Sunday, July 8, 2012

Love, Luna

"Yes," said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter," she added. 
"I know I am," said Harry.
"You're Harry Potter" were Luna's first words to Harry. The second time she spoke to him, it went like this: "You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil.....She didn't enjoy it very much. She doesn't think you treated her very well, because you wouldn't dance with her. I don't think I'd have minded. I don't like dancing very much."

"The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness," said Harry to himself that first time he laid his eyes on her. This was the same dottiness that was perfect for a date to Horace Slughorn's Christmas Party. And unlike Padma, she enjoyed herself. Harry did too.

All that before they both learned they could see invisible creatures. Before they fought Lord Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries. Before Harry helped save her from Bellatrix Lestrange. And before they went together to see Helena Ravenclaw for the lost diadem that would take him a step forward to ending it all.

Luna and Harry belonged together. She should have been Mrs. Potter and Mum to Albus Severus, James Sirius and her namesake, Lily Luna.

There should have been a cross breed of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw in the Potter home. This, I believe with my heart.

(Here's a fan fiction I wrote a year ago)


Her quill has been stationery against her scroll for a while now, forming a growing dot as she thinks about the final words she will write. Her husband Rolf is sleeping peacefully beside her as storm rages outside the  train window, illuminating briefly the towers of Hogwarts before it turned to pitch black again.

In her bag is a stack of what are probably a hundred scrolls rolled into a thick tube, containing the same words, more or less. Her writing was cut short when Rolf woke up and stroked her long, blonde, curly hair.

'Can't sleep again, darling?'

'As always.'

'Luna, you have to eventually show me those letters if you're ever gonna publish it.'

'It's not a book.'

'If you say so.'

She decided that the one in front of her was gonna be the last. It's been 30 years.

Her letters have since made up a string of 30 heartwrenching chapters, one for each year spent outside of Hogwarts.

She prepares to move the quill to write the phrase one last time.

'Dear Harry....,' she begins.

And tears fell for the boy who lived - the boy she loved.

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