Luville Lovebottom

DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I'm not J.K. (R.)

Luville Lovebottom on Mondays

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Soft

They built a tent in Luna's yard, following a childish whimsy. Neville tied a rope between two trees, and they draped an old bedsheet over it, anchored its corners with sticks, and swept the dry dirt free of pine needles and rotting leaves. After laying down thick woolen blankets underneath, they kicked off their shoes and lay in the tent's shade, Luna reading a novel upside-down and Neville fixing his straw out-doors hat. (He had inadvertently sat on it earlier that week.)

As the afternoon glow turned to dark, Luna caught some fireflies and put them in a jar. She also brought out some sandwiches, pickled gherkins, and dirigible wine for their dinner. Neville gathered a few twigs and made a tiny little fire, just enough to warm their hands and cast a cheerful light.

After some time, the fire died out because both Neville and Luna had become rather drowsy. In fact, Luna had quite fallen asleep, and Neville was not far from it. Snuggled in the deep, warm blankets, close enough to Luna that he could hear her slow breathing, he admired the woman he had caught and idly wondered, why him? She could do so much better than the nerdy, awkward boy that he was.

They had not done anything sexual, that evening or any other, and Neville was fine with that. He was scared to, quite honestly; she was so fragile, so perfect, like a Dresden china shepardess, and he was afraid that touching her too harshly would crack her. Not only that, but he was inexperienced in that arena himself, so he was even more terrified of doing something to hurt her.

Something else that hindered him in their relationship was his inconsistent amount of confidence. At some times, he was positively brimming, and was able to take the initiative to kiss her on his own prompting. However, there was that perpetual ghost of his younger self that plagued him, weakened him, and made him feel no more than a babbling idiot. Being with Luna limited the presence of this self-loathing, unfortunate fool of a coward that dwelt within Neville, but not always.

He wished he could abolish this inner wimp, as he admired his sleeping beauty. Flowers that he had entwined in her hair that morning were still there, fresh and beautiful still because he had charmed them to last. Their fragrance still lingered, and he could smell them when the night breeze decided to enter their open-ended shelter.

Pressing closer to her, he also wished that he were more attractive. For years, he had envied Draco Malfoy's fine coloring, facial structure, and epitomical physique. Neville was all too painfully aware of his fleshiness; his tummy would not disappear no matter how much coaxing. It took more than words for Luna to assure him that it did not matter, and still he was unhappy that he did not match her by half in looks. Too often, he compared their partnership to that of Beauty and the Beast.

He thought about that, and rolled over a bit to stare at the paunchy bedsheet that comprised the top of the tent. There was a hole through which moonlight shone placidly. Neville raised his hand and stroked the circumference of the hole, trying to distinguish the silken texture of the rays from the smooth, worn-out sheet. His eyes drifted to Luna, and he noticed that a snatch of her hair was illuminated by the eerie light.

He touched that lovely featured lock, caressing it with the gentleness of a doe nuzzling its fawn, and rested his cheek against hers.

The perfume of dew and new morning caught his nostrils, and he realized that it was no longer very late, but instead very early. He had been drifting in and out of sleep, but now was his last chance to get some real shut-eye in before the sun rose. While the sun's rays had not yet pierced the sky, everything seemed lighter already. Timid, he touched her vanilla-ice-cream skin at the shoulder, partially exposed by her robe's disarrangement, which was wrought by sleep.

She awakened, looked initially surprised, then smiled. Neville was quite taken aback; he had not meant to rouse her.

"Sorry," he said, quiet and abashed.

"It's all right," she mumbled, complacent, "I like waking up and seeing you."

With that, she nestled herself against his chest and closed her lids.

He thought gratefully that while dreams may be beautiful, the only way one could tell if they were real is to feel if they were also soft.

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