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The night after Harry walks into the forest to die, he can’t sleep. He’s lying on the rickety camp cot in Ron’s bedroom at the Burrow and he can’t stop staring at the ceiling, his eyelids practically peeled open.
He rolls over, Ron’s steady snores the only noise in the bedroom, and he suddenly feels grateful that his friend can slumber. They need rest - all of them - but especially the Weasleys. Everything is very raw and painful and if any of them can sleep for even a few minutes, Harry thinks that’s a good thing.
Except he can’t. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept - was it at Shell Cottage? Everything after breaking into Gringotts is kind of a blur. He feels like he’s been awake for weeks. He remembers - vaguely - wandering up to his old four poster in the Gryffindor dormitory after the battle, remembers sheer exhaustion overtaking his body, but had he actually slept? It’s hard to say. Everything is hard to say - hard to grasp.
He sits up, bending his long legs and draping his arms over his knees. He reaches over to the bedside table, grabbing his glasses and putting them on. It’s funny, he thinks humorlessly, that somehow his glasses weren’t shattered. It’s like the universe is forcing him to see everything he wishes could remain hazy.
Harry looks down to the gold wristwatch Mrs. Weasley gave him for his seventeenth birthday (it feels like another lifetime ago), and notes the time. It’s two in the morning. In just a few hours, the house will stir and feebly make their way downstairs. And then what? Breakfast like always? It feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.
Before he really knows what he’s doing, Harry is pulling on his jeans and the only clean sweatshirt he has, puts on his trainers, and makes his way out of Ron’s bedroom. He quietly walks down the creaking stairs, worried he’ll wake someone up, but he makes it through the living room where Crookshanks is curled up and snoozing on Mr. Weasley’s armchair, goes through the kitchen, and into the back garden unnoticed.
As he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, he looks around. There’s a light breeze playing with his untidy hair, and Harry begins to walk. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he lets his legs carry him past the Burrow’s paddock, past the old outhouse where the Weasleys keep their brooms and gardening tools, where he once sat knee to knee with Dumbeldore after convincing Horace Slughorn to return to Hogwarts. How little he’d known then. It’s almost laughable.
Harry walks through the orchard, the brambles tangling around his ankles but he doesn’t mind them. Each feeling is a reminder that he’s alive and with each reminder he’s alive, he remembers all those who aren’t. It makes him feel terrible, and there’s something comforting about feeling awful. Reminding himself that he doesn’t really deserve to be here is territory he’s familiar with.
He walks and he walks and his hands remain in his pockets and suddenly he realizes he’s made it further than the Weasley property. The ground beneath his feet has started to incline and he realizes he’s walking up a hill. He keeps walking until he goes over another hill and another and another. In the distance, he hears the hoot of an owl and it’s like a shard of glass lodges itself into his heart. He thinks about Hedwig and he misses her as much as he misses anything - it’s a physical feeling and it almost makes him stumble in his stride.
He’s made it over another hill, the moonlight guiding him, the sounds of crickets and nocturnal creatures accompanying the sound of his own breathing (which is slightly winded, he notes), when he sees it. The now dilapidated once rook-shaped home of the Lovegoods.
Harry slows down as he makes his way toward the house and notes - with a pang of guilt - that part of the home is being held up by wooden beams. There’s obviously been no time to fix the damage done by the Death Eaters and the Erumpent horn. He wonders when Luna’s home will be fixed, and then he wonders who will help them fix it. He feels, once again, as if it’s all his fault. He knows, logically, that not everything can be his fault and he knows how self-centered that is, but he can’t help it. And maybe he doesn’t want to help it.
Self-loathing is comfortable, after all.
He plans to keep walking, past the Lovegood residence, when he notices movement in their garden. He tenses, hand going for the wand in his back pocket, before he spots a blonde head with long, straggly curls. Luna’s bent over something, on her knees. It looks like she’s digging. Relaxing slightly, Harry walks through the garden gate.
She doesn’t turn around, but she must’ve heard his footsteps because a moment before he reaches her, a dreamy, “Hello, Harry,” floats over to him.
He really shouldn’t be taken aback. He’s known Luna now for quite some time - has been grateful for her friendship for two years - but it’s still disconcerting that she knows it’s him before she can see him. He clears his throat, walking over to her. He can see now, standing so close to her, that she has a small spade in her hand and she’s bent over a heap of dirt.
“What’re you up to?” he asks, and he crouches down beside her. She looks up at him, and her face is still covered in bruises and cuts from the battle and her imprisonment in Malfoy manor. With a sick feeling in his stomach, his eyes skate over her arms, exposed in her sleeveless shirt, and he sees more bruises along her pale skin.
Her lips lift in a small smile. It’s not her usual Luna smile, the one that is dreamy and serene and curious all at once. But it’s still open and honest and inviting, and Harry immediately feels better than he did a few minutes ago.
“I’m gardening,” she tells him, sitting back on her heels and wiping her brow. How she can see what she’s doing with just the moonlight is beyond Harry, but he doesn’t say anything. “Daddy isn’t really strong enough to do anything other than stay in bed. And as I don’t really know how to rebuild our house, I thought gardening might be a good start.”
Through his muddled brain of everything that’s happened over the last forty-eight hours, Harry remembers that Xenophilius has been in Azkaban. He watches a shadow pass over Luna’s face that he can barely see in the moonlight, but he catches it before it disappears.
She makes a move to keep digging, but Harry reaches out a hand and places it on top of hers. She stops, looking at him, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can offer. Luna’s brows furrow and her mouth turns down.
“There’s simply nothing for you to be sorry about,” Luna tells him. “Daddy told me about what happened. About...well, he feels very badly about it and I do too.”
Harry shakes his head, swallowing, looking down. He keeps his hand on Luna’s. “You were kidnapped. He thought you were going to die.”
Luna offers him a sad smile. “Still. He never stopped believing in you. He was very scared.”
“I don’t blame him,” Harry cuts across, his voice a little stronger than he thought it’d be. “I would’ve given me up too if it meant someone I loved would be saved.”
Luna doesn’t say anything, just squeezes his hand and then goes back to digging. Harry eyes a spare spade next to her, and he grabs it. She doesn’t ask him what he’s doing wandering around in the middle of the night. She doesn’t ask him why he ended up in her back garden. He doesn’t ask her why she’s gardening at three in the morning. They know the answer and it’s the steady drumming of pain that’s beating inside both of them.
They don’t say anything at all, they just dig in the moonlight, in the night, Luna’s presence as comforting to Harry as the night sky above them.
