Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Autumn
Luna's mother had a garden. Luna was princess there, princess of leaves and sunset and dancing through the falling autumn sky. Luna ran across the dead grass and dug up worms from the soil with her childish cold-pinched hands. No gloves for Luna Lovegood. She liked to feel the earth crumbling beneath her. The leaves were crisps and ridged like alligator skin. The poor trees slept while Luna held them and traced their bumps and curves and old stories. She knew the trees so very well.
Pansy has no scars because pureblood girls are moulded into clay and white china, hard and brittle and perfect. Pansy has a hard face and thin lips and a chin that juts, but her skin is soft. Luna could hold her forever, this pretty doll that bites and lets go, and doesn't love you like you love it. But Pansy is like autumn. Not quite warm and not quite cold, and she always falls back into Luna's hands in the end.
Winter
Luna's mother had a garden. But then she died, and the garden died too. Luna curled up on the frozen ground and stared at the stars and the moon that never had any tears for her. She tapped the ground with her fingernail and nothing grew. The earth slept, her mother slept and Luna was the only one with her eyes open. She didn't cry. Tears would have blurred her vision. Ruined it all.
Pansy knows how to cry even if she says goddamit Lovegood I'm not crying I'm damn well not. Her tears are hot and her heart beats just like Luna's does. Luna likes to hold her when she cries. Likes to press her chin to Pansy's shoulder and watch the way her back bends like the curve of a shell. Luna can take care of both of them. She knows.
Spring
Luna's mother had a garden. It grew back. The grass pushed through the dirt and roses bloomed, red as a blush and an unfurled bloom. Luna planted all her mother's favourite flowers. Dirt caked her fingers and stained the crescent curve of her fingernails. Dirt tasted like nuts and mother and Luna wasn't alone anymore. Her mother moved in the sway of the trees and apple blossoms that kissed Luna with warm snow tears. The birds sang and there was nothing to be afraid of and Luna almost wanted to cry. But only children cried and Luna was almost grown up so she laughed instead and danced and danced like the princess of autumn and spring.
Pansy has a sweet laugh, sweeter because of its rarity. Her real laugh is a falling blossom, a spark of sunlight and water and she gives it to Luna. Wrapped in dark eyes and skin like snow, it's better than any diamond or Crumple-Horned Snorcack. Luna loves it. Loves her. Someday she'll dance with Pansy in a field of flowers. Someday Pansy will stop to lying to herself. All seasons change.
Summer
Luna's mother had a garden. There were sunflowers, higher than Luna's chin but no higher than her eyes. They swayed like Daddy after too many glasses of firewhisky. Luna liked to sway with them; liked to fall onto the ground in a dizzy heap and breathe in cut grass and roses. Ivy crept up the walls and into the smooth earth. There were lilies too, as white as the skin of the moon and soft like dust. You could kiss a lily and bruise it brown, and you could flatten the grass or bend the sunflowers. That was why Luna liked the pansies best. They were dark like a bruise, but a beautiful bruise, a royal bruise with blood so blue. Crushed or kissed, they were still dark and Luna still loved them.
When Luna kisses Pansy Parkinson they keep their eyes open. There are no flowers in Hogwarts' halls, but there is sunlight pouring through the slit of a window and Pansy's eyes are dark and soft and her lips are warm. They move together, skin to skin, one hollow breathe to another.
"Dark like pansies," Luna whispers, pulling back. Her hands are soft against Pansy's shoulders. Pansy's dark, dark hair brushes warm against her fingers.
"What does that mean?" Pansy demands, because she has thorns too.
Luna smiles. Her lips are tingling.
"That you'll always be beautiful," she says simply, and kisses her again.
Hands slide against cloth against skin, and Pansy does not try to argue. It's nice to be beautiful, after all.
Luna's mother had a garden. Luna was princess there, princess of leaves and sunset and dancing through the falling autumn sky. Luna ran across the dead grass and dug up worms from the soil with her childish cold-pinched hands. No gloves for Luna Lovegood. She liked to feel the earth crumbling beneath her. The leaves were crisps and ridged like alligator skin. The poor trees slept while Luna held them and traced their bumps and curves and old stories. She knew the trees so very well.
Pansy has no scars because pureblood girls are moulded into clay and white china, hard and brittle and perfect. Pansy has a hard face and thin lips and a chin that juts, but her skin is soft. Luna could hold her forever, this pretty doll that bites and lets go, and doesn't love you like you love it. But Pansy is like autumn. Not quite warm and not quite cold, and she always falls back into Luna's hands in the end.
Winter
Luna's mother had a garden. But then she died, and the garden died too. Luna curled up on the frozen ground and stared at the stars and the moon that never had any tears for her. She tapped the ground with her fingernail and nothing grew. The earth slept, her mother slept and Luna was the only one with her eyes open. She didn't cry. Tears would have blurred her vision. Ruined it all.
Pansy knows how to cry even if she says goddamit Lovegood I'm not crying I'm damn well not. Her tears are hot and her heart beats just like Luna's does. Luna likes to hold her when she cries. Likes to press her chin to Pansy's shoulder and watch the way her back bends like the curve of a shell. Luna can take care of both of them. She knows.
Spring
Luna's mother had a garden. It grew back. The grass pushed through the dirt and roses bloomed, red as a blush and an unfurled bloom. Luna planted all her mother's favourite flowers. Dirt caked her fingers and stained the crescent curve of her fingernails. Dirt tasted like nuts and mother and Luna wasn't alone anymore. Her mother moved in the sway of the trees and apple blossoms that kissed Luna with warm snow tears. The birds sang and there was nothing to be afraid of and Luna almost wanted to cry. But only children cried and Luna was almost grown up so she laughed instead and danced and danced like the princess of autumn and spring.
Pansy has a sweet laugh, sweeter because of its rarity. Her real laugh is a falling blossom, a spark of sunlight and water and she gives it to Luna. Wrapped in dark eyes and skin like snow, it's better than any diamond or Crumple-Horned Snorcack. Luna loves it. Loves her. Someday she'll dance with Pansy in a field of flowers. Someday Pansy will stop to lying to herself. All seasons change.
Summer
Luna's mother had a garden. There were sunflowers, higher than Luna's chin but no higher than her eyes. They swayed like Daddy after too many glasses of firewhisky. Luna liked to sway with them; liked to fall onto the ground in a dizzy heap and breathe in cut grass and roses. Ivy crept up the walls and into the smooth earth. There were lilies too, as white as the skin of the moon and soft like dust. You could kiss a lily and bruise it brown, and you could flatten the grass or bend the sunflowers. That was why Luna liked the pansies best. They were dark like a bruise, but a beautiful bruise, a royal bruise with blood so blue. Crushed or kissed, they were still dark and Luna still loved them.
When Luna kisses Pansy Parkinson they keep their eyes open. There are no flowers in Hogwarts' halls, but there is sunlight pouring through the slit of a window and Pansy's eyes are dark and soft and her lips are warm. They move together, skin to skin, one hollow breathe to another.
"Dark like pansies," Luna whispers, pulling back. Her hands are soft against Pansy's shoulders. Pansy's dark, dark hair brushes warm against her fingers.
"What does that mean?" Pansy demands, because she has thorns too.
Luna smiles. Her lips are tingling.
"That you'll always be beautiful," she says simply, and kisses her again.
Hands slide against cloth against skin, and Pansy does not try to argue. It's nice to be beautiful, after all.
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