Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I don't own Harry Potter in any way, shape or form. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart."
~ Helen Keller




She doesn't look very bright, nor does she sound like a person with high intelligence. She spends her days murmuring softly and smiling for no real reason, much to the agitation of those around her. He remembers what she was like when she was younger, and to be honest, she wasn't much different.

Everything fascinated the young girl with dirty blonde hair and such vague eyes. She'd laugh at the most inappropriate moments; staring dreamily off into space the next. And things had never changed, really. He noticed that she still sported that lost look whenever they'd pass each other in the corridors, though she doesn't seem to remember him.

Heaven forbid, it had been ages ago.

Children are supposed to laugh and be merry. They're supposed to enjoy the sunshine and run from the shadows, merely so they can still have time left to play. They had been children then; he had been older of course, by a year and four months, as he calculated years later.

She had been a sweet little girl, sitting at a stall at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor in Diagon Alley. Her father had disappeared into The Leaky Cauldron for a moment, promising to return in a moment as he went in search of a colleague he was supposed to be meeting that afternoon. Lying neatly in front of her on the table was her coloring book, and she hummed a soft tune under her breath as her crayons scribbled back and forth over the page.

"So, Master Malfoy," Mr. Fortescue had asked. "What flavor would you like?"

A small boy with dark grey eyes peered up at the selection, indecisive. His mother, who had a rather impatient air about her, tugged on his hand, gesturing for him to choose quickly.

"I don't know what I want," he said, pulling his hand away from his mother and giving her an exasperated look.

"You'll like vanilla," announced the young girl, not looking up from her coloring book.

Curious, Draco turned to match a face to the dreamy voice that had chosen to edge herself into his conversation. To his surprise, she took no notice of the attention he directed to her, continuing to hum softly, smiling at her picture.

"How do you know I'll like vanilla?" he asked, folding his small, fragile arms. "Strawberry looks nice, as does chocolate."

Narcissa Malfoy gave Luna a judging glance, obviously sizing up the young girl. Who on earth would leave their child unattended in such a public place? She placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, as if gesturing for him to not press any further; but he merely shrugged her hand off and took a step towards Luna's stall.

For once, the girl with dirty-blonde hair looked up, cocking her to its side and smiling dreamily. "You wouldn't like strawberry, nor chocolate. Strawberry's pink, boys don't like pink; many think it's too girly."

"And I wouldn't like chocolate because...?"

"Because it's far too rich for you," she said vaguely. "You'd probably become full too early and in the end, throw what's left away."

Draco frowned. Then he asked, "You know all this from looking at me?"

She shook her head, smiling for a moment, before laughing rather hoarsely for a moment, surprising all those in the ice cream parlor. Narcissa pursed her lips in annoyance, and Draco jumped back abruptly, trying to make sense of the younger girl's mirth.

"Of course I know from looking at you," Luna proclaimed in her calm, subtle voice. "My daddy says that a good reporter can learn almost anything from merely looking at another person. I think he's right. From the way you walk, you're clearly a pureblood from a rather rich family. And, you obviously haven't had ice cream very often, as most children know of their favorite flavor after the first few tastes."

Draco opened his mouth to speak in retaliation, but found that he had nothing left to say. She merely beaming brightly, before glancing back down at her coloring book and choosing an orange crayon to finish her picture with.

Glancing up at his mother, and then back once more at Luna, he nodded slowly and said to Narcissa, "I think I want vanilla."

So while his mother went forward and hastily placed her son's order, Draco crept over to Luna's side and observed the picture she seemed so dedicated to. It was vibrant, filled with many different colors. None of them seemed to match, and no objects were one shade of purple, or one shade or pink.

"Does it look any good?" she asked earnestly, her grey eyes almost shimmering as they landed on him. Draco shrugged, shuffling his feet as he edged closer to the picture.

"It looks okay... though..."

"Though what?"

"There's too many colors. Nothing matches."

"Great!" the young girl exclaimed joyfully. Draco stood there, unmoving and confused entirely, as his mother beckoned him over to the counter to collect his treat. Before he returned to his mother's side though, he hastily asked for the young girls name.

"Oh," she murmured. "I'm Luna Lovegood."

"I'm Draco," he whispered as he turned to Mr. Fortescue. "Draco Malfoy."

Another smile. Another dreamy stare.

Narcissa paid the shopkeep, before ushering Draco out of the ice-cream parlor towards Flourish and Blotts. Reluctantly, he tried his first taste of ice-cream. It was creamy, cold and melted on his tongue, and he smirked as he lapped away at his treat.

Come to think of it, he did like vanilla.

But that had been years ago; he shouldn't expect her to remember a young boy who'd acted so strangely towards her oh so long ago - after all, almost everybody did nowadays. And they both attend Hogwarts now, but he'd hardly as sweet and innocent as he had seemed years ago. Now whenever they meet, he calls taunts after her as she drifts down the corridor away from him and his cronies.

It doesn't mean he doesn't remember though, and it doesn't mean that he isn't pained when he sees her lost grey eyes show no emotion as she dares to look him in the eye.

Draco knows it's childish of him to still linger on the past; to silently reminisce with himself of that little girl with dirty-blonde hair and a charmingly sweet attitude, but he can't help but remember the sugary taste of ice-cream on his tongue and the delight she'd taken in her abstract coloring.

And he's remembering alone, apparently. Or so one may think. Though some days, he's certain he can smell the enticing essence of vanilla drifting down the halls in her wake.