* * *
He hadn’t wanted to celebrate his eighteenth birthday. As grief settled upon everyone after the battle, like a well-worn sweater, nobody really protested too much. Hermione and Ron, of course, weren’t happy with the idea that Harry wanted to be shut up in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place when he turned eighteen. But seeing as Ron hadn’t let us family out of his eyesight for more than a few moments since the battle, he hadn’t pushed the idea of a party or anything like that. Harry had been grateful. It felt wrong to celebrate anything, let alone celebrate at the Weasley’s home. Not to mention the lingering weirdness that remained between him and Ginny; while they both mutually and lovingly decided that they were better off as friends, it was still a bit awkward. Though he was hopeful that would pass; he couldn’t imagine not having Ginny in his life.
Truthfully, Harry just wanted to be alone.
Which is why the now eighteen-year-old lay on his bed, eyes glued to the ceiling, the faint sounds of Kreacher tinkering a floor below creating a sort of morbid lullaby for him as he tried to just...drift off.
He’d awoken that morning to a small pile of gifts at the foot of his bed and for the millionth time in his life he marveled at the feeling of being loved. Mrs. Weasley had sent him an assortment of mince pies with a little note about how he’d better be eating, Ron had sent him a load of sweets from Honeydukes, and Hermione had given him a beautiful collection of quills for when he (along with Ron) began Auror training at the end of the summer. Andromeda had sent a very sweet card with a photograph of baby Teddy, giggling and waving a pudgy fist toward Harry, his godfather. Harry had looked at it and smiled, before guilt wrapped its claws around his sternum, making it impossible for him to breathe.
But now Harry is just trying to convince himself that he’s worthy of those gifts, that he's worthy of the people closest to him. He hates that he’s always having this argument in his head, the one that hasn’t stopped since May. The question of, “Did I do everything the right way? Could Fred and Lupin and Tonks still be alive if I’d done something differently?” He knows it’s pointless. He knows there’s no way to answer that.
But he can’t help torturing himself.
He’s torn out of his worries and anxieties with a soft rap on his door. Kreacher’s flabby head pokes in, and he bows as Harry sits up.
“Master has a visitor, sir. She’s waiting in the kitchen.”
Harry quirks an eyebrow, confused. “A visitor? Who is it?”
“Miss Lovegood, sir,” Kreacher replies, before ducking his ancient head back out and scurrying off. Harry feels warmth flood inside of him along with confusion. He’s always happy to see Luna, but he’s wondering why she’s here. They don’t have a habit of showing up at one another’s homes.
Well, that’s not true, a small voice in Harry’s head says, reminding him of two months ago when Harry wound up in Luna’s garden at three in the morning.
Harry attempts to flatten his hair as he makes his way down to the kitchen, but gives up by the time he arrives. He grins as his gaze falls upon Luna, standing in the center of the room, holding a box in her arms. Her hair is knotted on top of her head, a few curls loose and framing her face, her wand behind her ear. She smiles at Harry, and he notices that it lights up her gray eyes.
“Hi Luna,” he greets her, and she takes a few steps toward him.
“Happy Birthday, Harry,” she says, beaming at him. He notices happily that the scars on her arms and face have begun to fade. She looks healthier than the last time he saw her, at least. “I hope I’m not bothering you - are you busy right now?”
Harry shakes his head, putting his hands in his pockets. “You caught me right in the middle of doing absolutely nothing. Pathetic, really.”
“Doing nothing isn’t pathetic. Sometimes it’s best.”
Harry feels a little better about the fact that he was previously lying on his bed, wasting away the day, and nods toward her arms.
“What’s that?” he asks, though he thinks it’s probably for him, which embarrasses him a little.
“Oh!” Luna looks down at the box in her hands, as if she’d forgotten it was there. “I baked you a cake.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
She fixes a serious look at him. “Harry. Everyone needs cake on their birthday.” He laughs at that, and takes the box from her hands, walking over to the scrubbed table to set it down. Luna follows, taking a seat and Harry walks over to the cupboard to take out some plates and cutlery.
“Thank you,” he says when he returns, and he means it. She grins up at him as he opens the box and he’s pleasantly surprised at the attractive cake that is inside of it. It’s a pale blue, with little golden stars all over it. In the center is a broomstick, with a little creature sitting on top of it. It looks sort of like a frog, but white instead of brown or green.
“That’s a moon frog,” Luna explains, pointing to it. “Daddy once interviewed Hortensia Cockles - she’s the witch who flew to the moon on her Cleansweep Six and returned with a bag of them. They’re believed to be quite docile, though have a bit of a temper when provoked.”
She grins at Harry and he can’t help but smile. “Wow, that’s...that’s something.”
He slices them each a piece of cake and makes tea. He is surprised to find that the cake is actually tasty - he hadn’t been very hopeful after trying Xenophilius’ gurdyroot infusion just a few months ago before he, Ron and Hermione had been ambushed at the Lovegood home. But he thinks that perhaps Luna hadn’t inherited her father’s peculiar tastes when it comes to food and drink.
“Are you excited to return to Hogwarts?” Harry asks her, and it feels a little odd knowing that he won’t be returning himself. Hogwarts was, after all, his first home.
Luna sets down her mug of tea and nods, her eyes bright. “Very. Hagrid’s asked me if I’d like to help him this year with lessons for Care of Magical Creatures. Sort of like an assistant.”
Harry thinks that’s the best news he’s heard in months and tells her so. There’s a faint pink to her cheeks after he says it and she looks very pleased.
“I think it’ll be really nice,” she muses. “After all, it’s what I want to pursue after Hogwarts. You know, research and study and discover magical creatures.” She pauses, taking a bite of cake, then turns her protuberant eyes on Harry.
“And you? Are you excited for Auror training?”
Harry’s instinct is to say “yes” but there’s something about Luna’s calming presence, something about the fact that he never has to pretend with Luna or try very hard at all to be himself when he’s around her, so he does what feels truthful: he shrugs.
“On one hand, yeah, I am,” he says, looking down at his empty cake plate for a moment. “I just...want to be doing something . But on the other - well, I feel like I’ve had my fill of chasing down dark wizards.”
Luna hums, watching Harry and he meets her eyes. “That makes sense. After all, it’s what you’ve spent most of your life doing. Or focusing on, anyway.”
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. And then, because it’s Luna and he knows he can be honest with her, he says, “But I want to help. Kingsley’s asked me to come in next week to the Ministry and meet with him about some things, and I think that could be good. To just...start putting things back together.”
