title: do you mean it, truly?

summary: Catch you on the flip side, doll face.

author's note: DRACO&LUNA GUIZEZ. Letz go. I'm trying to be less angsty. Everything is a little bit cut up and disjointed, but eh, that's the normal with this pairing. If this has no plot, excuse me. I'm trying to post things that I really like but then also trying to write things other than FanFiction. Ahhh. There's a saying in here from Robert Browning, that's not mine but I wish it was.

p.s. Anything The Kooks write/sing are absolutely Draco&Luna. Love goes to their new album Junk of the Heart which includes some of my favorite songs: Eskimo Kiss, Petulia, Rosie, Junk of the Heart (Happy) and How'd You Like That.


He could start this out poetically or bluntly. If you chose the poetic version, maybe he'd say he likes her because she's beautiful in a way he doesn't understand much himself. Maybe he'd say something like the sun sets on her body in so many colors. Maybe he'd say he wanted to paint her, because she is Luna and she is lovely and crazy and perfect.

Maybe he'd say all these things, but if you asked Draco Malfoy what he liked about Luna the most, he'd probably say the feel of her breasts, because Draco Malfoy is a man and not a boy. He is a pureblooded man. He certainly does not watch Luna Lovegood from the corner of his eye, and most certainly, under no conditions does he love her. Don't be preposterous.

Draco Malfoy does not love. Draco Malfoy fucks and does not make love. Draco Malfoy hurts others and does not feel pain, himself.

(But there is something in the bottom of his chest, something that maybe flutters when she passes him. He likes to think it's a flu that's been in the making for eight years.)


Luna Lovegood doesn't notice him, which he finds oddly satisfying. She does not try to make something of what will never be. She lives her life in her own way, even though she may live a little strangely. He confesses that he likes this about her, about her simple minded bluntness. Maybe, if Draco Malfoy was to love someone, he would love her.

Maybe, possibly.

What was the question again?


They fall into bed after the war, her tears happy ones, and his sad. Maybe, if he thinks about it in a logical point of view, this was his rebellion. His own revolution.

There's a difference between protesting and taking action, and Luna Lovegood is a bit of a drastic measure.

He gets up to leave her apartment in the early morning, puts on his pants but turns back to look at her. There's something that keeps him from walking out the door, something he cannot place. He crawls back into bed with her, and he does not regret it.

He'll find out he never will regret it. Not ever, not once.


There was a saying, she used to mumble under her breath. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn't mean anything at all.

He doesn't remember it really, but she used to say it, over and over and over. It became a song when she said it. He does not know where this came from, nor does he remember it. All he remembers is that he doesn't remember it, and he wishes he truly didn't.

This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He thinks, if this was really anything, if they were something, he would expect it to end with a bang. She traces circles in his skin and says that they will end in a whimper.

He does not understand what she means, so he gets up from the bed and changes his clothes. She stays silent and begins to read a book.


Sometimes, she listens to the silliest songs. She leaves countless muggle CDs in his home, and sometimes, when his parents are expected to arrive any minute, he has to shove them into his drawers.

Days when she's happy, she brings pop songs and songs about love, and days that she has a gleam of loneliness in her eyes, she brings songs from way back when.

He doesn't ever tell her how much he loves to listen to them, doesn't say anything about the muggle CD player he has in his living room. He appreciates (loves) the way she doesn't comment on these changes.

On Wednesday mornings, they both aren't due to go to work until nine and ten, respectively, and Luna dances around in her underwear and his button down shirt. He has to hide his snickers in the comforter so she doesn't think he cares.

One Wednesday morning, she's playing her newest CD, and the button down she's wearing is completely open and she's the first thing he sees. All he can think is that she's bringing his walls down and he strangely – oddly, does not mind.


He has a time he likes to go to sleep. Nine thirty, he is always in bed with a brilliant book, sometimes reminiscing about the good old days when he used to go out and party in clubs where people lost their heads. Sometimes, he just tries to read.

And then, sometimes, he's just trying not to let Luna's leg stroking his own be so tempting. It never really works, because the book ends up on the floor, and then when Draco finally settles to sleep, it is close to midnight and his eyes are drooping.

The funny part is he thinks it's worth the lack of sleep.


She asks him one day if he loves her. There is nothing else to the question but what it means, and he wonders why such a strange girl was given such confidence. He is lost in the question, of buts and exceptions.

He knows the secret answer, which lingers on the tip of his tongue.

I am more certain of it than anything else in the entire world.

That scares him, and he's Draco Malfoy. Nothing really scares him, but this does. He wonders if it always will when he says, "Maybe."


He doesn't mean to invite her to dinner with his mother, but he does. He worries for days on end, until the night of when she walks out of the bathroom in a pretty pastel dress with a high neck. He's never fancied a girl to be beautiful when she's all covered up, but Luna with her baby pink skin and her freshly washed hair, always seems to escape the normal.

"There are Nargles in your hair," she says dreamily, before breaking out into a smile.

He shakes his head with a secret smile dangling on his lips. He extends an arm to her, but she kisses his lips instead. Some of her banana lipgloss gets in his mouth and he thinks maybe it will be okay.

His mother is confused at first, of Luna Lovegood. But she comes around and by the end of the night, Narcissa is quietly laughing along.

He thinks she's one of his better girls, and when Luna excuses herself to the bathroom, Narcissa agrees.

When they leave the Manor, Draco is so elated by it all that he kisses Luna right outside the door, and from their perches, peeking through the window, the House Elves smile behind their hands.


"You're getting to me, Luna."

She smiles, her hair falling into her eyes and her cheeks bright pink from their previous activity.

"Good to hear, Draco."

He is falling – oh dear Merlin, he doesn't know where to land. He doesn't know how to breathe without her, how to see without her, how to love without her. He doesn't mind it – not one bit, not one second, and he wonders when she made him such a good man.

Her eyes brighten up and the dark room seems to lighten too.


The flowers are opening in the spring, and he wants to break free from what he's tied down to. Should he leave her or should he stay?

Spring fever is a bitch, but Luna never is.

She comes home with flowers in her hair. No matter where she goes, she manages to bring a new flower home every day. The first day, it was a rose, the second was a violet, third was a daffodil.

He doesn't even realize when he starts to bring them home, and she stops getting them herself. She has to point it out one night in bed, the wilted petals still in her hair. He laughs before he can catch himself, and he can't seem to stop. Her eyes seem to widen and turn ablaze. He kisses her before it's too late, before she can disappear from under his fingertips.

That kiss is his favorite, even though there's no absolute reason why it is. He thinks that makes it better.


He isn't sure when he loses that part of him that was crying out for someone.

He just knows that there's a beautiful girl in his bed at night, her eyes warm and her body inviting. She is not perfect, nor is she pureblood, nor is she common in any way. Maybe if you were to ask him why he loved her, he would tell you about the secret freckles on her nose, or the way she was there in his bed with her pretty eyes and her kind thoughts.

But it may be even more likely that he would say something akin to the reason that loving her was the only thing he wanted to do.