Author's Notes: Thanks, Liz! I was a little hesitant to put this here, but as there is no place for general one-shots, here it is, in Riddikulus. It is a little humorous, I suppose.
"I really think Gran would prefer you wear a traditional white wedding gown, Luna," Neville insisted, following Luna down High Street.
"But Neville, sun colours are the best of luck," Luna protested lightly for the twentieth time, not even bothering to turn her large, pale eyes onto Neville. "I don't see why it can't be—"
"Luna, I'm just hoping my grandmother will get a…a better impression of you at the wedding."
This did stop Luna. In fact, she halted so suddenly, her left foot still positioned above the ground, that she was nearly bowled over by a stray cat streaking past. She placed her foot down and pivoted to face Neville, who had gone silent and pink.
"Excuse me?" she asked. Her tone was light and curious, but Neville, having known her for such a very long time, saw a twinkling light behind her eyes dim, like a cold wind almost blew it straight out.
"Luna…" Neville rubbed the back of his neck. "Can we…can we go into The Three Broomsticks, or something?"
Luna followed Neville back up High Street and into the popular Hogsmeade bar. Even after all the help Aberforth had been in the Second War… Well, Neville preferred to know that his butterbeer was not accidentally poisoned with rust, dust, or anything else unsanitary. As they walked, Luna chatted about the window displays, but Neville heard how empty her words sounded.
The little bells above Rosemerta's door jangled blissfully as the couple entered the pub. Rosemerta looked up and smiled.
"Ah, Neville and Luna. Wondered when you'd be heading back up here," she said with a large smile. "It's been about a month."
"Yeah," Neville said, grabbing the two butterbeers she slid him and dropping four sickles onto the counter. "Busy, you know?"
"Aye, I know."
"We've been extremely busy with wedding plans," Luna said with a little less brightness than was normal. "But we can't chat now. We should be back next week, though!"
"Sounds great, dear," Rosemerta said, still wearing her wide smile.
Neville led the way to a back booth and slid in one side, Luna scooting into the other seat. She looked at Neville in an almost business-like manner.
"What is it, Neville?"
Neville sucked in a breath, and popped open his butterbeer. As he sipped, he thought of how to word things best.
"My gran…" No, that was no good. "I just don't see why…" No, that wouldn't work. "Look, Luna." Too harsh. Luna watched him silently, patiently, as he began his point several different ways, until he finally settled.
"Luna. I love you."
"I love you, Neville."
"Now, I love you, but my gran, she isn't sure. I mean, she knows what you did in the Second War, and she's so grateful. She also knows how much I care about you, so, you know, that counts for something. But… I don't know, she's known about your family for a while, and… It's hard to say. She doesn't – and most people don't – she doesn't think like you and your father do. And she thinks like—"
"Like Hermione?" Luna supplied, her tone frosted with the thinnest layer of ice.
"Er, yeah. Similar to Hermione. She just doesn't see eye to eye on stuff. And if you wore that dress… It would just make it worse. My gran likes to try to be traditional. And a nice white dress would make her happy."
"Would it make you happy?"
"Then of course I will wear it."
Neville sighed inwardly and grinned. The grin slid away a little bit when he realised Luna was playing with her butterbeer cork instead of drinking it, eyes downward. He furrowed his eyebrows, took a deep breath, and wondered for a moment if he was driven crazy with love.
"Neville," Gran began in a severe tone, "the ceremony was lovely, the bride a luminous beauty, and the weather grand. However."
Neville winced – Gran's one-worded sentences tended to draw that reaction – and braced himself.
"I simply cannot comprehend your choice of clothing. Imagine the wedding photographs, Neville. Imagine." Neville winced, a little less this time, and found the courage he'd never had as a boy to speak up against Augusta Longbottom.
"But Gran," he said, trying to be severe but sounding more as though reasoning with a young child, "it's good luck. Yellow is a sun colour."