Luna smiles softly at him. “I think that could be good too. But will you talk to him about the Ministry’s ignorance of heliopaths? It’s really quite unnerving, the fact that they refuse to acknowledge London is in imminent danger because of them.”
Harry can’t help it. He snorts into his tea mug and says, “Yeah, I’ll make sure to mention that.”
They pass the next few hours eating way too much cake, talking about Hogwarts and what Luna’s responsibilities will be working with Hagrid. She tells Harry about how well her garden’s coming along, and how her father is doing well and has even started outlining a new issue of the Quibbler. Harry laughs again when - as she’s hugging him goodbye - Luna mentions he should really de-nargle Grimmauld Place, it’s very obvious there’s a ton around them and he promises her that he’ll look into it. They make plans to say goodbye to each other when Harry accompanies Ron to see Hermione off at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters in a few weeks.
As Harry drifts off to sleep that evening, he thinks celebrating his eighteenth birthday hadn’t been so bad after all.
* * *
Harry can’t remember the last time he wasn’t tired.
He has a mound of paperwork on his desk that he’s yet to file, several unanswered memos that he has to get to the head of the Auror department, Robards, before the end of the week, and notes he has to prepare for the next Wizengamot meeting. He, along with Ron, Hermione, Neville, and several other members of Dumbledore’s Army who are of age, had been given seats on the floor of the Wizengamot after the battle. He knows it’s mainly to honor their part in the war - after all, they’re the youngest ones to ever be inducted - but he still dreads the meetings. Everyone always looks to him for something wise to say, or, as Kingsley put it, as a “beacon of continued hope” but quite honestly, most of the time he’s lost about what anyone’s even talking about. Ministry politics were never really his area of interest, though he is determined to do everything in what little power he has to make sure the Ministry never goes back to the way it used to be.
On top of all that, he’s constantly being hounded by the press for interviews and quotes. Whenever he walks through the atrium of the Ministry, eyes follow him wherever he goes. He feels like he’s living under a microscope and it’s stifling. He’s the most famous wizard in the world, but he’s only eighteen. He’s tired.
“Oi, my eyes are gonna fall out of my head,” comes Ron’s voice from his left and Harry snorts, looking up at his best mate. Ron’s hair is standing on end from the amount of times he’s run his hands through it, his eyes are red-rimmed, and if Harry had to guess, he’d look pretty much the same himself. Ron looks wistfully for a moment at Neville’s empty desk - he’d gone home an hour ago, having finished his paperwork quickly.
“Yeah, I’m pretty useless right now,” Harry mutters, wondering if he’ll have better luck back at Grimmauld Place in front of the fire in the drawing room, with one of Kreacher’s steak-and-kidney pies.
Ron stretches his hands high over his head, groaning and then deflates back into his desk chair. “Will you be coming to the next Hogsmeade weekend with me? ‘Mione will kill you if you don’t.”
Harry grins, despite feeling a little bad. He’d missed the last one, but only because he promised Andromeda that he’d visit Teddy that weekend. He looks at Ron’s expectant face, knowing Hermione put him up to making sure Harry came along next weekend.
“I’ll be there,” Harry promises. “I could use a few sugar-tip quills anyway. Keep me awake during Robards meetings.”
Ron barks out a laugh and Harry grins stupidly, and for a moment he forgets about the nightmares and the reason that they’re even training to be Aurors a year early is because of everything they lost.
“Luna asked about you too,” Ron offers as he starts packing up his things. “We met up with her and Dean at the Three Broomsticks. She said she had been looking forward to seeing you.”
Harry lets that sentence sink in for a moment and wonders why it sounds funny. “Her and Dean?”
Ron smirks. “Yeah, kinda random right? But they’ve stayed pretty close since Shell Cottage, apparently. Can’t tell if they’re, yanno, together or not.”
"Huh,” Harry says. It’s weird, he realizes, thinking of Luna dating...well, anyone. He knows that thought isn’t fair, because Luna is one of the kindest, most loyal, most genuine people he’s ever known, and any bloke would be lucky to be with her. But there’s something weird about thinking of her with a boyfriend. Even if that supposed boyfriend is Dean, who is a friend and someone he’s known since he was eleven.
“Anyway, I’m bloody starving,” Ron says, pushing back his desk chair and standing up. “Wanna come ‘round for dinner? Mum would be happy to see you.”
As is always the case lately, Harry’s instinct is to decline and to be alone, but there’s something hopeful in Ron’s eyes that makes him give in. He knows he can’t hide forever, and he loves the Weasleys like they were his own.
He nods, standing up himself. “Count me in.”
That night, after he’s returned from the Burrow, he decides to write Luna a letter. He feels bad that he missed the Hogsmeade weekend because of not seeing Hermione, but he also realizes that he wishes he’d seen Luna too. He owes her a letter and he feels lighter after he writes it.
* * *
Dear Harry,
It was lovely to see you last weekend. I’m glad you could make it to Hogsmeade! I know it can be hard to go out, being who you are and everything, but I think that some sunshine and time with friends can make even the darkest days feel better. I certainly hope you returned home in bright spirits.
Both Hermione and Ginny have mentioned how stressed you, Ron, and Neville are with training, so I’ve enclosed a painting for you to prop on your desk if you’d like. That way, when you get overwhelmed at work, you can look at it and maybe feel a little better. Looking at something nice always makes me feel less anxious. You may not know what it is, which is a shame, but it’s a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Oh how I’d love to see one in person one day! They’re quite beautiful, don’t you think? I do hope I’ve captured their essence.
How is Teddy, by the way? He was so cute in that photograph you showed me on your birthday. I love his blue hair, don’t you?
Anyway, keep your eyes open for those heliopaths. Daddy says they’re getting more aggravated.
Love,
Luna
* * *
Dear Luna,
I’m so glad your internship with Hagrid is going well. Quite honestly, it’s a shame you hadn’t started helping him sooner. I bet a lot of students would’ve been grateful to have you help out when he’d been on that Blast-Ended Skrewt kick.
Auror training is going as well as it can. Ron, Neville, and I are bloody exhausted but Kinglsey says that in a few weeks, we’ll be going out on some missions with the more experienced Aurors. It’ll help us get a feel for what work looks like on the field - I’m looking forward to it, since it means a break from paperwork. Though your painting does make me smile every time I look at it, so thanks for that. I reckon Crumple-Horned Snorkacks are about a hundred times more interesting than interoffice memos.
I’m glad you’re coming home for Christmas. I’ll be staying at the Burrow and am looking forward to seeing everyone, and you. It’ll be nice to be around people, I think. A Christmas alone with Kreacher sounds too depressing to think about, so I’ll stop writing about it now.
