Maybe she was mental.

Before, Luna never let the word sink in, tattooing itself on her skin for her own eyes or others to see. People could whisper, sneer, or spit the word and its synonyms at her, but she knew she glowed with the love her mother left behind. It breathed in every atom that composed Luna, repelling the darkness.

"There goes Loony Lovegood—"

Sure, the war had turned parts of her purple and blue, torn flesh had spilled red, but that same love healed the outside the way it did the inside. Luna knew not to dwell in the dark forces that fueled the fight, but instead focus on the guiding light that was Harry's own love and loyalty. Conjuring her light and her intelligence the same way she knew her mother would have, Luna followed the path Fate had set out.

"Did you hear what she did? Kissed a Slytherin in the middle of the Great Hall."

Down that road, she took Dean Thomas' hand in hers and continued on.

She knew it was love then, just not what kind. At the beginning, it felt like the same adoration she carried for all living things; her mother always told her to see the beauty beneath, search for the kindness of the thing or person, and let her light connect with theirs.

"Right in front of her betrothed, too! You know, Dean Thomas—the war hero."

He had always been nice to her when he was dating Ginny. He never shied away from Luna's inquisitive stares; head tilt to the side, trying to read the wrackspurts floating around his head like they were Trelawney's tea leaves. Luna trusted Ginny's ability to fend for herself, but their lights had been connected years before Dean, as two little girls living only a hill away from each other, sharing scheduled games, giggles, and accidental magic before Fate claimed Luna's mother and Daddy hid his little moon away.

"They were sorted together for the marriage law, but I heard they were kind of a couple before that."

After his relationship with Ginny ended, Luna thought she would share only passing smiles with him. His kind, brown gaze would be a little sad, but Luna would make sure to beam when their eyes met, telling him from the quiet distance that his heart would mend with time and the light he emitted would continue to glow like the stars they tracked for their Astronomy lessons.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters fed darkness into their world, but love triumphed over fear even in the tiniest, duskiest corners. In them, Luna continued to tilt her head to the side, studying every bit of Dean Thomas, continuing to find reasons to find him beautiful inside and out, but, sat across from her, he was starting to do the same.

"He really fancied Lovegood. You could tell. Probably more than she fancied him. Had to, didn't he? Her being a little, you know, off."

When the Death Eaters had taken her to Malfoy Manor, she used to whisper stories about her time at Hogwarts to Mr. Olivander. He never asked questions or input comments of his own years at the school, but his fragile, paper-thin hand would press against her fingers when she paused, pleading her to go on and invoke a world far from the damp, cold cellar they were imprisoned in.

After, when sweet, brave Dobby had given his life to save them, Mr. Olivander smiled at Luna from across Bill and Fleur Weasley's kitchen table and told her he liked Dean very much—he had been exactly as Luna had described him in her stories, kind, gentle, handsome, and with a strong laugh that could deflect any darkness.

"Mind you, Thomas did deserve it. Did you hear what he did first?"

Luna never realized her stories had often been centered around him. She knew, of course, that he was in some of her best moments, especially ones out by the Black Lake, both of them painting the way sunlight gleamed across the water. They often painted Ginny, too, back when she and Dean were together, but even after they broke up, Dean and Luna found themselves sitting on the grass or under the shade of a tree, sharing half-used bottles of paint in comfortable silence.

It was then, both alive and a little bruised at Shell Cottage, that Luna discovered what kind of love she felt for Dean.

"It doesn't matter how in love a bloke is, does it? Loyalty and love aren't the same thing to most of them."

With the sand between her toes, cold, salty air braiding through her blonde hair, Luna turned blue eyes at Dean, wanting to marvel in the way the morning light shimmered off his rich, umber skin.

He had already been looking at her, attempting to memorize the image of her on that beach, too. Red bloomed under his cheeks when their eyes met, but her fingers found his own, holding on tight as they stared back at the seaside, their souls flashing across the water like a lighthouse guiding other brave, kind beings to the right side of the war.

"Rumour has it he shagged that Gryffindor slag. You know, the one Ron Weasley used to be with?"

