So this is a one-shot that I promised the 25th reviewer of my Dramione story, Unweddable. Lucky number 25 was partypenguina3! She chose the pairing and gave me a rough idea about when it takes place - Blaise's fifth year, around the time that Harry's interview was published by the Quibbler. I'm ashamed to say I didn't entirely follow her prompt because I found that Blaise and Luna were both extremely difficult characters to write. I probably wrote them way OOC, but I did try to stay as canon as possible. Also, because apparently I hate joy, I really wanted them not to end up together - I wanted this to be one of those bittersweet stories. Unfortunately, I watched a few too many romantic comedies while writing this so that plan disappeared altogether...Well, you'll see.

Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews the things that come out of my head. I'm so flattered that people actually bother, I can't begin to describe how good it makes me feel. I know that as a thank you, this story could have been much better, but I've had continual bouts of writers' block which made it impossibly hard to write.

Enough about me, and more about Bluna.

Yay!

"You shouldn't sit there, you know – there's a wrackspurt nest above your head."

Blaise Zabini's contemplation of the deserted Quidditch pitch from the vantage point of a window seat in the equally deserted library was interrupted by a dreamy voice. The sound took him by surprise and his head whipped around faster than his neck allowed. He massaged the twisted muscle as he looked up at the source of the voice and was met with possibly the oddest sight he'd ever seen (other than the time he'd caught Crabbe trying to read a book).

The girl in front of him was wearing a bizarre assortment of what appeared to be jewellery, although it was certainly not the jewellery he was used to seeing glittering around his mother's neck. She had the look of a demented, multi-coloured owl due to the coloured glasses that were perched rather lopsidedly on her nose. Out from underneath her curtain of dirty blonde hair he saw what looked like purple radishes dangling from her ears.

This was, without a doubt, the girl people referred to as Loony Lovegood. It wasn't exactly a struggle for Blaise to see how the nickname had come about.

His quick assessment of the Lovegood girl over, he attempted to give her the cold look he had perfected. It was one he'd learnt from his mother, who was an expert in coolly dismissing men who were below her standards (in other words, men who had rather smaller vaults at Gringotts). Generally, it shooed unwanted irritations away with the minimum effort possible. Unfortunately, Loony Lovegood seemed to be utterly impervious to its effects – perhaps she couldn't even see the look his features had carefully arranged themselves into through her ridiculous glasses. Whatever the reason, she utterly ignored the icy glare she received, and continued to natter on about rack sperts or whatever it was she was saying.

"…they just float in through your ear and make your brain go all fuzzy. You can't tell that you're sitting under a nest of them though, because they're invisible unless you're wearing spectrespecs. Daddy says spectrespecs also help you to see things that are right under your nose – like that cloud! It's in the exact shape of a crumple-horned snorkack," she babbled in a faraway, silvery tone as she leaned over him and peered out of the window, pointing at a white cloud in the unusually blue September sky. Blaise followed the line of her finger despite himself, but saw nothing other than a white puffy blob with a slightly pointy bit at one end.

Although he couldn't see the cloud, he could certainly feel the girl brush against his leg. She was invading his personal bubble, and that couldn't be tolerated. He cleared his throat pointedly, but she was obviously too engrossed in cloud-spotting to pay any attention whatsoever to his obvious discomfort.

"Look…" he began, but quickly trailed off as he tried desperately to remember what her actual name was. Surely it couldn't be Loony.

She turned to face him, pushing her glasses to the top of her head and holding his gaze with her slightly protuberant silver eyes. She looked surprised, but Blaise didn't know whether the expression was due to the fact that he'd spoken directly to her or whether mild surprise was just the natural expression of her face.

"You can call me Loony. It's okay, you know, most people do." She said the words bluntly without, as far as he could tell, any sarcasm lurking beneath the honesty. He promptly forgot what he'd been about to say in surprise. Her frankness made him feel even more uncomfortable, especially as she seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking. He had, after all, been wondering whether it was acceptable to call her Loony at that very instant. For the briefest of instants, his composure slipped and emotion flitted across his face. He immediately quashed the bizarre amalgamation of curiosity, confusion and astonishment but he was certain those large silvery eyes hadn't missed the slip-up.

Her gaze made him squirm – internally, of course. Externally, he didn't move a muscle, but his uneasiness was building. There was just something about those huge eyes of hers that made him feel as if she were staring right into his mind. Thankfully, he'd been well-trained in Occlumency since a young age. There was no telling who might want to access his memories… some of the things he'd seen were incriminating to say the least. Blaise impatiently brushed away the thoughts that hung in his mind like cobwebs. Now was not the time and place to dwell on the past, especially when his present company happened to be oddly observant.

"Your face has gone all fuzzy. I told you there was a wrackspurt nest around here," she said, slipping her multi-coloured glasses back on and gazing thoughtfully up at the ceiling. She moved her head from side to side as if following the flighty passage of some invisible creature. Then again, she had said that those creatures were invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps there really was something there.