I’ll see you soon!
Take care,
Harry
* * *
When Harry holds Teddy Lupin, the baby’s hair turns into an untidy black mess. It makes Harry laugh.
It’s Christmas Eve, and Andromeda had placed the chubby little thing in Harry’s arms as she went to go help Molly and Fleur in the Burrow’s kitchen, and at first Harry had been nervous. He’s never held a baby before Teddy, and he gets nervous every time he holds him. But Teddy Lupin is a round butterball with wild hair and he clutches the front of Harry’s jumper as Harry gently bounces him on his knee in the living room of the Burrow, and Harry thinks holding a baby isn’t so bad.
“Hello,” Harry says even though he knows it’s pointless. Teddy is too busy trying to snatch the glasses off of Harry’s face and Harry thinks that there’s definitely Marauder blood coursing through the tot’s veins.
Hermione leans over from where she’s sitting next to Harry, and holds out a finger to Teddy. He grabs hold of it and Hermione cooes in a way Harry has never heard her “coo” before.
“What a handsome thing you are,” Hermione tells Teddy as he babbles incoherently. “He looks like Tonks.” Her eyes fill with tears before she can seemingly stop them and Harry nudges his shoulder against hers. She gives him a watery smile and he grins at her, and she takes a deep breath.
“He likes you,” Hermione points out, and Harry grins.
“He likes everyone, he’s a baby,” Harry says and Hermione rolls her eyes.
“I dunno,” Ron says from beside Hermione. “He was looking suspicious of me earlier.” Harry and Hermione laugh as Ron makes a silly face at Teddy, causing the baby to stare blankly instead of erupting into giggles.
“Blimey,” Ron says, shaking his head. “Tough crowd.” Then he smiles at Teddy, and finally the baby gives him a gurgle and a smile back.
Harry sort of gets now why people have babies - they really do make you cheerful. He wishes - not for the first time - that Lupin and Tonks were here. That they were getting to see Teddy’s hair transform from shocking blue, to untidy black, to bushy brown, to flaming red, and then back to blue again. He’s amazing, this kid is, and it kills Harry that his parents will never know him.
He swallows a lump in his throat. Teddy reaches for Hermione, who’s more than happy to take hold of him, and Harry stretches back on the couch, long legs out in front of him, and he laughs with Ron. And everything - in that moment - feels okay. He’s with the two most important people in his entire life, on the couch in the Burrow, a merrily cracking fire, the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s remarkable cooking in the air, and they are safe. It feels like a bloody miracle.
Percy hands him and Ron two glasses of eggnog as he passes them, and as Harry takes a sip his eyes land on Luna, who is in the corner of the room talking to Charlie, presumably about dragons. Her eyes are so bright they almost look like two Christmas ornaments, glittering and reflecting the fire that crackles beside her. There’s a pink glow on her cheeks as she animatedly converses, her hands moving in front of her to emphasize whatever point she’s making. Her dress shimmers as she moves, and Harry has the bizarre thought that she belongs on the top of a Christmas tree. He must be staring, because in the middle of her conversation, Luna’s eyes flicker over to Harry. She gives him a smile, but continues talking and Harry’s face suddenly feels warm and he knows it’s not because of the eggnog.
Harry takes in the rest of the room - Ginny, George, and Angelina Johson in one corner, chatting about Quidditch, Mr. Weasley, Percy, and Bill engaged in another discussion by the Christmas tree, and Xenophilius talking to Hermione’s parents. The latter look a little overwhelmed by whatever Xenophilius is telling them, and Harry assumes it has something to do with a creature they have never heard of.
Everyone’s doing a really good job of holding it together, but the sadness is very tangible in the crowded home. It starts to feel a little stifling. As much as he wants to be here, with everyone, the gaping hole of everyone they’re missing starts pressing in on Harry, and he feels a pressure behind his sternum, a heaviness and weight and he’s wondering if he’s going to start hyperventilating--
“Harry, would you help me with something?”
Harry is pulled from his spiral and looks up from the couch at Luna, who has made her way over to him and is looking at him as if she can read his mind. He can’t find his voice but nods, glancing at Hermione and Ron to make an excuse, but they’re both still playing with Teddy. Nobody takes notice as Harry stands and walks out the door to the front garden with Luna.
Once they close the door behind them and they can see their breath swirling in front of them in the frigid cold, Luna turns to Harry.
“I don’t actually need help with anything,” she clarifies. “You looked like you needed a moment and a breath of fresh air.”
Harry lets out a breath, putting his freezing hands in his pockets, and looks at Luna. “How d’you do that?”
She tilts her head slightly, gives him a confused look. “Do what?”
Harry shakes his head, looking up at the star-strewn sky for a moment, and then fixes his gaze back on her. “Just...know. Without--without me having to say anything.”
Luna furrows her brows.
“I can see it on your face,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Harry thinks about how nobody else seems to be able to just “see it on his face” but he doesn’t really know how to point that out.
So instead, he says, “Thanks. I feel better.”
Luna beams at him. Harry then notices that she’s only wearing her silver, shimmery dress, but she isn’t shivering. He quirks an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you freezing?” he asks her and Luna shrugs.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she replies and it’s such a Luna response that Harry can’t help but think it’s very endearing.
“What do you and your father do for Christmas?” Harry asks, because he realizes that he’s genuinely curious about what Lovegood traditions there may be.
Luna’s smile fades a little and she looks out over the front garden, the white snow glistening in the moonlight.
“Well, since it’s been just the two of us for quite a bit, our Christmases are usually quiet. But since it will be a full moon tomorrow evening, we’re hoping we can spot at least a few mooncalves. It really would make the holiday so lovely.”
Harry wonders what Luna and her dad did when her mom was alive. “You must miss her all the time,” he says, the words falling out of his mouth before he can decide if they’re insensitive or not.
Luna doesn’t have to ask to know that Harry is referring to her mother. She just nods, turning her serene gaze back on him. “I do. But whenever I feel especially sad and homesick for her, I remember that I’m so lucky to have been loved by her. I’m so lucky she was mine.”
Harry’s throat feels tight and he looks down at his shoes. He sees Sirius and Fred and Lupin and Tonks and his parents and he’s horrified to think that he may start crying at any moment. He feels Luna take his hand in hers, feels her squeeze it.
“I think about them all the time,” Harry says in a rough voice. He clears his throat and he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the snow beneath his trainers.
Luna doesn’t have to ask to know that Harry’s talking about everyone they lost. She gives his hand another squeeze, and even though it’s freezing outside, her palm is warm against his.