It was then Luna discovered that Dean did not glow like those smaller, faraway stars—he radiated blinding, scorching light just like the sun.

And her glow had already been connected to his, long before Death Eaters took them and tried to serve them their darkness to poison everything good they had inside. But love prevailed, even in the tiniest, duskiest corners.

"Poor Loony Lovegood. Imagine being as daft and naive to believe in a handsome boy with pretty words?"

Maybe Luna was mental—maybe she was daft and naive to think her mother's love living in her bones could withstand heartache of this magnitude.

All she had to do was look at her father, at the madness and grief love could leave behind.

That's who Luna was now. That's who they all saw, too.

"Levicorpus!"

Luna dropped her textbooks when the gossiping Ravenclaw girl shot out of her seat, dangling upside down by her left ankle. The girl's friends gasped, scrambling to retrieve their wands, but Lavender Brown came out of one of the library's aisles, a threatening finger pointed at them as her wand remained trained on the floating witch.

"It's rude to talk about people behind their backs," Lavender snarled at the group of younger girls. "But it's even more cowardly to do it when they are within earshot and vulnerable."

"We weren't—"

"She's not just Dean Thomas' betrothed, by the way. She's Luna fucking Lovegood, war hero. And I'm the Gryffindor slag you were sneering about earlier," Lavender bit out, her own blue eyes darkening into navy shades when one of the girls tried to defend themselves.

In one of the near tables, a young boy clambered up to his feet, running in the direction of Madam Pince's desk. Yet, Lavender still said, "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm not a slag, either. And even if I did sleep with the entire castle, none of you get to judge me for it—not when the title of fiancee I carry was forced on me by the Ministry."

A Hufflepuff girl reached for the Ravenclaw's hand, pulling. "You're mental! Put her down!"

With a flick of her wrist, the witch came tumbling down onto the Hufflepuff just as Madam Pince rushed over. Lavender reached for Luna's hand, running at the direction of the doors, the latter's books and notes long forgotten.

Luna looked down at Lavender's fingers circled around her wrist. She had expected the touch to burn, to singe her skin right off with the same fingerprints that had touched Dean's body. She even expected the glimmers of Lavender's light to be drenched in red and black, but it was still pearlescent.

"I can't take this anymore—" Luna was submerged in shadows before a murmured Lumos brought her sight back. She was forced into a crammed storage closet, Lavender locking the door shut behind her before turning to frown at Luna. "People can call me a slag all they want to, but I'm not going to let them reduce you to this. Because you aren't this, Lovegood. You're not some heartbroken girl who hides. You're the bloody moon—quite literally, too, so shine some fucking light on us!"

Luna closed her eyes, searching for air. "You—Dean—I can't."

"Luna, please," the next words came out as a delicate whisper, a soft tone girls like Lavender Brown had never taken to use with girls like her. "You know Dean would never betray you like this. He loves you."

"I saw—"

"I said Dean wouldn't. Not that I wouldn't." Lavender lowered her wand, her scarred face being consumed by the shadows of the closet. Even in the tiniest, duskiest corners, light could still shine no matter the size of the ember. Luna saw Lavender's eyes glisten, the blue in them the same color as the ocean at the cliffside of Shell Cottage.

During the war, Luna had come face to face with monsters.

They did not look like Lavender Brown.

They did not look like teenage girls with trembling hands, pink in their cheeks, and tears forming gray clouds in their eyes.

Monsters came in different sizes, shapes, and colors—Luna had seen that up close in the war, too, but they all tracked red and black where light lived, like mud ruining plush carpets. Blinking down at their feet, she only saw her own mismatched socks poking out from the tops of her trainers and Lavender's white, knee-high socks and perfectly-kept mary jane's.

"You'd think," mumbled Lavender, "a war and a werewolf would stop me from searching for all the stupid things I used to fantasize about, but it only made me want them more. I didn't want what grief left behind. I didn't want to go around life like Ron, mad at the world, or like Harry, terrified what remained was going to disappear along with our dead."

