When they board the train that will take them back to their families for the holidays, they both know that it is not the same as it always has been. Before, to go home was to go to a safe haven. Now, nothing is that simple, or that secure. And of course they both know it.
“So I’ll send an owl your way every few days,” he promises her as they are docking in the station. His eyes flick around her face, taking it all in—her pale features, her eyes the color of fish scales, the way her hair falls in front of her cheeks. Eventually his gaze settles on her lips. “Y’know, just to make sure you’re…ok.”
“That’s very kind of you, Neville,” she says, and he can see the exact moment when her lips curve into a smile. He can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks, violent and red. After a pause, she continues, “It’ll be alright, though. We’re all going to be alright.”
He looks up and meets her gaze, astounded. She seems so certain, a light in her pale eyes that speaks of a conviction he wishes he had. Belief is something she has in spades—belief in the unknown, the incredible, the absurd. Belief in Harry and the others. Belief in herself. Belief in him.
“Yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t feel so sure. “Yeah, of course.” She smiles again, and squeezes his hand. And then she sees her father out on the platform, and skips out to meet him. And Neville sucks in his breath and gathers his things, and wanders towards where his grandmother is waiting, at the other end of the platform.
He consoles himself with the memory of that moment—the feel of her hand is his, the shape of her lips as they curl into a smile—long after she has stopped returning his owls, so that he knows something’s gone wrong. But he believes in her more than he believes in himself, so he chooses to believe what she’d said—We’re all going to be alright.
neville longbottom/luna lovegood ; memory ; pg
“So I’ll send an owl your way every few days,” he promises her as they are docking in the station. His eyes flick around her face, taking it all in—her pale features, her eyes the color of fish scales, the way her hair falls in front of her cheeks. Eventually his gaze settles on her lips. “Y’know, just to make sure you’re…ok.”
“That’s very kind of you, Neville,” she says, and he can see the exact moment when her lips curve into a smile. He can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks, violent and red. After a pause, she continues, “It’ll be alright, though. We’re all going to be alright.”
He looks up and meets her gaze, astounded. She seems so certain, a light in her pale eyes that speaks of a conviction he wishes he had. Belief is something she has in spades—belief in the unknown, the incredible, the absurd. Belief in Harry and the others. Belief in herself. Belief in him.
“Yeah,” he agrees, though he doesn’t feel so sure. “Yeah, of course.” She smiles again, and squeezes his hand. And then she sees her father out on the platform, and skips out to meet him. And Neville sucks in his breath and gathers his things, and wanders towards where his grandmother is waiting, at the other end of the platform.
He consoles himself with the memory of that moment—the feel of her hand is his, the shape of her lips as they curl into a smile—long after she has stopped returning his owls, so that he knows something’s gone wrong. But he believes in her more than he believes in himself, so he chooses to believe what she’d said—We’re all going to be alright.