As if sensing that Blaise had also been surreptitiously searching the air for wrackspurts, the Lovegood girl beamed down at him.

"I have a spare pair, if you want them," she said. Before he could answer with a contemptuous retort, she began pulling a peculiar assortment of objects out of the pockets of her robes. She dumped a necklace made out of what looked like butterbeer corks on top of a pile of back editions of The Quibbler in varying shades of disrepair. Blaise nearly scoffed at the sight of the magazine that the sane members of the wizarding population derided and scorned – with good reason, too, if the cover story HOW FAR WILL FUDGE GO TO GAIN GRINGOTTS? was any indication. He'd forgotten that her father was Xenophillius Lovegood, but he was hardly surprised. The family resemblance, physically and mentally, was striking.

He didn't have time to dwell much on thoughts of Loony Lovegood's family, however, as he was forced to quickly jerk his knees to his chest to make room on the window seat for a pair of shoes, a collection of spare quills and iridescent inks and something that resembled a goldfish bowl made out of bluish glass.

I don't even want to know, he thought to himself, turning his head to stare out of the window again while she continued to pull objects out of her robes. It was a precautionary measure that he felt was necessary, given the recent and alarming slip of his perfectly collected demeanour. He didn't want Loony to pick up on any more curiosity he might inadvertently express. That and the fact that her current actions reminded him painfully of his father.

He could barely remember the man who'd given him his name. Blaise's memory had provided nothing more than the briefest flash of an image – impossibly large hands, powerful yet safe, pulling a grey fluffy rabbit from the folds of his cloak and depositing the squirming ball of life in Blaise's own infant hands. It was only from a photograph he'd stumbled upon in his mother's closet that he could associate a face with the few memories he had of his father. The man looked almost nothing like him; Blaise had inherited all of his mother's looks and was, in essence, her male counterpart. But Blaise had stared at that one photograph long enough that he began to see the smallest of similarities: something around the mouth as the man smiled lovingly down at the wriggling bundle of pink he held close to his chest.

"Here you go," Loony said, interrupting his reverie for the second time that day by waving a pair of coloured glasses under his nose. "Daddy thinks every witch or wizard should have a pair of spectraspecs. You'd be surprised how many accidents are caused by wrackspurts. They've been proven to cause Loser's Lurgy, for example. When we get enough money, The Quibbler's going to give out a free pair of spectraspecs to all readers…"

She trailed off, looking into the distance and presumably imagining a brighter future where all witches and wizards stumbled around wearing those ridiculous glasses. Blaise noticed she was still waving his own designated pair of spectraspecs under his nose, and was suddenly overcome with an irrational frustration at this girl. She'd simply appeared out of nowhere and disrupted the first peaceful moment he'd managed to snatch since they'd been back at school by spouting drivel non-stop. Enough was enough! Quite frankly, he was surprised he'd managed to tolerate it for this length of time already – he didn't even accord Parkinson much more than the time of day, and she'd been flirting with him (when she wasn't slobbering all over Malfoy) since her hormones had kicked off in third year.

He shoved Loony's hand away roughly, driven by an intense need to escape. He needed to be alone. He functioned better alone.

She stumbled backwards and for a moment Blaise thought she was going to fall. He was struck by remorse – it was entirely possible that he had shoved her a little harder than necessary. However, she righted herself almost immediately and fixed him with a gaze that was oddly free of reproach. Had he done the same thing to any girl, any normal girl, she would probably have slapped him. Loony merely looked at him with her unchangeable, dreamy expression.

Blaise teetered on the verge of an apology, but Loony spoke first.

"People always have somewhere pressing to be. Sometimes they don't see me." The words were spoken gently, as a statement more than a cutting remark. She could have been saying something banal like nice weather today. Instead, what she was effectively doing was forgiving Blaise for his unprecedented fit of violence without even acknowledging that anything had happened. For a moment, Blaise caught himself marvelling at the maturity of this little fourth year girl. It only lasted a moment, though, before he shook himself roughly.

He hopped lightly from the window seat, careful not to knock any of Loony's possessions to the ground as he did so. They stood face to face for an instant, eyes locked. Blaise's black eyes searched the girl's silvery orbs for any sign of hurt, but they showed nothing more than the characteristic wonderment that they'd been displaying throughout the two students' interaction with one another. She smiled the smallest of smiles as the sun emerged from its hiding place behind the crumple-horned snorkack cloud and streamed through the window. It seemed to caress her face shyly, flooding it with a golden light that tumbled down the length of her , just as suddenly as it had sprung into being, this golden waterfall was snuffed out as the sun disappeared again. Blaise grabbed his books and fled the library.

It was only when he was safely in the Slytherin common room - far away from strange girls and unexpected sunlight - that he realised he'd taken the pair of spectraspecs with him.

Hogwarts was close to deserted that Christmas. Blaise, as usual, was stuck at school because his mother was off visiting Paris with her newest boyfriend and she said that the presence of her fifteen-year-old son was rather a damper on the whole experience. Besides, Blaise hadn't actually met this latest conquest and didn't plan on doing so any time soon. He missed his mother, naturally, but even when he was home they were rarely alone together. His mother was the definition of a social butterfly, whereas Blaise, who had been dragged to functions often as a young child, erred on the side of recluse.

