A/N: Just a quick little author's note before I get to the story. This new one is the fourth one in a completely unintentional series that I realized I just started. While looking over my fics, I realized that I have three stories, "Melt", "Must Be", and "Morning After", that are all third person narrator, present tense, female character studies that for some reason all happened to start with the letter 'M'. I was delighted to discover this, because I realized it was a good excuse to continue with this style of writing that I've been playing with lately. However, the fics have no connection with each other in terms of story line, so you can read them in whatever order you want. So this one was intentional, and I hope to be bringing you a Bellatrix one soon. Enjoy.
Moss and Moonlight
Luna rarely smiles.
She prefers to walk through life with a closed expression; not because she's not happy or because she's particularly sad, but because smiling takes an effort she doesn't want to waste.
When the smiles do come, they bloom with a beautiful, dream-like quality that can stop a person in their tracks with the sheer wonder of it. Luna knows this. She sees it happening to the tortured, green-eyed boy, but only remembers when it happens to his redheaded friend.
Luna doesn't care when her things go missing. The only things she cares about are her wand and her necklaces and her perfectly preserved memories. They can take her clothes and her brushes and her books, but they can't take the scent of perfume and dough-embrace of her mother, or the taste of freckles underneath her tongue.
She knows its going to rain soon, but she goes outside anyway. She waits until darkness falls and the wind starts blowing, and goes to a small clearing just inside her forest. There, Luna takes off her clothes and lies upon the moss and feels the wind skim over her pale body. She remembers the night they found each other on the grounds, her eyes round and luminescent, his red and puffy, aggravated from crying.
Hermione never did treat him right.
Luna remembers his searing kisses and his large hands, sliding down her hips as he and the wind moved as one, over and within her. She remembers shivering and not knowing if it was because of the wind or the way Ronald stroked the hair out of her eyes.
The wind caresses her, but it doesn't feel the same. Luna rises and dresses, face blank, feeling the expanse within her grow and stretch and yawn.
Her mother used to always brush her hair before bed, whispering love into her ear and telling her stories.
Luna left dinner early that evening, but no one would have noticed. She left when the redhead gently trailed his fingertips on the other girl's cheek, when the freckles she had worshipped with her mouth were kissed teasingly by Hermione Granger.
She leaves the forest and stands on the Quidditch pitch in the light drizzle. Her robes are getting wet and goose bumps emerge on her flesh, but none of it matters anymore because her mother will never stroke her hair again and Ronald will never stroke her skin again and she will never, ever, come to forgive the wind.
She hears her name and turns to face the black-haired, red-scarred, green-eyed, hurting boy who gazes at her as if she was his religion and his reason and his life. She decides to smile and sees his breath catch.
Luna feels the rain clinging to her lashes and holds out her hand. He slips his slightly clammy one into hers and she distantly notes that it has no freckles.
A wind blows off of the lake. Luna doesn't shiver.