fic: hp, harry/luna, "five things to love.."
title. Five Things to Love About Luna Lovegood
fandom. Harry Potter
pairing. Harry/Luna
rating. PG
summary. She is an innocent, and he is a fool.
one.
The kind of music Luna plays is exquisite. The way she’s mastered the piano is some kind of beautiful Harry never sees coming. An unexpected early morning walk sees them passing by a Muggle music store. She’s gone wide-eyed at the sight of all the instruments, and insists, dreamily still, that they go inside. Smiling to himself, he obliges. She is taken with all of them, fingering each with a slight frown, appearing to be deep in thought. He stands by, waiting, afraid to interrupt, though his stomach aches for a breakfast yet to be eaten. She comes over to the grand piano stationed in the center of the room, and smiles, her fingers daintily caressing the smooth surface of it. It silently entreats her inexperienced fingers to play, and casts a spell over her that can only be broken, temporarily, by the suggestion that they go to the café around the corner for, her favorite, pudding and a salad with extra radish.
He buys her a sleek ebony grand for her twentieth birthday, presenting it to her sheepishly. It is an act of kindness that he himself doesn’t understand. Her grey eyes are alight with excitement. The hug she gives him in return is brief, innocent. It warms him to an inexplicable extent, but he is careful to keep his distance. The blondness of her hair is a jutting reminder of the fiery red he is accustomed to. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny, he repeats faithfully to himself.
The way she plays is the only thing more exquisite than the music itself. She chooses odd, edgy pieces that lull him into a trance, slowly, easily, before jerking him violently awake, eyes flung wide open. Her fingers barely hesitate on the keys. She plays with a dreamy grace that hypnotizes him, sending him spiraling into tunnels of smooth, alternating blacks and whites. When she finishes, there is only agonizing silence.
two.
She smells of a mixture of things, an always-pleasant mixture. There is the scent of a flower he can never remember the name of.
“Peony.” She says to him one day over tea. “My mother used to wear them in her hair. She told me they grant the wearer the power to keep a secret.” He smiles at this.
Then, there is the smell of persimmon, sweet and alluring. She bakes the orange fruits into cookies and hands them out to random passerby on the streets, all of whom usually take one and eye it with much apprehension. She tells him she does it because her father says that persimmon is especially good for curing sudden bouts of sadness and preventing a rare kind of disease brought on from long-term exposure to salamander saliva.
She, who smells of peonies and persimmon, provides another sharp contrast to his wife, who smells of synthetic floral perfume and, often, of too much whiskey.
three.
She is always surprised and delighted to be invited to the annual Christmas Eve party. She arrives two hours too early and brings odd decorations of all the wrong colors. She drapes the furniture with oranges and yellows and gazes for hours at the tree, mesmerized by the lights. She drinks mug after mug of hot chocolate, smiling privately to herself with every sip.
“Nargles don’t like chocolate much,” she says, absently.
As a joke, Ron steals some whiskey from his sister's secret stash and pours a decent amount of it into Luna's fifth mug of hot chocolate. She mistakes the burning sensation in her throat for temperature. The spiked hot chocolate is gone all too quickly, and she is laughing all too loudly. A flush creeps up and settles onto her usually pale cheeks. Harry likes it that way.
When he helps her home, just around the corner and up the hill, she laughs at the sight of the stars and asks him to dance with her. She is hardly what one would call a good dancer, but neither is he. Her odd movements have a certain kind of grace to them. Something about them makes him stand back and watch, and he finds himself surprised that he wishes he could join her somehow.
four.
She doesn’t sob when her father dies. He sits with her in her garden that is crawling with strange plants and even stranger animals. His hand rests tentatively on the sleeve of her purple knit jumper. Silent, solitary tears trace a pathway down her pale cheeks, and she makes no effort to stop them. It’s different, watching her cry. She is unashamed of her tears. She does not curse, or groan, or wipe them away feverishly. When she is finished, for now, she rests her head on his shoulder, innocently enough. His thumb twitches where it rests on her arm, and he finds it leading the rest of his fingers down a dangerous path to her leg. She loops her arm through his and sighs, commenting lightly on the clouds above.
They do not move for a long time. Finally, she gets up - “to feed the cat”, she says - and he is surprised to see little wet spots on the sleeve of his coat. Such quiet little tears.
five.
She doesn’t smile when it’s unnecessary. He appreciates that. She is an innocent, and he is a fool. He shows up on her doorstep, nearly sick with frustration and anger and tells her he isn’t allowed home. It is then that she adopts an unintentionally inappropriate look of delight. She tells him he is welcome to stay the night in her house, in the spare bedroom - “you’ll have to share with the cat, of course” -- and that she has just made a fresh batch of persimmon cookies, with a twist, this time. His anger melts into a puddle that soaks into the doormat under his feet, and he leaves it there when he shuts the door behind him.
She sits atop the table and listens to him with her head tilted to one side, eyes wide. Outside, it begins to rain, which seems to excite her immensely. All of a sudden, everything about her adds up, and he is taken. He stands a little too quickly, startling her, and presses his lips onto hers. She tastes like something he has never tasted before, and smells more like peony than ever. He notices that she has a single flower, bright red in color, tucked behind her ear. He kisses the flowered ear awkwardly, and she breathes a soft laugh in response. Her usually dreamy eyes are alarmingly clear. He is overwhelmed by her sudden sense of presence, by the way she says his name very quietly, and by the way she finally kisses him back. One clumsy hand dislodges the flower, the power of their secret, from its place and it falls, to be crushed beneath the weight of their entwined bodies.
And there you have it.
