Punching Butterflies

Harry didn't like being angry.

He knew some people thought he did; Ginny, for instance, had shouted words to that effect at him the previous morning while he was buttering his toast.

It wasn't true, though. He hated it, hated the way the rage just coiled and frothed and churned deep in his gut before spilling out at whoever was closest, until all that was left was a hollow stomach and hurt expressions.

He just couldn't stop it; he didn't have anything to replace it with. As unpleasant as it was to rage about the place as if he were Dudley with a broken toy, it was still better than what took its place when he wasn't angry. Better than dwelling in that vacant swamp of grief ('- it's too late, Harry') and anxiety ('neither can live while the other survives ...') as he had for most of the summer, before coming back to Hogwarts.

Coming back to Ron and Hermione's nagging and bickering. Not to mention their arguing about whether her nagging was upsetting him and of course their bickering about whether their arguing about whether her nagging was upsetting him was, in fact, upsetting him.

To Snape's mocking looks and Occlumency sessions full of criticism and constant reminders of what had happened because he hadn't just paid attention and tried last year.

To Draco's jabs about lost dogs and drapery.

To Ginny's almost mockingly well-adjusted and cheerful manner; Neville's newfound clumsy, contented competence (which seemed to shout, 'I'm got it just as bad as you, grief-wise, so you don't have any excuse for this crap, do you?') and Luna's -

- well, he didn't quite know what about Luna had set him off. She'd come over to say hello or talk about Snorkacks or something, and for some reason the way she'd just stood there, looking up and down the table - for Ron, probably - with a pair of earrings shaped like glasses and just generally having no clue, really, about anything at all had set him off and now he was shouting again. Only it wasn't working the way it did on everyone else.

She just stood there, staring - did she ever blink? - those giant pools she called eyes seeming to absorb every bad-tempered word without a ripple. Eventually, he ran out of words.

Shouting at Luna, he found, was like punching a butterfly. You never actually hit anything, just flailed about until you were exhausted and feeling quite stupid.

"Um," he said, into the silence.

"Did you get rid of it all?" she asked.

Harry wondered if at some point during his tirade (your tantrum, admonished his inner Hermione) he'd burst a blood vessel in his brain and gone mad, because he understood exactly what she meant.

"...I don't think so, no."

"Oh. That's not good. You're much nicer when you're not shouting." She walked off, leaving Harry feeling slightly off-kilter, which wasn't unusual when dealing with Luna Lovegood. What was unusual was the slight shifting sensation in his gut quite distinctly not guilt or anxiety or rage. He told himself it couldn't be what it felt like. He also told himself he wouldn't yell at Luna again.

* * *

He was proved wrong three days later.

He was walking into Hogsmeade alone, hands thrust deep in his pockets, feet absently kicking at built-up piles of snow on the side of the road.

Somehow this engrossing activity seemed to distract him so that he didn't notice Luna until he almost walked into her. He stopped short - but not very short, only inches away from her, so he could see each individual flake of snow in her hair and eyebrows - and made himself step back.

"Hello, Harry," she said, "Do you want to help me look for Burrowing Frostics? I asked Ron, but he and Hermione were pretending they were going to look at Quality Quidditch supplies when they were actually going to go kiss somewhere."

Which they probably had. They'd asked Harry if he wanted to come into Hogsmeade with them, but they obviously hadn't wanted him to. They'd just accepted his demurral with the barest minimum of fuss and then skipped off to Hogsmeade together. Ginny was with whatever boy she was going out with this month (admittedly this was Dean Thomas, the same as it had been last month and every month since the start of the school year) and Neville was ensconced in his Herbology homework. And now Luna was only asking for his company because her options were exhausted. Was he everybody's second choice?

Not Voldemort's.

It boiled up his throat, a foul burning in his mouth, acrid and tasting of vomit. He couldn't help but spit the words out, because otherwise he would have choked. "Yes, they are, because he doesn't like you because you're weird and off-putting and your eyes are too big and pretty and you keep talking about all these stupid made up things that nobody cares about! He doesn't care, and I SURE AS HELL DON'T CARE EITHER!"

Shouting at Luna was like punching a butterfly. On the rare occasion that one of your wild jabs actually connected, you felt like a complete and utter shit.