Luna watched Lavender trace a fingertip down the scar etched on her face, the clouds in her eyes spilling their rain.

She tilted her head to the side, considering the mark beneath Lavender's shaking hand. Luna hadn't seen it before—not like this, not for what it was. A blemish. An imperfection. She had seen a lot of her classmates do the same, covering scars left behind by the war they had survived: Harry grew his hair longer, black, untidy tresses obscuring the famous lightning bolt, right hand always resting on top of his left, hiding the i must not tell lies that Umbridge cruelly inflicted; Hermione wore long-sleeves even in the summer, a cardigan matched with a pretty dress, hiding the foul word Bellatrix Lestrange left from her own eyes, like if Hermione stared at it for too long, the mad witch would come back and plunge the dagger into her throat; the same could be said for Draco Malfoy, who kept his sleeves down and the collar of his shirts button to the top, stopping anyone from seeing the tattoo he thought he wanted, and Harry's unknown curse that almost took his life; skilled and stealthy as he was, Blaise could be heard murmuring glamour charms, a finger tracing his left cheek like he could still feel the jagged cut on his skin beneath the magic.

Despite her mother's love wrapped like armor around Luna, she collected a few scars of her own. She would inspect the pink, red, and silver lines, but never thought them ugly. They were part of her story, fragments of moments Fate wanted her to remember, learn, and grow from. She sometimes painted vines and flowers from those scars, a blooming garden on her skin.

Even now, Luna still saw peonies flourishing across Lavender's face.

"I've loved Seamus since we were twelve," Lavender said, her cheeks damp with rain. "I never knew if he was the one, but most years it felt like it. When the marriage law put us together, I thought this was it. The sign. My soulmate—but he didn't want to see me like that. He had a reason, of course, me and my passing fancies for anyone that smiled at me. I tried to convince him that wasn't who I was anymore, but I was wrong."

Squinting as Lavender raised her wand again, Luna saw the heartache in those clouds. She wondered if it felt just like her own, like bitter, unforgiving storms when she was so used to basking under the sun.

"I kissed Dean." Lavender's cautiously reached for Luna's wrist again. "I kissed him when he showed me a scrap of respect and kindness when I was at my most vulnerable and I'm so sorry, Lovegood."

Luna blinked at the sob ricocheting around the narrow walls. It sounded like her own, like when she ran from her and Dean's chamber and straight into Neville's protective, comforting arms.

"Please believe me, that's all that happened. I swear it," cried Lavender. "The second I realized what I was doing, Dean leaped away so quickly, his magic forced him across the coffee table, shattering inkpots and a teacup."

Green.

It had been splattered like freckles across his collarbone that night—Luna had seen it despite marveling on his bare chest, her heart fluttering at the rose petals that grew from his own scars.

Green had also been on Dean's fingers when she took his hand in hers.

"Is that why—?"

"Yes," Lavender said as she squeezed Luna's wrist, "ugly green ink and day-old breakfast tea. It got everywhere. It took me a week and a potion made by Hermione to wash it out of my hair."

Luna let out a breath, her hands shaking. "Dean never finishes his cuppas. And I gave him those inkpots, he likes to draw trees at the edges of his parchment. He's quite good."

Lavender rolled her eyes, but still let out a cry. "I never meant to break your heart, Luna. Or anyone else's. You've always been kind to me, even when I never deserved it. I'm sorry I'll always be a vain, ridiculous, starry-eyed girl who melts under any form of affection."

She wanted to tell the Gryffindor that she was more than that, a war hero with peonies painted down her skin, a believer with rose-colored glasses that made the world better, a teenage girl with the light of Saturn radiating out, but the storage room opened with a loud bang.

The sun was on the other side of that door.

"Professor Flitwick asked for extra feathers for his First Years," Dean said, brown eyes wide and uncertain at the scene inside, "he said they were in here—What's going on?"

Fate's will.

Luna wanted to explain it to him, but she tilted her head to the side, reading those wrackspurts around his head like tea leaves.

She saw half a moon and half a sun glowing whole together.

"Mental. Absolutely mad."

"What?"

