Girls were troublesome. Seriously. One of their many confusing purposes in life, apparently, was to make things at least ten times more complex than they needed to be. For example, why did girls like flowers so much? Oh, Harry knew. If no other male in existence did, Harry knew. It had nothing to do with the smell or how pretty they were, as females often claimed. No, he knew the truth behind it all.

The true and honest reason why girls requested they be given flowers was that it was absolutely impossible to just pick up a flower and give it to a girl. That is, it could be done, but what sane man would risk it? Girls threw fits if they found something wrong with the compliment you'd spent the last four hours working up the nerve to give them, who knew what giving the wrong present could do? There were innumerable amounts of flowers, in all different shapes, sizes, colors and smells, with different meanings to each of them in many different cultures. Oh, sure, it might mean "I think you're the single most beautiful, charming, intelligent, patient, caring and mature girl I've ever met and I'm blessed to be able to even look at you!" In France, but it just plain means, "You stink." In Tajikistan and you're completely insensitive for not checking up on that.

Not that Harry thought Luna was that kind of girl, but it never hurt to be cautious, right? Plus… He wanted it to be special. So he checked every floral shop he knew of, sniffed at least three hundred roses, peered at several dozen chrysanthemums, sunflowers, carnations, daisies, dahlias, pansies, poppies, daffodils – Not one of them stood out, not one of them inspired him, not a single one. He went home empty handed and empty hearted.

Luna noticed. "What's wrong, Harry?" She asked as she prepared dinner that night.

Harry sighed. "…I wanted to give you a flower. I wanted to cleverly find that one blossom that somehow is able to tell you exactly how much I love you, that one bloody bloom that magically has 'Luna is the most amazing girl in the world!' etched into it's petals – Not literally, metaphorically. I know Prewitt's Posies in Diagon Alley has something like that – I mean, I wanted to…" He sighed again.

Luna patted him on the shoulder, her eyes wide even when sympathetic. "Don't feel bad, Harry. It's just as well. They don't sell my favorite kind of flower in flower shops."

Harry looked up, curious. "They don't?" Was it exceptionally rare? It didn't matter, he'd find it.

"No. They sell it at the market. In fact, I just got one today. See?" She walked over to the counter and pulled out a white bouquet from the bag of groceries sitting there. Harry blinked, then raised a bushy black eyebrow.

"…Luna… That's cauliflower."

"It's a flower, isn't it?"

"People usually treat it more like a vegetable." He stated matter-of-factly, although a grin had already crept up on his face.

"I'd like to see you find an oleander that tasted anywhere near as good steamed and buttered." She challenged idly.

"Oleanders are poisonous."

"See?"

He kissed her. He'd wanted to find a flower to remind Luna how much he loved her, but instead she'd found a flower that reminded him why he loved her.