“I think that’s a good thing,” she says softly. He manages to meet her eyes because he knows Luna won’t judge him if he cries. “They’ll always be here with us. The world is a lot less lonely remembering them.”
Harry can’t bring himself to say anything, but Luna doesn’t look like she expects him to. She just stands next to him, her hand in his, as a sprinkling of snow begins to fall from the heavens, dusting their shoulders like tiny flowers.
Harry breathes easier when they finally go back inside.
* * *
It’s the beginning of summer and Harry is back at Hogwarts.
Normally, when seventh years finish their education, there really isn’t any pomp and circumstance other than the students crossing the lake in the boats that they arrived in as tiny first years, soaking up the last bit of the magic Hogwarts has to offer. It’s beautiful and elegant, but nobody other than Hogwarts faculty and students are in attendance.
This year is different, however. Professor McGonagall - now Headmistress of Hogwarts - and Kinglsey as Minister for Magic, decided that when the “eighth” and seventh year Hogwarts students finished, they’d celebrate alongside a memorial for the one year anniversary of the battle.
Harry arrives with the Weasleys and Neville, and he’s not sure how he’s going to react to seeing Hogwarts again. He hasn’t been back here - back on these grounds - since the battle. He feels a lump in his throat as they make their way across the grounds, the May sun shining down on them, the warmth a reassuring caress. He hears Mrs. Weasley sniffle and he glances at her. Tears are running down her face, and he sees Mr. Weasley’s eyes are just as glassy. Ron’s mouth is in a firm line, his face paler than usual. George looks like he’s trying to disappear.
Harry walks with the group to their seats on the lawn, overlooking the lake. He swallows, trying to get the memory of everything from last May out of his mind but it’s impossible. He can practically feel the ghosts of everyone they lost, rising from the ground and surrounding them.
But there’s also something amazing about being back here, Harry muses as he pulls at the color of his gray dress shirt and takes a seat between Ron and Neville. Because that’s just it - they’re here and they’re alive and there now exists a world with hope. It’s wonderful, Harry thinks, as painful as it may be.
He leans back in his seat, eyes roaming the crowd and feeling a bit uncomfortable. Aside from the frequent stares and whispers that are aimed his way, he wishes he was in his usual t-shirt and jeans instead of his smart shirt and navy trousers. But he knows today means something and he figures dressing nicely is the least he can do. He looks down at the watch on his left wrist, the watch that was a gift from Mrs. Weasley, and it’s become a bit of a comfort to him - reminding him of that summer before everything truly changed.
As everyone - families of the graduating students and deceased students, Hogwarts faculty, and Kingsley Shacklebolt - settles down, the doors of the castle open. Professor McGonagall walks down the steps, leading two rows of graduating students behind her, all dressed in their Hogwarts robes. As they make their way down the lawn, toward where everyone is sitting, Harry spots Hermione’s familiar mane of bushy hair, and watches as she makes eye contact with Ron first, her eyes immediately softening, and then shifting over to Harry. To no one’s surprise, and especially not Harry’s, Hermione’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears. He feels Ron fidget in his seat and knows his best friend wishes he could run up to Hermione and gather her in his arms.
Harry feels a bit of a voyeur, watching Hermione and Ron exchange a look, so his eyes shift behind Hermione to Ginny’s familiar face, a fierce, blazing look of confidence on it that used to stir something deeply within Harry. Now, he knows those feelings are platonic and familial and he’s so grateful they have gotten to a place where they can truly be not only friends, but family.
As Harry returns Ginny’s genial wave, a blonde head behind Ginny’s catches his eye. He watches Luna walk with the crowd, and he notices that her hair has been curled nicely, cascading over her shoulders. Her bright eyes reflect the sun, and Harry can’t help it - he beams at Luna Lovegood. His gaze on her must be loud because her eyes land on his, and she beams back.
The graduating students follow McGonagall to the far side of the lake, where Harry spots a bridge he’s never seen before. It leads to the side of the lawn where they’re all sitting. McGonagall points her wand at her throat, and then a second later her voice can be heard throughout the grounds.
“Welcome, all,” she begins. “Today is a day of great importance. It is a day when we remember - remember all that we’ve been through, all that we’ve stood against, and all that we have to be thankful for. May you all rise as our seventh and eighth year graduates take their walk across this bridge, symbolizing their journey beyond Hogwarts.”
Harry stands along with the crowd, and he realizes with slight alarm that there’s a lump in his throat. He’s finding it difficult to swallow, so he looks for Luna again, and immediately feels calmer upon seeing her. Her gaze is as serene as it always is. He watches as she follows Ginny down the lawn, he watches as she crosses over the bridge, the slight breeze making her curls flow around her head.
Later, after everyone has crossed the bridge, the students come to greet their families. He gives Hermione and Ginny hugs, and he realizes he feels okay. That this is okay - being back at Hogwarts, remembering everything that happened. He’s beaming at Hermione as she talks to Mrs. Weasley about her N.E.W.Ts when he spots Luna talking with her father a few yards away. Like always, her gaze is drawn to his and she gives him a smile and a wave.
He makes his way over to Luna and Xenophilius, and he quickly registers that Luna is no longer wearing her Hogwarts robes. She - like the rest of the graduating students - have removed them and they’re draped over her arm. She’s in a pale blue dress, dotted with tiny crescent moons that glitter in the sunlight. It’s cinched at the waist and Harry realizes Luna looks more woman than girl, which he knows is a bizarre thing to think right at this moment. The word beautiful drifts into his head and he swallows, suddenly warm around the collar.
“Hi Luna, hi Mr. Lovegood,” Harry says, grateful when his voice sounds normal. Then he inwardly balks, panicking - why wouldn’t his voice sound normal? It’s just Luna.
She breaks out into a smile that is so sunny he’s nearly blinded. “Hi Harry. You look well. Not too tired, like the last time I saw you.”
Harry grins, thinking about the last Hogsmeade weekend he’d visited. He’d pulled an all-nighter with Ron and Neville the day before as they struggled through mounds of paperwork on top of their field assignments with the more experienced Aurors. Luna and Hermione had actually gasped when they saw Ron and Harry and the dark circles under their eyes.
“I’ve thankfully been able to sleep the last few days,” he offers. Xenophilius looks thoughtful.
“My dear boy, you ought to try a bit of gurdyroot infusion just before bed,” he tells Harry, looking serious. “Perhaps the nargles are being extra mischievous with the warm weather.”
