A/N: This is a sort of sequel to Can We Ever? Could We Ever? It is from Neville's point of view. JKR owns. So, without further introduction, let the awkward ensue!

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Your mind races a thousand kilometres a second and your hands shake madly, so you wring them together, hoping that incessantly pulling on the other will cease the shaking of both. It didn't.

From across the table, your wife notices that something is not entirely kitsch with you, so she places her fork back onto her plate and looks you straight in the face.

"Neville," she says, and you can hear genuine concern in her voice, "you look awful. Are you feeling alright?"

Your eyes turn up and look at her, and suddenly you feel better. Doubt clouds your mind, doubts that it was her that calmed your nervous habit. Someone else had filled your mind, thoughts of her had calmed you down. Her silvery blonde hair, the bubbly voice you missed so desperately, the inane babble you always paid attention to…you missed everything about her, and still she could assuage your nerves.

But you don't let any of this on to Hannah—your wife. You reach across the table, taking her hands into your own and smiling that infamous smirk. "I'm fine, Han," you tell her, though you know you're lying to her face. Then again, you've been lying to her for almost thirteen years.

Hannah nods, returning to her plate. "Hermione and I hope to get some real work done today," she said, completely changing the subject. "We're reorganizing the department and the Minister said he would assist us personally."

You shake your head as her idolization of Kingsley Shacklebolt resurfaces. "You admire him so much," you comment, and watch as she blushes. She stands from the table, her pencil skirt hugging her curves, attributes she had accumulated over three pregnancies and a decade of maturation. You do admire her body—the one you had come to know so well—but suddenly your memories flash ones of her and of the love you made to her in a rose patch perched precariously on the top of a hill, right in the middle of the moors. It was so beautiful and the magic you felt that day was…indescribable.

She quickly washes the dishes and then crosses over to you, wrapping her arms around you from behind. You want to cringe when she kisses the crown of your head before grabbing her satchel and heading out the door for work with a quick "I love you". You realize that you don't ever tell her you love her. Those three words you haven't actually stated in over five years and why? Because of a certain Luna Lovegood.

She had changed your life for the better, and you hadn't seen her or spoken to her in over ten years. Somehow, however, she still had a grip on you, a hold you couldn't shake. She was in your every thought from the time you opened your eyes in the morning till you shut them at night.

And that's when the unthinkable happened.

You heard a knock on the front door, so you went to answer it, figuring that Hannah had left something behind again—she was rather forgetful. When you opened the front door, you felt your heart skip a few beats. It wasn't Hannah.

An out of breath woman with long, mussed silvery blonde hair, bag in hand, stood on the doorstep, looking up at you like it had been too long. And it had been.

"Luna," you say, almost like a sigh, and you wish to grab her and kiss her and take her right then and there, but you've learned control—well, at least a little bit. "What're you doing here?"

She's smiling at you and you nearly melt. "I got your letter," she says, and your eyes close upon hearing her voice. "I had to come as soon as I finished. You can't even know how I feel about you—how I've always felt about you." She reaches up and wraps her arms around your neck and you can feel the tension in your body relax at the touch of her.

Hannah is at work. Your children have all gone away for the summer, and it's just you and her alone. Just like it had been thirteen years ago. Your arms pull her closer and you inhale her familiar scent—Dirigible Plums, lilac, and something uniquely her. "Oh, my love," you say through an exhale, holding her fast to you. Pulling away, you briefly notice that she's crying and so are you as the feel of a reunion overwhelms your every sense, and that's when your lips collide with hers.

The feel, the touch, and the taste of her hasn't changed. But as the two of you clumsily make your way to the sofa, stripping down to the nude, it's like you had never been apart, never been married, and had never become parents. It's just you and her, making love just like you always had, but this time was a bit more intense than before, more passionate. Her skin flush with yours and the sounds of light moans and heavy breathing is all you're paying attention to.

Two hours of lovemaking always left you tired, and the only time you had ever gone that long was with her. Afterwards, her cheek is planted against your chest as your bodies remain intertwined.

Suddenly you realize neither of you are teenagers, and the two of you have chosen separate paths and had settled for the ones you call spouses. Still, it didn't feel like settling—more like reaching—as the two of you breathed the same air again, held each other tightly and laughed softly without a care in world. Like you had never been apart.

But this moment, like the nine months you had previously spent entirely in love, would eventually come to an end. Just for now, though, you hold her to you like you were still nineteen and remember, at last, what it was like to be incandescently happy.