May I request Luna Lovegood with a slytherin reader who’s rough and tough around others, but the complete opposite when it comes to her? For example reader snapping at other people for asking too many questions just to turn around and answer all of Luna’s questions!
Sweet On You
💌 Luna Lovegood x Slytherin!Reader
💭 SFW: Fluff, sweet, reader hates everyone except Luna, pre established relationship, fluff overload tbh, reader down bad.
—
You hated people.
It wasn’t even personal — they just talked too much, got in your way, asked you stupid things like “do you think Snape is really that mean?” as if you weren’t two seconds from hexing them into a wall. Most of Hogwarts had learned by now to keep their distance.
But Luna Lovegood?
Luna could sit in your lap and talk about nargles for an hour and you’d let her braid your hair with enchanted moonflowers while she did it.
Right now, you were posted up under your favorite beech tree near the edge of the Forbidden Forest — a place most students avoided because of how, well, forbidden it was. But you liked the solitude. And Luna liked the Thestrals.
She was curled up beside you, her legs tucked under a pale blue blanket and her head on your shoulder. The afternoon sun filtered down in dappled patches, lighting up her hair like something out of a fairytale.
“You know,” Luna said absently, fingers toying with the sleeve of your robe, “the nargles have been especially active today. That usually means someone nearby is hiding a secret.”
You turned your head just slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Anyone in particular?”
She blinked up at you, wide-eyed and unbothered. “Maybe you.”
You snorted. “Sweetheart, if I was hiding something, you’d be the first to know.”
“Mm,” she hummed, as if considering it. “Maybe it’s that you were the one who hexed the Gryffindor Quidditch robes to all turn pink.”
You didn’t answer.
“You did, didn’t you?” she said dreamily. “That’s why you were growling in Transfiguration this morning. I knew it.”
“…They were loud,” you muttered, defensive.
“They are loud,” Luna agreed kindly. “But I do think pink is a much better color on them. Much less aggressive.”
You glanced down at her, and your heart did that stupid, fluttery thing it only did when she looked at you like that — soft, delighted, like the very sight of you made her feel at home.
“I’d do worse if anyone touched you,” you said, casually vicious.
“I know,” she replied with a smile, as if you’d just told her she looked lovely today. “You love me.”
You scowled at the word, but she wasn’t wrong. Merlin help you, she wasn’t wrong.
—
You weren’t sure how it happened — the scratch on your hand. Probably from that stupid bramble patch near Hagrid’s hut when you went with Luna to look for Puffskein nests. You hadn’t even noticed at the time. You’d been too busy watching her giggle as she tripped over a root and declared the moment “a good omen.”
But she noticed.
She always noticed.
“You’re bleeding,” she said suddenly, lifting your hand gently like it was something precious. Her thumbs ghosted over your skin, soft and careful despite the rough scab already forming across your knuckles.
You opened your mouth to argue — instinctively — but shut it just as quickly when you saw the frown on her face. Not upset. Just… concerned. Earnestly so.
“It’s nothing,” you muttered.
“It’s still a something,” Luna replied, and you watched her fish her wand out of her cloak pocket. “Hold still. This will only sting a little.”
You did hold still. Not because of the sting. But because she asked.
She whispered a soft healing charm under her breath — something in that airy tone that made everything she said sound like a lullaby — and warm light pulsed from the tip of her wand. You barely felt a thing.
“There. Better.” She pressed a kiss to your now-clean hand. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You were doomed.
Luna tucked herself beside you again on the courtyard bench, half under your cloak. “Dirigible plums are especially good for grounding charms, you know. They don’t teach that in Herbology because Professor Sprout thinks they’re too unreliable, but I think they’re just misunderstood.”
“Mm,” you hummed, too focused on the way her hair smelled like peppermint and parchment to offer much more.
“I read somewhere that if you wear one behind your ear during a lunar eclipse, you can hear plants talk. Isn’t that lovely?”
You grunted again, hoping it passed for agreement.
Luna turned to you suddenly, her expression bright. “Would you do it with me? Wear one? During the next eclipse?”
You blinked. “A dirigible plum?”
She nodded solemnly.
You’d wear an entire plum tree on your head if she asked.
“Yeah,” you said. “Course I would.”
She beamed.
You felt your heart collapse a little more in her hands. Like everything else about you.
—
And then there were moments like these:
Luna Lovegood absolutely should not be in the Slytherin common room.
That’s the general consensus.
It’s not that there’s a rule — technically, no one has found one that says “Ravenclaws may not lounge on Slytherin furniture like they own the place.” But if there were a rule, it would’ve been made because of her.
Because there she is.
Sprawled in your lap on the emerald-green velvet sofa like she belongs there, head tucked under your chin, bare feet curled up beside her, and humming softly as she flips through a magazine upside down.
Every time someone passes, they do a double take. First at her, then at you. You, who has threatened half this room into silence before. You, who once jinxed a boy’s eyebrows off for calling Luna “Loony.”
Now, you sit with one arm slung around her waist and the other resting possessively on her thigh, idly tracing small circles on her knee as if no one else exists.
“Are you comfortable, love?” you murmur, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“Mmhmm,” Luna hums. “Your lap is the most ergonomic chair I’ve found in the castle. You’re perfectly shaped for snuggling.”
You don’t even blink. “I aim to please.”
Across the room, someone snorts. You lift your eyes like a guillotine.
The snort dies.
Luna, unaware or uncaring of the chill in the room that has nothing to do with the dungeon air, taps your hand lightly. “Did you know the castle breathes? Sometimes you can hear it at night. The bricks creak like they’re dreaming.”
“Is that so?” you ask, your voice all syrup and warmth — a tone you’ve never used on anyone else.
She nods seriously. “I think it dreams about us.”
You rest your chin on her head. “Then it must be having very good dreams.”