Luna looks at her father fondly. “Daddy, I don’t think it’s nargles. I think Harry just needed some rest.” She looks at Harry then, studying him. A few years ago, Harry would’ve felt uncomfortable. But now he just understands it’s Luna’s way of observing.
Mrs. Weasley calls for Xenophilius, waving him over and he excuses himself. Harry looks down at Luna. He clears his throat.
“You look great,” he tells her because he can’t keep it in anymore. She should know. Luna’s cheeks immediately become pink and she looks pleased at the compliment, grinning at Harry.
“You look well, too,” Luna says. “And not just because you’ve slept. You look handsome.” She says it very casually, like it’s nothing at all, and maybe that’s why Harry feels himself flush. He clears his throat again and realizes he must sound like he’s got something caught in his throat, how many times has he cleared it in the last thirty seconds?
His inward spiral doesn’t last long because Luna says she’s going away with her father for a month and it throws him from his inner thoughts. Harry furrows his brows.
“A month?” He wonders for a moment why that feels so disappointing to him, and he tells himself it’s because Luna is one of his best friends and he’d be sad about any of his best friends going away for a month.
But Luna is beaming and looks very excited. “Yes! To Sweden. A gift for completing my last year at Hogwarts. And good practice for when I begin my research trips as part of Magizoology training. I do hope we find a crumple-horned snorkack.”
“That sounds brilliant,” Harry tells her, and he means it. “When do you leave?”
“Next week,” Luna says. “I won’t be able to write while traveling, but when I return, maybe we can see each other and I can tell you about it?”
She looks uncertain, like maybe he’ll say no, and Harry feels his heart lurch. He realizes in that moment that even after all this time, after everything Luna has been through with Harry and Dumbledore’s Army, there’s still a small part of her that thinks maybe she’s all alone still. That they aren’t her friends. That they don’t want to be around her.
He hates it.
“Of course,” he tells her firmly. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.” And then, because he’s already blurted out that he thinks she looks great, he throws caution to the wind and says, “Um, I’ll miss you.” His hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing it nervously.
He feels himself begin to flush with embarrassment as her eyebrows skate upwards in slight surprise, but then she grins at him, her eyes flickering down to her feet just once before meeting his eyes again.
“I’ll miss you too, Harry.”
Harry beams at Luna Lovegood and Luna Lovegood beams back.
* * *
Harry doesn’t see Luna for more than two months and when she finally comes back in the second week of August, it’s with a new dusting of freckles across her nose from the sun, her skin golden and glowy and her hair longer than before, cascading over her shoulder in a thick plait.
Harry clears his throat three times in twenty seconds upon seeing her.
They’re in the backyard of the Burrow for Fleur’s baby shower. Mrs. Weasley had insisted that everyone - not just the women - be invited, and since nobody was going to go against Mrs. Weasley’s wishes, they had complied. The baby shower had turned into a sort of summer party, with guests milling about under the setting summer sun, sipping elderflower wine and glowing in the light of the actual fairies that lit up the yard.
When Harry had come out to the backyard, levitating a bowl of punch for Mrs. Weasley, he’d seen Luna laughing with Ginny. She must’ve arrived when he was inside, and for a moment he couldn’t do more than just kind of look at her. Over two months was a long time, he reasoned, and he was just making sure that she was the same Luna from before the trip. But she wasn’t - not really. She was glowing and looked older and just - well, yes, the same Luna with her uncanny ability to know when his eyes were on her (because she immediately caught him looking and waved at him) but she was also different. More worldly, perhaps? Two months of traveling would do that to a person, surely. Harry felt confused as he went over to say hi.
Luna now sits beside Harry in the grass, a few hours later, taking a sip of her wine and then quickly setting it back down.
“I really can’t believe we were gone so long,” she says, adjusting her wand in its usual place behind her ear. Harry grins, watching her. “I did miss everyone, though. Very much. But we knew we had to extend our trip because our research kept telling us we were close to the herd of snorkacks. Even though we didn’t find them, it was still just so lovely!”
Harry stretches his legs out in front of him, taking his own sip of wine. “I’m glad you had such a good time. Sounds like it was worth it.”
Luna nods and sighs dreamily. “I could spend all of my days exploring. I never feel quite as alive as I do when I’m out looking for creatures.” Luna takes another sip and looks at Harry.
“But you,” she says, her eyes skating over his face and his five o’clock shadow that is more beard than shadow these days. “You haven’t been sleeping again. Because of work? Or nightmares?”
Harry shouldn’t be startled at Luna’s spot on observation, but he is. He thinks that for the rest of his life, he’ll always be started that someone can know him so well. His eyes flick for a second over to Ron, who has his arm around Hermione as they talk to Bill and Fleur, and Harry swallows.
“It was a rough month of field work,” he finally says, looking back to Luna, who is watching him patiently. “We - uh - Ron and the Auror he’s shadowing, they got into a tough spot. They were ambushed by blood purists and it wasn’t pretty.” Ron still has the lingering bruise around his eye to show for it.
Luna studies Harry for a moment, and he resists the urge to fidget.
“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” she finally says. “We fought for so long and so hard, and yet there are still those out there who wish things were the way they were before the war.”
Harry rubs his jaw, contemplating Luna’s words. “I think that’s why it’s been hard lately. I’m reminded at work that some things haven’t changed, no matter how much we’ve sacrificed.”
Luna hums, picking up her wine and taking a sip. The dying sun casts pink and purple hues over her blonde hair, the glittering effect a little mesmerizing. Harry has a hard time looking away.
“We have sacrificed so much,” Luna says, and not for the first time is Harry reminded that he’s not the only one changed after the war. He’s nineteen and working an actual job and hiding from the press constantly and still has nightmares about Voldemort and death and the permanent pain of losing all that they lost. And Luna - she’s also different. She was held prisoner for weeks, she saw people she loved die - saw her father nearly die in Azkaban.
Those kinds of things don’t leave a person unscathed.
“But,” Luna continues. “I always think about how proud everyone we lost would be right now. How the fighting and the pain was worth it. Yes, there are still bad wizards out there. But there’s so much good too.”
Harry swallows. “You always have so much hope, Luna. I wish I could be more like you.”
Luna laughs then, a light sound that floats over to him. Her cheeks are pink from the wine and the summer heat, and Harry thinks she’s the loveliest thing he’s ever set eyes on.
“I’m glad you’re like you though, Harry,” she tells him, her eyes twinkling with mirth and warmth and everything Luna that is so wonderful about her. His good friend - one of his best.
