He wasn't sure what it was about her: her long, silvery-white hair, her inquisitive, wondering, cornflower-blue eyes, her smile that lit up her entire face. She was so addictive, so wonderful, so odd, that half of the time he was trying to remember why he was in love with her, and the other half of the time he couldn't imagine himself anywhere else.
Looking back, he never would have thought of them being together. Now, it was as though she was the missing jigsaw piece in his life- they fit together so perfectly he couldn't imagine it any other way. Malfoy and Lovegood. Draco and Luna.
She was different than any other girl he'd ever known. Pansy had always been the type to love clothes and always ask if she was fat. Luna was the type who would lay in the middle of the floor and breathe in the silence. Cho reveled in gifts like chocolates and jewelry. Luna was allergic to chocolate and made her own jewelry from vegetables and pieces of plastic. Millicent loved to snuggle where everyone could see, as though bragging that she'd snagged a guy. Luna loved to hold hands when it was just them and only them; as though their love was special and private and shouldn't be shared. With anyone.
What was it he loved about her? Sometimes he would be just sitting there, wondering why she loved him, why she cared. He was Draco Malfoy after all and for that always had a bad reputation. People never wanted to be associated with him. Then again, Luna never cared what other people thought. That was who she was. A free spirit. Who rose above the crowd and did what she liked.
It was Tuesday morning, which was Luna's favorite day of the week. "Tuesday, Tuesday" she would say under her breath, smiling as they snuggled on the couch, whispering, as the rain beat on the window. "If we ever have a baby," she would continue. "We would have to name it Tuesday." And Draco would just smile and hold her tighter. Tuesday sounded perfect.
Draco was up around 4 am- as always; he was never the type to sleep in- and he was missing Luna much more than normal. He was missing the good times: when they would go to the lake and sit on the dock and dip their bare feet in the water, when they would feed each other pistachio ice cream (her favorite), or when they would make messes (or "concoctions") in the kitchen. He was missing the bad times: the days when she would hide under the bed, refusing to come out, muttering that she was afraid of the wind, or when they'd had their one fight after he'd met her father. She'd been dead for three weeks by then.
They'd never dance in the rain again.
They'd never stay up all night counting the stars and drinking herbal tea and sleep all day again.
They'd never jump in the lake by her house fully clothed again.
They'd never hold hands again.
He'd never see her smile again. See her silvery hair flicker in the corner of his eye. He'd never hear her laugh again, or her serious voice when she talked about how the moon must feel during the daytime, all alone in the sky, blinded by the sun. He was missing her so much he couldn't hold his coffee mug right, and it fell to the floor out of his shaking hand and shatter into a billion pieces, splashing hot coffee all over the bottom of his robe. He was missing her so much he couldn't stop the tears from flowing. It was the first time he'd cried since she had died. And how much he wished he was there to stop her from being murdered by the very man he'd once idolized.
He just couldn't couldn't believe she was gone. He'd never be right again. He was an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, floating in the mass of humanity.