"Me," Luna told Dean, smiling at him as Lavender wiped at her tears, still managing to let out a snort. She raised a finger, saying, "mental for thinking you'd ever let me down—" a second finger went up, "madly in love with you."

"Lu, I—"

Lavender pushed her back into the shelves of the room, making space for Luna to skip right into Dean's arms.

Luna would talk to Dean, would apologize for believing her heart wasn't safe in his hands, and then she would find Seamus, tell him he would be lucky to bask under Lavender Brown's light, but for now, she was home.

It had finally happened.

Hermione Granger had finally understood what it felt like to be completely wrapped up around someone.

For a lot of her youth, she thought her love for Ron had been that. Epic love. Something true. Maybe it had the inklings of it if Fate had wanted them to explore that pathway, but Ron had made the choice for them. At a new crossroads, Draco Malfoy presented his hand to her as she assessed what was ahead. While not afraid to navigate uncharted territory on her own, Hermione found that she did not have to do it alone.

Because Draco wanted to be beside her.

Hermione had been so skeptical to take his hand, lace her fingers through his and walk the unknown road ahead, but once she had⏤

"I'm such an idiot," she laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist as he charmed his hair to a perfect coif.

In the reflection of the enchanted mirror in their shared bathroom, Draco raised a brow. "Clearly you think I am, Granger, if you expect me to agree with you on that self-assessment."

"I just mean," she started, a grin still pinned to the sides of her red-painted mouth as she ducked under one of his arms, tucking herself against the sink and his chest now, "that I could've been shagging you a lot earlier had I not been busy having standards."

Draco narrowed silver eyes, but his fingers skimmed up her knee before caressing the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "What will your fans say now that you've gone to bed with a Death Eater?"

Hermione hooked her leg on his hip, giving a helpful jump as he lifted her up on the sink. She wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand pushing him down to meet her mouth. Before their lips touched, she whispered, "That he's mine. Just as I am his."

She wanted to tell him she was an idiot for a lot more than that, but Hermione figured there would be more time later. More time to tell him, to discover pieces of him that he was used to hiding, fragments of his true, healing soul that wanted to be forgiven.

Later, she would tell Draco she was an idiot for thinking she would be unable to love him.

The words pooled in her mouth, however. She tasted them, like the honey he added to his morning tea and lingered on his tongue when she kissed him. Hermione was looking up at Draco as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her down the hill that led to the Black Lake. He was recounting the experimental potion he and Nott were working on, but all she could listen to was the bray of her heart calling out to him.

She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying I love you, you idiot, can't you see?

"I'm getting married!"

Fortunately for Hermione, Blaise Zabini had an uncanny ability to ruin intimate moments between her and Draco. This time, instead of summoning a wandless hex to throw at him, she welcomed the sight of him running toward them.

Behind Blaise, guests dressed in their best ceremonial robes and fancy muggle attire found their way to long, wooden benches with expensive, sage-colored cushions. At the front of the gathering was an archway of branches braided together, white roses and blue hydrangeas floating overhead, like a calm whirlwind meshed with tiny lights.

"Can you believe it?" he laughed once he reached Hermione and Draco. "Me! Getting married! I had plans of sleeping my way to my sixties at least, but here I am!"

Hermione rolled her eyes as Draco clapped the groom hard on the back. "Trust us, mate, no one thought this was a wedding that was going to happen. We all thought Chang would've handed her wand over before setting up that altar."

"Don't mind him," said Hermione, nudging Draco in the ribs with her elbow. "He's just bitter because he bet fifty galleons you and Cho wouldn't even make it to your wedding month."

Blaise scoffed at them. "Please. She can't live without me. I mean, she will be getting all of this." At this, he shimmied his hips. "You know what they say, Hermione. Once you go Blaise you can't stop the craze."

"No one has ever said that," Hermione told him, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Although, there was something written in the girls' lavatory about you crying after sex with a certain Hufflepuff?"

"Oi," hissed Blaise, "Susan Bones is lying! She was the one who cried⏤and that had nothing to do with me, but rather her figuring out she didn't like penises!"