoe a few rooms above. At least down here the Nargles can't get at us,' she says, and he gives a surprised, shaky crack of amusement. She's sweet, he thinks hazily, making a new discovery, sweet; and he tightens his arms around her, tentatively, and kisses her on the forehead. Her eyes close and she makes a little, contented sound in her throat, like a kitten.

'What are Nargles?' he asks softly.

'They're little creatures that infest mistletoe, but you can't see them,' she says seriously, and she doesn't seem to mind when he laughs again.

It's comforting, sitting there with Luna in his arms, and not needing to talk, or sneer, or pretend about anything. He just sits, for a long time, and listens to her breathing, slow and soft and calm, and now and then she pats him with small gentle hands.

It's very hard to leave the cellar that time; he feels like a moth at a candle flame. But Luna is better than a candle, because her light can't be puffed out by a draught, or even by being kept in a dark cold prison. And then, of course, she doesn't incinerate him, which is nice.

He peels himself away finally, touching her face gently in farewell. This time, she doesn't say anything, just smiles at him softly as he goes, and it feels all wrong, so wrong, to be locking her in behind him.


Later, of course, when he's back upstairs into hard reality, the euphoria of her lips wears away. He feels guilty and miserable and conscience-stricken, and spends a horrible white night tossing and turning, wondering what sort of perverted person went and kissed a girl he barely knew, a girl who was being held prisoner in his cellar.

Put that way, it sounds twisted and dark and impure. It's not, he tells himself furiously, and slams his fist into his pillow.

He's been so lonely. He lost control for a few seconds, that was all, because – because she treated him like a person again, like he was an ordinary guy who wasn't evil. Who can blame him for just wanting some comfort, just to feel like a human again?

And she was so bright, so pure and candle-bright that kissing her felt like being warmed by a flame…

There's a part of him, inside, that's sneering. Luna Lovegood? it snickers. Seriously? The little oddball with no friends, who wanders around talking about imaginary creatures? And you know quite well it was more than 'a few seconds'. How long did you sit there holding her, like a child with a safety blanket? Are you desperate or something, Malfoy?

Shut up, the other part of him says wrathfully, the part that he's only recently discovered he has, that shames him. The part that worries and feels guilty and – cares – about things sometimes. She's… sweet.

Sickening, says the nasty one derisively. What's wrong with you? All that nauseating 'love' and 'goodness' getting to you?

She is good, he returns, defensively.

There's no good or bad, you fool. Only power and strength. And Lovegood's as weak and soft as a kitten. She wouldn't last two minutes with dear Aunt Bellatrix or the Dark Lord.

A clamminess breaks out on his forehead and neck, and fear catches him in the throat.

See? the voice mocks. No good getting too attached to your little prisoner. You'll just get hurt.

I don't damn well care, says the other voice, in a foolhardy, defiant sort of way. I won't let… He cringes at how Gryffindor it sounds, and at the contemptuous snickering of the mocking voice.

What can you do? You're a coward, not a red-and-gold Gryffindor.

Yes, he's a coward, and probably wouldn't be able to protect her if she needed it, he thinks dully. But there's one little thing, one little shining strand of – something, that he grasps and hold on to.

She is good, he thinks stubbornly. She has to be. She is!

The other voice just laughs again, and now it sounds like the Dark Lord, high and cold. Good, it mocks. Good. Good like the little chapel lamb, waiting patiently to be killed… and eaten… There's that laugh again, and he flings his arm across his face to try and block it out.

He sleeps at last, near morning, and his dreams are black and white and shadowy grey, and he can't remember them when he wakes.