They look at each other, and Harry wants to say something but he’s not really sure what to say because his head is buzzing with adrenaline all of a sudden and he’s thinking that Luna is more than just one of his friends - she’s the best person he knows.
Then Ginny calls for her and Luna gives Harry a little smile before picking up her wine and drifting off, her white dress billowing in the breeze. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and stands up at the same time that Ron approaches him, peering at Harry over the brim of his glass of firewhisky. His eyes look from Harry, to Luna, then back to Harry again. He lowers his glass.
“Mate,” is all Ron says. Harry sighs, still looking at Luna as she joins Ginny by Fleur’s stack of gifts.
“I know,” is all Harry says. “I know.”
“You gonna tell her?” Ron asks and Harry knows that he and Ron have matured some because his friend was never that intuitive before. He thinks the whole “emotional range of a teaspoon” comment from Hermione may have to be amended.
Harry takes a long pull of wine. Ron clears his throat.
“She’s not dating Dean, yanno,” he supplies and Harry finally looks at him. He quirks an eyebrow at Ron and Ron shrugs. “‘Mione told me. Well, more I overheard her talking to Ginny about it the other day. Said they’re just good friends, but it’s strictly platonic.”
Harry feels a weight he doesn’t realize is there, lift from his shoulders. The idea of Luna with somebody romantically - anybody - sets him on a bit of an edge, and he thinks (feebly) maybe that’s just because she’s one of his best friends. But he doesn’t feel on edge with the idea of Ginny dating someone else, or Hermione with Ron, or--
“Blimey,” Harry finally says, the realization so clear that he is surprised he was ever confused by it.
Ron takes a sip of his firewhisky. “Like, I said, you gonna tell her?”
“Undecided,” is all Harry can say and Ron claps him on the shoulder, giving him what Harry can only interpret as a look of pity.
“Girls like to be told when you fancy them,” Ron says wisely like he’s got all the answers. “Wouldn’t wait too long, mate. Bloody hell knows I did.”
“Right,” Harry mutters, wishing his wine was something a bit stronger.
* * *
Harry James Potter is the savior of the wizarding world, and yet he can’t figure out how to tell the girl he likes that he likes her.
It’s driving him mad. But he doesn’t tell Luna that he has feelings for her that are very much past the point of friendship, because if he’s being honest with himself, he’s a bit nervous. He cares so much about Luna and the closeness they’ve cultivated over the last few years that he’s worried if he tells her how he feels, it’ll ruin everything.
And maybe that’s selfish of him. But he’s still figuring out everything, each day, as best he can. He still has nightmares and he still feels overwhelmed at work and he’s still deciding if he should move out of Grimmauld Place or not, and telling Luna that he wants to take her on an actual date feels so daunting and impossible. And part of him - a tiny, nagging part he can't get rid of - whispers that he deserves to be alone.
So Harry doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t say anything and he buries his secret deep down inside because without Luna’s friendship, Harry’s life seems much more dismal and he’s too much of a coward to disrupt the way things are right now. He just...he can’t.
So he doesn’t.
* * *
It is Luna’s idea to paint the drawing room of Grimmauld Place a cream color, and Harry has to admit, as they stand rolling the second coat onto the walls, that it is a brilliant idea.
“Something as simple as fresh paint can make a world of difference,” Luna tells him, looking over her shoulder from across the room as they work on opposite walls. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she has a large white oxford shirt on, rolled up at the sleeves, underneath jean overalls with a rainbow patch on the front. There’s paint brushed across her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Harry has to remind himself to stop looking at her when she turns back to the wall.
“Thanks again for helping me, Luna,” Harry tells her. “You could be doing much more enjoyable things with your Saturday.”
“Oh, this is very enjoyable. I love painting very much.”
Harry’s reminded of her old bedroom ceiling, with the portraits of himself, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Ginny, all holding hands and linked with the word friends. A surge of warmth goes through his chest.
“Still,” Harry says, turning back to his own wall and rolling a fresh layer on. “It’s not like Grimmauld Place is cheery. Though this new color is definitely helping.”
“Do you want to stay here at Grimmauld Place for awhile?” Luna asks, walking to the center of the room and bending down to pour more paint into her tray. Harry looks at her over his shoulder and grins as she blows a curl out of her eyes.
He shrugs. “Not forever, I know that. But for now...I don’t know. Feels like it just makes the most sense.”
Luna looks up as she stands with her tray full of paint. “Well, I think it’s a good idea to make it feel more like a home. Even if it’s a temporary one.”
Harry pushes his messy hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, nodding. “I reckon you’re right.”
“I’ll miss my home this fall.”
Luna’s sentence stops Harry from turning back around. His eyes furrow as he tries to understand.
“Are you and your dad going somewhere?”
Luna cocks her head to the side, raising her eyebrows at Harry. “No, just me. I’m going on my first research trip as part of my Magizoology training. I thought I’d mentioned it.”
Harry clears his throat, wracking his brain for any memory of Luna telling him this. He vaguely remembers her mentioning a trip the last time they were together, but he’s been so busy at work and overwhelmed that he feels a bit guilty knowing he wasn’t listening very closely.
“Oh yeah,” he lies, because he doesn’t want to admit that he can’t remember. “When d’you leave again? And for how long?”
“I leave September fifteenth and return December fifteenth. I could’ve sworn I told you.”
Harry swallows, internally panicking. Of course, he’s thrilled for Luna. He knows this is a big opportunity for her and the first step in her career post-Hogwarts. But on the other hand, he hasn’t told her his feelings yet and despite alarm bells going on in his head that he should just forget it, it could ruin his friendship with her, he has a pit in his stomach. He wants to tell Luna, more than anything. But how can he tell her when she’ll be gone in a few weeks? Gone for three months.
“Harry? Are you okay?”
Luna is suddenly in front of Harry, looking concerned. His thoughts must’ve shown on his face and he quickly musters up a grin at Luna, hoping beyond hope that he looks normal.
“Yeah! Fine,” he says, turning back to the wall to paint. “Brilliant.”
Luna steps beside him and he turns to look down at her and sees her eyes roaming over his face. He feels warm around the collar. Maybe it’s the paint fumes making him feel unlike himself?
“I just...it seems like there’s something on your mind,” Luna tells him. He swallows and realizes Luna is standing very close to him. Get it together, he tells himself.
“Oh! Er...no, I’m great,” he says. “I’m excited for you, Luna. You’re gonna be amazing.”
Luna’s grey eyes are so big and so open that Harry thinks it’s no wonder he can never look away. She looks so pleased to just be here, with him, that he doesn’t feel like he deserves her friendship - much less anything more - because Luna is the best person he’s ever met.
