- Draco -

The S of Immobulus fades, spoons, neatly cut cucumbers, and cups still midair, and lovers' mouths freeze around mean words and shocked monosyllables.

Luna's raging outburst dies down, her pirouette slows, and her fiery golden hair and purple skirts settle. She ends the dance on the tip of a toe, head, and wand lifted toward the ceiling beams of Madam Puddifoot's tea shop.

Draco doesn't know why he accepted her invitation, but the mortification he expected when she ambled toward him at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall didn't come. He is the kind of boy, the kind of young man - the kind of pickney, as one of his Mother's colourful friends would have said, who'd be laughing raucously with his mates right now because he's the kind of wanker who'd have done a set up on a nutter like her. Who had, in fact, set this very bint up, hoping to amuse his classmates with tears and not coming up too disappointed.

She was a strange one, though, and it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

His Mother's only colourful friend hadn't liked him much. She was gone now, of course. Muggleborn, as it turned out. Perhaps she'd fled. Her head wrap would have been a perfect compliment to Luna's patchwork blouse.

Draco wishes Voldemort had rid him of the fear of his peers' judgment, but it sears his cheeks every period Slytherin shares with Gryffindor. Hermione Granger's vicious little jibes stick with him long after the classroom door slams on the end of class.

No, Voldemort had forced him to grovel and humiliate himself, but shame is nothing you get used to. Big insults or small. He had debased himself for a bite of dinner. Still, Granger snickering at the vile poof of smoke rising from his cauldron made him cringe.

Perhaps this is what proves him human. Perhaps Draco Malfoy is a mere human, proud and insecure, but not so much a monster as Hermione Granger's whispers make him out to be because he has lost the taste for making others cry.

It had been what Blaise had said, what everyone said, "Looney, Looney, Looney," it had decided him. Hermione Granger nettling him stung, but a Valentine's date with Looney Lovegood scared him not at all. Of course, the stuck up little Head Girl would hardly mock him for having tea. She might have his balls, though.

The wild girl who has set the room aspin with a twist of her hips pulls out his chair with a flourish and sits down with him. Their table has a little sign that says Reserved like she'd been sure he'd say yes.

Luna's quite serious now; there is nothing dreamy about her. "Draco," she says, "I'm sorry, perhaps I should, but I won't let you fight these battles on your own. Because you're not. You're not fighting. You are letting them tear you down like you think you deserve it."

Is this mutual pity, then?

The world crashes down around them, but he can hear her soft, almost singing voice amidst the breaking porcelain, "What you have done doesn't matter."

It's seeker reflexes that bring his wand up in time to stop a teapot someone slyly thought to aim at his head. She grins broadly, a decidedly ditziless grin. "Good on you, Draco."

Before Madam Puddifoot stomps reach them, Luna is back on her feet, her eyes wide with wonder, "I have never seen such an infestation of Nargles!" She sweeps her arm around the parlour, and if some guests duck, they hurriedly try to conceal the fact by digging through rucksacks on the floor. The lady of the tea shop shows no reticence, though. She is furious.

"I don't know why they'd infest roses," Luna muses loudly. The room is suddenly heavy with spilt Earl Grey and the scent of St Ethelburga. Her eyes grow impossibly wider as a thought strikes her and she surveys the flower arrangements that hang like chandeliers over the tables, "you didn't transfigure the mistletoe from Christmas, did you? Oh, no, you mustn't have. Nargles are not usually dangerous, and while they adore love, they hate Valentine's - it's because of the Morsi Amor, you see. My father had a bit about the Morsi on the Quibbler aerial broadcast a week ago. Months of research went into it - " Luna's voice has taken on a hazy note, and it's unclear whether Madam Puddifoot truly didn't see Luna causing the mayhem but there's a blush on her cheeks as she abruptly ignores her and settles her other disgruntled patrons with pursed lips and disapproving glares. She clears the room of roses and sets about meticulously cleaning up before serving the remaining guests.

She arrives at Draco and Luna last, but that is fine.

"Morsi Amor," he asks uncertainly.

"Cousins of the Nargles," she hums.