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Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth,
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cutouts,
Speak no feeling—no, I don't believe you—
If the post hadn't arrived early that day, Luna might have understandably found herself absorbed in the newspaper, or a letter from her father, or even the latest owl-order catalog from Stockington's Wizard Footwear—but as it happened, the post did arrive early, and there was nothing to do after breakfast but confront Harry.
She apparated to his front door, knocked twice, and, after receiving no answer, let himself in. Really, she thought, Harry ought to be more careful about locking his door; all sorts of creatures could simply walk into his house, Death Eaters or heliopaths or the Minister, or perhaps even that odd-looking man with the sideburns who lived just down the road from Luna and took her umbrella last week. Of course, it was possible that the man with the sideburns wasn't evil at all, and simply was in need of an umbrella; it hadn't been raining at the time, but umbrellas were useful for all sorts of reasons. She didn't go out in bad weather often, at any rate. The damp made her leg ache.
Harry was bent over a desk, sorting through a stack of paperwork and chewing absently on a piece of toast. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and Luna paused in the doorway to admire his forearms. He really had lovely hands, long-fingered and elegant, although it had taken him some time to grow into them.
"Hi, Luna," he said, still staring intently at the parchment map spread over half the desk. "Just give me a minute, here—"
"I shouldn't like to interrupt," she said, and took the seat across from him. Perhaps he hadn't left his door unlocked after all, but had simply attuned the wards to Luna's signature; he could be unexpectedly clever with magic. They had, during their years of working together during the war, grown rather accustomed to one another's presence.
Finally Harry brushed the last of the crumbs from his map, pulled off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, groaned, replaced his glasses, and looked at Luna. She watched this procession intently. "Wrackspurt infestation," she said, "is far more likely in the morning. If you're feeling a bit thickheaded, wrackspurts could be the cause."
"That so?" said Harry. Beneath his eyes, Luna couldn't help but notice, he had great dark circles, almost like bruises. She felt naive to have once thought that Voldemort's defeat would lesson the weight on Harry's shoulders.
"Or it could be that you haven't had any coffee," she added, and Harry grinned.
"I think that's more likely the reason," Harry said. "The Ministry wants me to help them track down the Carrows, you know..."
"Would you like some help?" Luna said.
Harry's eyes flickered shut for a split second. "No," he said. "No, thanks, I've got this one." He brushed away some more crumbs, this time of the invisible sort. "Are you here for something?"
"Yes," she said. "I'd like to talk to you, Harry."
He waved one of those very nice hands at her. "About?"
"When were you going to tell me that you're in love with me?" Luna said.
The effect of her words on Harry was immediate; his eyes shuttered and a curiously immobile expression slid over his features. "Luna," he said, "I'm not sure what you're talking about—"
"I don't think anyone else realizes," she assured him. "People can be terribly blind to things that are perfectly obvious once you look."
His eyes fell shut again. "Luna, look, you are a fantastic friend, I meant that, but you should know that I am not in love with—"
"Are you certain?" she said, mildly.
"Absolutely." He pushed back his chair and came around his desk, leaning against the side so Luna couldn't look him in the face. "You know I can't get involved with anyone right now, and besides, there's Ginny."
"Only, I think you're lying to me," she said. Rarely did she allow her doubts to rule her actions, but she thought that if ever there were a time to indulge herself, this would be it. "And Ginny's with Neville."
"Luna, just drop it," Harry said. His shoulders slumped.
"I suppose you could be telling the truth, because I've never known you be dishonest before, or you could be suffering from the effects of—"
"Luna," Harry snapped, and now he did look at her, his eyes boring into her own. "Look, I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in you like that. You're...you're strange, to tell the truth, and you haven't got any friends—or, you know, hardly any—and you make people uncomfortable. And you're always wearing ratty clothes." His face was utterly unforgiving, hard and compelling; she'd seen that expression before, enough to be familiar with what it meant.
"Oh," she said. It felt like the constant pang in her knee had crept up through her stomach and wrapped itself around her ribcage. She blinked hard five or six times in a row, and only for that missed the brief look of anguish that flashed over Harry's face. She'd heard all those things before, most frequently during her years at Hogwarts; but never from a person that mattered.
"I understand, Harry," she said. He seemed very far away. Maybe she'd caught his wrackspurts. "I'll just be going."
"I am sorry," he said, his voice cool, and turned away again. "I just didn't know how to get it through your head. You can be terrifyingly stubborn."
"I believe it runs in the family," she said. "My mother was the same way, or so my father says. —I have to go now," she repeated.
"Yeah," he said. "You know the—"
But as Luna stood, a wave of pain spread out from her knee and her leg buckled. She pitched forward, sure she was going to knock her head again the corner of Harry's desk and wouldn't that be an ignominious end—
And Harry caught her.
She looked up and found herself trapped and held in his eyes; the pain rolled away. "You really don't love me."
"No," he said, "sorry," without a trace of uncertainty.
"You're lying," she said, wondrously.
"Why do you," he started, and then followed her gaze down, to where her hand was splayed against his chest.
His expression was still flat, his eyes very nearly cold, but beneath her palm his heart was racing.
"Luna, I can't—" he said, and she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against her. He stood frozen for one endless second, and then his arms tightened around her and he pulled her closer. After a long moment he pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against hers and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
"I can't. You know I can't," he said against her lips. "Not now, and maybe not ever."
This was a patently ridiculous idea. Luna's only recourse was to try to kiss it out of him.
"Don't be foolish," she said, when they'd torn apart again, both gasping for air. "And anyway, I'll wait for you."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Harry tried, "I mean, I don't expect—"
"I'd like your red socks, the ones with the gold snitches, as a wedding gift, if you don't mind," she added.
He looked startled, and then laughed. "Socks," he said. "Got it."
"And I expect you won't let yourself be killed in the meantime," she said, and kissed him again, this time for incentive.
"Then the same goes for you," he said. "I know what you're getting up to with the Department of Mysteries."
"That does seem fair," she agreed, once again possessed of her usual serenity. "I'll see you at Christmas, then?"
"Yes, but Luna"—he took her face with both hands—"not before, do you understand? You're already been here too long."
"I'll turn up eventually," she said.
His lips quirked. "You always do, in the end," he said, and brushed his lips across hers one last time. "Now go, okay?"
She did, without looking back; but six years and three months later, she received a package in the mail.
It contained one matched pair of socks.