There're Nargles in the Mistletoe

There're Nargles in the Mistletoe

Neville stood solitary, alone, in the fourth floor corridor, twisting his fingers anxiously around one another, palms sweating. He was waiting, however impatiently, for the arrival of a certain Ravenclaw, one with dirty-blond hair and large round eyes, one who spoke as though it didn't matter, one who looked like, who smelled like, who simply was the perfect girl.

It wasn't the first time the pair had met up like this: Neville was beginning to lose track of how many times they'd managed to run into one another in this very corridor, usually after curfew. They hadn't been caught once.

And yet Neville's stomach still fluttered with nerves as he waited for the sound of her footsteps (like she was walking, like she was dancing, on Jupiter, on Venus), tapping rhythmically against the smooth cobblestone floor.

The last ounce of sun peeked through the slender windows, throwing moody shadows across the stone. Neville peered through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the waning sunlight. The torches ignited around him, but for once, he wasn't shocked. He might be a nervous wreck, a love struck mess, but hardly was he afraid.

Neville looked around and twisted his hands some more. He could feel his heart beating erratically in his chest: huh HUH huh HUH, almost in perfect time with the breeze and his own jagged breathing.

Snowflakes were floating in now, carelessly, through the window, landing on a suit of armor and melting on contact, leaving drops of water across it's gleaming silver shoulders. Neville chanced wandering closer to the window: the flakes fluttered in and settled themselves softly in his hair, on his robes, white on black: contrast of opposite colors at its finest, its most natural. He grinned openly, dimples creasing his chubby cheeks.

He heard footsteps and shivered. Was it her? He looked around, trying to appear calm, but in his head, a billion thoughts were racing around, running into each other, curling around each other, tangling up entirely. She was here.

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Luna stood solitary, alone, in her dormitory, regarding her reflection curiously in the mirror above her bedside table. It was no surprise to her that her roommates had left the room in such a hurry a few hours ago: the Christmas feast was being held in the Great Hall. Luna hadn't been to one since her second year, after learning of how fond Crumple-Horned Snorkacks were of roast beef.

The Ravenclaw dormitories had been decorated for the holidays: delicate fairy lights were strung deftly around the beds' banisters, and adorning each and every doorway was a clump of mistletoe, which Luna made a point to dodge each time she entered or left a room.

She smiled absentmindedly, for no particular reason (as was often the case), her thin lips pressed together, and pinned her straggly blonde hair up behind her ear, left first, then right. She selected a pair of eggplant earrings from the open jewelry box on the bedside table and put them on, glancing again at her reflections. Violet suited her.

Luna stood up and walked towards the window. The sky was a quiet, somber grey: chilled, cold enough to make the sun look silver through the lacy clouds, though that might have been a result of the frost on the window, as well.

Shivering, she retreated back beside her bed. She was used to being alone, misunderstood, mocked, just like him, the round-faced Gryffindor she was so fond of. Quiet manner, quiet face, lovely boy, perfect boy. A kind of quiver ran through her chest, through her whole body: it spread to the tips of her toes, to the tips of her fingers, to the very tip of her nose as she breathed in the icy air that had found its way through the open window. Emotions had always been subtle with her, which made this madness even more special.

She shivered again and drifted back to the window, latching it firmly shut, then glided towards the door of the dormitory. She checked for nargles in the mistletoe, as she had always done, then made her way out of the Ravenclaw common room.

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Neville could feel his cheeks burning as he watched her round the corner. Flashes of plum dangled near her ears, and to keep himself from floating to the ceiling then and there, he watched them sway, left to right, and swayed with them. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, flyaway strands sticking out from every angle. Neville brought a shaking hand to his forehead and smoothed his own bangs flat.

Her smile was greeting enough, and Neville smiled. Instinctively, he looked down at his brown leather shoes, scuffed from years of use, years of tripping, years of life. Above them was a cluster of mistletoe.

Probably brimming with Nargles, Luna thought, eyeing it suspiciously.

Neville traced her eyes and, grinning, stared at the mistletoe, too. "I don't think so," he practically whispered, not wanting to risk his voice cracking, shaking the walls, breaking the calm. She didn't look entirely convinced, though she was still smiling that alien smile of hers. Leaning closer, Neville kissed her gently on the cheek, shaking with the audacity of it.

"Happy Christmas, Luna."