We’re all still here. We’re still fighting. Come on, now…
Harry remembers the way Luna’s words helped him fight at the Battle of Hogwarts, how without her encouraging him, he wouldn’t have made it past the dementors. And now, standing here in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place with Luna, he can’t imagine his life without her.
But then for some reason that he doesn’t understand, Luna suddenly looks disappointed. She furrows her brows, taking a slight step back.
“Oh, okay,” she says, her voice soft and thoughtful. “I thought maybe you had something to tell me.”
Now Harry knows he’s flushing because he can feel his whole face get hot. He curses his inability to just remain cool. His left hand is still holding his paint roller, and he knows it’s dripping onto the floor, likely missing the old Daily Prophets they’d laid down, but he doesn’t care. His heart is beating quite fast as if a snitch is inside of his chest.
“You did?” is all he can manage to ask in a low voice, looking at Luna. She nods, her cast eyes down to her feet, before lifting them to meet his.
“I did,” she says, and her voice - though soft - is firm and confident. She tilts her head to the side, her ponytail cascading over her shoulder. The streak of paint across her cheek is still there, and Harry has the urge to rub his thumb over it.
Harry nods, and he takes a step toward Luna. They’re close once again, standing just a breath’s distance apart. The top of Luna’s head comes up to Harry’s chin, and he looks down at her, noticing the pink blooming across her cheeks. Her eyes are wide and curious, taking him in. He can’t look away.
“I do, actually,” Harry says, stepping closer still and they’re in each other’s space now, he can smell her shampoo, the earthy scent of it wafting underneath the smell of paint, and Harry can’t help but notice her chest rising and falling a bit faster than normal and a hot coil springs loose in his stomach. “Have something to tell you, I mean.”
Luna swallows, her entire chest flushing and Harry feels simultaneously rooted to the spot and has the urge to put his free hand around her waist or to lift it and brush the curl out of her eye but it stays by his side as if he no longer has the ability to move it.
“What is it, Harry Potter?” she asks him, her voice breathless and Harry thinks it sounds really good like that.
He finally manages to move his free hand and it comes up to Luna’s face and he does, in fact, tuck that loose curl behind her ear and he hears her take in a sharp breath. Then her eyes are fluttering shut and he can’t believe his luck because he never thought this would happen, never thought he’d be here with Luna--
He’s just bending down his head, he’s centimeters from Luna’s lips when there’s a knock at the door that sends them both jumping away from each other. Luna knocks her shoulder into the ladder in the center of the room, holding one of the trays of paint, and it splashes down her entire front, coating her in the off white color. She lets out a little squeak of surprise, her eyes wide as she looks down at the mess.
Harry turns to look at the door and Kreacher is standing there with a tray of sandwiches.
“I brought Mr. Potter and Miss Lovegood some lunch,” he says, and then he looks at Luna, dripping paint all over the floor. “Would Miss like a towel?”
“Thank you, Kreacher, that would be lovely,” Luna says. Kreacher nods, setting the tray of sandwiches on the floor, before disappearing. Harry and Luna stand in silence avoiding each other’s gaze until Kreacher comes back, handing Luna a towel before retreating once again. Then Luna and Harry finally make eye contact and burst out laughing, the awkward tension dissipating immediately.
They’re still chuckling as Luna tries to clean herself up with the towel, but it just makes the paint seep into her clothes more.
She looks up at Harry, grinning. “I’m a mess.”
“You are,” Harry says, his voice full of laughter. “Come on, you can borrow something of mine.”
He leads her out of the drawing room and up the stairs to his bedroom, which is when he begins to get nervous again. Luna stands in the doorway as Harry walks over to his dresser, silently thanking his past self for making his bed that morning. He pulls open the top drawer, taking out a plain t-shirt, and then finds a pair of his flannel pajama pants. Turning back, he sees that Luna’s eyes are skating all over his bedroom, taking it in.
He hopes she likes it.
“Here you go,” he says, holding out his hand and Luna’s attention comes back to Harry. She takes the clothes, grinning gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll just - er - I’ll wait outside, you can change in here,” Harry says, quickly leaving his room and shutting the door behind him. He lets out a breath, his mind reeling.
He and Luna had been about to kiss. Luna is in his bedroom right now, getting undressed and he can’t stop the heat that shoots through the entirety of his body. He tries to think of anything else - anything but Luna, in his bedroom, putting on his clothes because he needs to keep a clear head.
This is Luna Lovegood. This is - besides Hermione and Ron - one of the most important people in his life. One of his best friends.
And they’d almost kissed.
Which meant...Luna must feel the same way about him?
Harry rubs the back of his neck, pacing in the hallway, and lets out a breath. Blimey , he thinks. Could she like him back? She had said that she expected Harry to tell her something - Luna could always read Harry better than anyone, always seemed to know what was going on in his head. He must’ve been a lot more obvious than he imagined.
He spirals for a few more moments before his door opens and he’s greeted by the sight of Luna Lovegood standing in the doorway of his bedroom, wearing his t-shirt and pajama pants, looking downright adorable. He gulps.
“They’re a little big,” she says, holding her folded, paint-strewn clothes in one hand, and pulling at the pajama pants with the other. “But quite comfortable. How do I look?”
She’s teasing him, he knows it, and he wonders if she really does feel the same way about him that he feels about her. It’s as if she can read his mind because she doesn’t look away as he steps forward again - instead, she drops her clothes to the ground.
“Can I kiss you, Luna?” he asks, taken aback by his own directness in the matter. His heart still for a moment as her eyebrows raise slightly.
“Please,” she says simply, and Harry puts one hand around her waist, the other on the back of her neck, and finally bends down to put his lips on hers. She lets out a sigh that Harry decides is one of his favorite sounds, and he kisses Luna in the doorway to his bedroom, her arms sliding around his neck, pulling him close.
When they pull away they’re both breathless and Harry quirks an eyebrow, reaching up to once again to tuck some loose hair behind her ear.
“You’re going away for three months,” he finally says, because he doesn’t want anything weird between them. If she thinks this is a rubbish idea, he wants her to say so.
She nods, her arms still around his neck, his hands still around her waist. “I am.” She pauses, studying him. “But you can write to me if you’d like. And I’ll be back in time for Christmas.”
“It’ll be like you’re back in Hogwarts,” he says and Luna smiles. He clears his throat, suddenly even more nervous than right before he kissed her. “D’you want this Luna? Because I do. I really, really do.”
“Oh good,” she says. “Because I want this too.” And then Luna beams at him.
He beams back.
* * *