Eight days 'til Christmas. Daaaayum.
fandom. Harry Potter
pairing. Harry/Luna
rating. PG
summary. She is an innocent, and he is a fool.
one.
The kind of music Luna plays is exquisite. The way she’s mastered the piano is some kind of beautiful Harry never sees coming. An unexpected early morning walk sees them passing by a Muggle music store. She’s gone wide-eyed at the sight of all the instruments, and insists, dreamily still, that they go inside. Smiling to himself, he obliges. She is taken with all of them, fingering each with a slight frown, appearing to be deep in thought. He stands by, waiting, afraid to interrupt, though his stomach aches for a breakfast yet to be eaten. She comes over to the grand piano stationed in the center of the room, and smiles, her fingers daintily caressing the smooth surface of it. It silently entreats her inexperienced fingers to play, and casts a spell over her that can only be broken, temporarily, by the suggestion that they go to the café around the corner for, her favorite, pudding and a salad with extra radish.
He buys her a sleek ebony grand for her twentieth birthday, presenting it to her sheepishly. It is an act of kindness that he himself doesn’t understand. Her grey eyes are alight with excitement. The hug she gives him in return is brief, innocent. It warms him to an inexplicable extent, but he is careful to keep his distance. The blondness of her hair is a jutting reminder of the fiery red he is accustomed to. Ginny, Ginny, Ginny, he repeats faithfully to himself.
The way she plays is the only thing more exquisite than the music itself. She chooses odd, edgy pieces that lull him into a trance, slowly, easily, before jerking him violently awake, eyes flung wide open. Her fingers barely hesitate on the keys. She plays with a dreamy grace that hypnotizes him, sending him spiraling into tunnels of smooth, alternating blacks and whites. When she finishes, there is only agonizing silence.
two.
She smells of a mixture of things, an always-pleasant mixture. There is the scent of a flower he can never remember the name of.
“Peony.” She says to him one day over tea. “My mother used to wear them in her hair. She told me they grant the wearer the power to keep a secret.” He smiles at this.
Then, there is the smell of persimmon, sweet and alluring. She bakes the orange fruits into cookies and hands them out to random passerby on the streets, all of whom usually take one and eye it with much apprehension. She tells him she does it because her father says that persimmon is especially good for curing sudden bouts of sadness and preventing a rare kind of disease brought on from long-term exposure to salamander saliva.
She, who smells of peonies and persimmon, provides another sharp contrast to his wife, who smells of synthetic floral perfume and, often, of too much whiskey.
three.
She is always surprised and delighted to be invited to the annual Christmas Eve party. She arrives two hours too early and brings odd decorations of all the wrong colors. She drapes the furniture with oranges and yellows and gazes for hours at the tree, mesmerized by the lights. She drinks mug after mug of hot chocolate, smiling privately to herself with every sip.
“Nargles don’t like chocolate much,” she says, absently.
As a joke, Ron steals some whiskey from his sister's secret stash and pours a decent amount of it into Luna's fifth mug of hot chocolate. She mistakes the burning sensation in her throat for temperature. The spiked hot chocolate is gone all too quickly, and she is laughing all too loudly. A flush creeps up and settles onto her usually pale cheeks. Harry likes it that way.
When he helps her home, just around the corner and up the hill, she laughs at the sight of the stars and asks him to dance with her. She is hardly what one would call a good dancer, but neither is he. Her odd movements have a certain kind of grace to them. Something about them makes him stand back and watch, and he finds himself surprised that he wishes he could join her somehow.
four.
She doesn’t sob when her father dies. He sits with her in her garden that is crawling with strange plants and even stranger animals. His hand rests tentatively on the sleeve of her purple knit jumper. Silent, solitary tears trace a pathway down her pale cheeks, and she makes no effort to stop them. It’s different, watching her cry. She is unashamed of her tears. She does not curse, or groan, or wipe them away feverishly. When she is finished, for now, she rests her head on his shoulder, innocently enough. His thumb twitches where it rests on her arm, and he finds it leading the rest of his fingers down a dangerous path to her leg. She loops her arm through his and sighs, commenting lightly on the clouds above.
They do not move for a long time. Finally, she gets up - “to feed the cat”, she says - and he is surprised to see little wet spots on the sleeve of his coat. Such quiet little tears.
five.
She doesn’t smile when it’s unnecessary. He appreciates that. She is an innocent, and he is a fool. He shows up on her doorstep, nearly sick with frustration and anger and tells her he isn’t allowed home. It is then that she adopts an unintentionally inappropriate look of delight. She tells him he is welcome to stay the night in her house, in the spare bedroom - “you’ll have to share with the cat, of course” -- and that she has just made a fresh batch of persimmon cookies, with a twist, this time. His anger melts into a puddle that soaks into the doormat under his feet, and he leaves it there when he shuts the door behind him.
She sits atop the table and listens to him with her head tilted to one side, eyes wide. Outside, it begins to rain, which seems to excite her immensely. All of a sudden, everything about her adds up, and he is taken. He stands a little too quickly, startling her, and presses his lips onto hers. She tastes like something he has never tasted before, and smells more like peony than ever. He notices that she has a single flower, bright red in color, tucked behind her ear. He kisses the flowered ear awkwardly, and she breathes a soft laugh in response. Her usually dreamy eyes are alarmingly clear. He is overwhelmed by her sudden sense of presence, by the way she says his name very quietly, and by the way she finally kisses him back. One clumsy hand dislodges the flower, the power of their secret, from its place and it falls, to be crushed beneath the weight of their entwined bodies.
And there you have it.
Eight days 'til Christmas. Daaaayum.