"Six times Luna's heart broke, and one time she was the heart-breaker"
Her mother lies broken on the ground. There is still traces of spell residue clinging to her half-singed hair, her cracked dry skin. Her wand, which she had so treasured, burns to the touch.
Luna doesnât find out until itâs far too late. She had sneaked out earlier on to play with the new neighbors, dancing in their gardens with wildflowers in her hair. This had been a habit her mother had failed to discourage. The only thing that had ever caused strife between herself and her husband.
Luna kneels and tenderly sweeps away her motherâs hair from her cold face. She does not cry, not yet anyway. There will be time for that when she doesnât feel as broken as the body on the ground.
She never says any of this out loud.
She doesnât actually think sheâs that loony.
She curbs her tongue anyway, because her father needs readers, because they need money, because she needs companionship that isnât her father and her paint and traces of her mother clinging to every aspect of her house. Itâs fine if sheâs called names, at least itâs sort of out-of-earshot.
What small minds those around her have. What pathetic insistence on pointless codes of behavior, appearance, blood. (She is what would be called a pure-blood, but it doesnât really matter, does it? Not when sheâs loony and no proper pure-blood will talk to her.)
She never says any of this out loud.
She blinks back tears and cradles her little owl in the palm of her hand. She smiles the pale, washed-out smile that was as cold as any frown, and stares silently out at the moon.
She supposes she should have predicted. Sheâd quietly ignored the taunting that had seemed particularly fierce after the Slug Club, thinking it would be a brief fit of pique that would wane like the moon.
But the moon waxes. She had forgotten that. She puts away her wand, kneels to the ground, and buries her little owl with her bare hands in the patch of soil beneath the sunflowers.
Better that someone get some light, at least.
She never says any of this out loud.
Sometimes, she wonders what it would be like to let herself sink into love. In a different world she would have been one of those girls who had this chance. Sheâs not ugly. Sheâs not even so stupid, and she can clean herself up well if she doesnât have her clothes stolen so often.
She wanted to feel beautiful. Loved. Adored. Cherished. She didnât think that was so unreasonable a desire. She didnât think that discussing an odd creature or two should have completely destroyed her possibilities at knowing her peers.
She never says any of this out loud. Who would she have said it to?
âAs if youâd know the first thing about tragedy. Maybe if you got a scar or two youâd be less sanctimonious about my bad attitude,â Harry spits, standing up and storming away without so much as a glance back.
She knows about tragedy. Just because she keeps a smile on her face instead of screaming or crying at the drop of a hat doesnât mean she has never felt unhappiness. She knows enough, at least, to never assume that sheâs the only one who has ever suffered.
She never says any of this out loud. After all, aside from his temper, Harryâs been a perfectly lovely friend to her. Hasnât he?
âAnd you, little girl, are going to make sure Potter hands himself over and we can finally begin our noble work,â cackles the Death Eater, grabbing her with dirty, rough hands as they Disapparate with a loud crack.
She had never managed to cure her fondness of exploring, even with a war on the horizon. She had wanted an escape, a taste of freedom, a recreation of a nostalgic memory that should have stayed solely in the past. She hadnât even gone that far this time around, she would still been able to run back to the house for her wand if sheâd had any warning...
She never says any of this out loud: itâs useless to take her, especially after her fatherâs resistance broke down. She knows nothing and she hasnât seen Harry in so long.
âNeville, we both know this was never going to work beyond this summer. You cannot wait for me as I travel the world, and I cannot ground myself to one house for you forever. You might hate me for this. If you ever find it within your generous, loving, beautiful heart to forgive my wretched wanderlust, I pray that you name a flower after me.â
She does say this out loud.