She blinked once, a slow downward scroll of her eyelids. There was snow in her eyelashes, he noticed. She looked briefly at the ground and said "Oh." Then looked back at him. "Okay then." Turned, and began walking back to Hogwarts.

No wonder no one wants to be around you.

He caught up with her quickly; she wasn't walking very fast. "Look, Luna, I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't... I was just... I'm an arse. I shouldn't have yelled at you. Shouldn't have yelled at anyone, really."

She cocked her head sideways, which with her eyes made her look somewhat like an owl. "Then don't." It wasn't an admonition, wasn't sarcasm. It was just... advice. A perfectly logical solution to his troubles. Completely impossible and ridiculous, of course, but so perfectly Luna that he felt himself - well, not smile, exactly, but there was a looseness about his face he hadn't felt in months, a sense that he could smile, if he tried.

"Most people just pretend to agree because they're making fun of me or humouring me," she said, "or they don't want to hurt my feelings, but I don't mind if you don't believe me."

This would be true, because Luna didn't lie. But then, she didn't believe in one universal Truth, either, a shining bastion of unwavering fact that rendered all things absolute. Somehow this made him feel uncomfortable; he didn't want her reaching into her bag of truths to take the sting out of something he'd said. Or did.

Or didn't do.

He made up his mind in an instant. With a quick guilty glance around to check no-one was around (guilty because it shouldn't matter, quick because he couldn't stop and let himself think or he'd never do it) he leaned forward and kissed her, just a quick peck that landed on her lips rather than her cheek, because she turned her head at the last minute to watch what he was doing. They were soft, cold and because he'd pulled back after just a second he couldn't remember what they tasted like.

He resisted the urge to find out. Smiled instead. "I don't believe in Nargles. I jumped away from the mistletoe last year because... well, because of that 'being an arse' thing I mentioned earlier."

She blinked. Twice, this time. Her hand came up to her face and hovered about an inch from her lips. She looked about as unsettled as Harry had ever seen her, and seemed to be at a loss for words. "There aren't any Nargles around here," she said eventually.

"Yeah, they only live in plants associated with festivities. I read that somewhere."

"It was in the November issue of the Quibbler," she said, still staring at him.

Since staring at him was more or less the norm, he figured that for once he hadn't completely screwed everything up, said goodbye and headed back to the castle.

* * *

Only vestiges of his good mood remained the next morning. If a looming Occlumency session with Snape - the absolute worst way to spend a Sunday morning - wasn't bad enough, he had to deal with Ron and Hermione sitting next to him acting completely ridiculous. It was good, he supposed, that they'd finally figured things out and all, but toast? Who fed each other toast?

Then Ginny sat down, looked critically at his expression, nodded down the table at Ron and Hermione and asked, "Are you going to be a prat about them? Because frankly even if they're prepared to take your crap, if you get all self-centered and prattish I will curse you so hard they'll have to rename it the Brain-Bogie Hex. Not everything's about you, y'know."

Well no, nothing was about him these days except, oh, maybe that one prophecy that stuck a little thing called the fate of the world in his hands and oh god he was going to start yelling again and hadn't he been happy yesterday and he really didn't want to -

Then don't.

- so he didn't. He summoned up a smile. "No. Why would it be?"

It turned out unsettling people was rather fun. Unfortunately he didn't have time to fully enjoy Ginny's confusion; he'd caught sight of Luna coming over and was too busy being utterly shocked at the realization that after he punched that butterfly, he must have eaten it, as it was now busily fluttering about in his stomach.

He reminded himself she was probably only coming over to talk to Ginny. Strangely, this didn't make him feel any better.

"Hello, Ginny. Hello Ron, Hermione," she said, and then turned to Harry. "Hello, Hary. Are you going to kiss me again?"

Ron nearly choked on his toast. Hermione seemed to be on the knife-edge between shock and hilarity. Ginny simply looked delighted.

Why was she asking? Was she going to tell him not to? But then... she would have just said that, wouldn't she? This was Luna; if she asked a question, it was because she was genuinely curious. And if she was curious then it would mean she wanted to know the answer, and if she wanted to know the answer then it meant she...

...she couldn't, though. Could she?

"Um," he managed, "...yes?"

Luna smiled like the waxing moon. "Good," she declared, and walked off.

On her way out, she skipped for a few steps. It turned out causing that was even better than unsettling people, and he managed to get through the rest of the day without yelling at anybody, not even Snape.