So he found himself wandering restlessly through the school corridors on Christmas Eve. The library had closed early because apparently even Madame Pince had somewhere better to be than with her beloved books that evening. He'd been unceremoniously thrown out of the library at 8 o'clock that evening, and since then he'd been aimlessly strolling past portraits having loud Christmas feasts. A few minutes ago, he'd walked past a suit of armour wearing a pink party hat and singing rude versions of Christmas carols in a very loud, very drunk falsetto.

In her hurry to close up the library, Madame Pince had actually let Blaise check out a book which was not supposed to leave the library. It was an early edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, complete with the illustrations and various anatomical diagrams of the species mentioned within. It also made mention of several species which the later, edited versions that they used as textbooks did not – no doubt because there was no proof of them actually existing. However, in Blaise's mind, this only made it a more interesting read.

He didn't want to go back to his common room where he would be forced to socialise with his housemates. At Christmas even the more antisocial Slytherins got caught up in the festive spirit and the common room was no longer a dependably quiet place. Instead, it would by now be full of raucous pupils, comfortably full of butterbeer (and maybe a little tipsy, depending on whether they'd managed to steal any firewhiskey). There would be carol singing, faces flushed by the heat of the fires, exchanging of gifts and sharing of food. All of the armchairs and sofas would be pulled into semicircles around the fires. Someone, no doubt, would have conjured up a Christmas tree and decorated it with green and silver ornaments to match their green and silver common room. Blaise could picture Malfoy lounging across one of the black leather sofas, his blond head in Parkinson's lap and his henchmen gathered around him like puppies. Crabbe and Goyle would be simultaneously stuffing their faces with mince pie after mince pie and hanging on to Malfoy's every word. Malfoy, meanwhile, would be giving a lengthy discourse on what he expected to be given for Christmas (as he did every year).

All in all, it was something Blaise felt like avoiding.

Instead of heading towards the dungeons, then, his feet took him in the opposite direction. He headed to the highest point of the school rather than scurrying back to its underbelly. Tonight, he wanted to drink in the moonlight and read – he would make the most of the school's uncharacteristic silence.

He climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the astronomy tower, opening the door onto the cool dark air of the night with a thankful sigh. It was still too early for the few adventurous couples who would conjure up mistletoe as an excuse to kiss one another here. He was alone, just as he had hoped.

Blaise pulled his winter cloak a little tighter around him as the air nipped at his extremities and tried to worm its way beneath his many layers. He muttered a quick warming spell that should keep him toasty for the duration of his book and settled himself on the balustrade with his back to the wall. He let one leg dangle freely into the dark nothingness for, while he knew that he was perfectly safe and would not fall, a small part of him enjoyed the feeling of empty space beneath him.

He read by the light of the moon which seemed abnormally large and bright that night, almost close enough to reach out and touch. Blaise devoured the information before his eyes although he had read it all before. In its familiarity, it was a comfort to him. The words and the pictures he had studied on countless occasions during his five years at Hogwarts were as known to him as the feel of his wand. They were more known to him than the smell of his mother, he realised sadly as he traced the gold embellishment of the phoenix's tale with one finger.

"It's much too loud inside, isn't it?" a dreamy voice said, snapping him from his reverie. This time, he didn't even need to look up to know who it was that had interrupted his thoughts. Loony Lovegood seemed to have a knack for finding him when what he desired most was to be alone.

Slightly disgruntled, he closed his book carefully and set it on the ground. He had a feeling this conversation was going to surprise him, and he didn't think Madame Pince would take it too well if he told her he'd dropped the book of the Astronomy Tower when he'd jumped with shock. No, it was much safer on firm ground.

He looked up at Loony, who was resting her elbows on the stone balustrade and holding her head in her hands. She was looking up at the moon, he noted, her silvery eyes taking on a mother-of-pearl appearance as the moonlight danced in them.

"What are you doing here?" Blaise asked gruffly, resenting the intrustion.

"I came up here to breathe," she replied after a pause, completely ignoring his hostile tone. "Some people kept vanishing the mince pies when I picked one up. I don't really like mince pies anyway, so I didn't mind. The air is clearer up here."

Blaise squirmed at the casual mention of the cruelty of Loony's housemates. Not for the first time, he marvelled at how unconcerned she was about these incidents.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked, although it sounded as though she wasn't really expecting an answer from him. It looked like she was counting the stars or hunting out the noticeable constellations without the aid of a telescope.

Blaise gestured wordlessly down at the book as though the answer was self-explanatory, but realised she hadn't caught the movement.

"I came up here to breathe," he replied, using the same phrase that she had done and noticing as he did so how true it was. He could have read anywhere in the castle, within reason, but he chose the Astronomy Tower so that he could clear his mind with the aid of the crisp night air which he pulled into his lungs in grateful gulps.

"My mother used to love the night," Loony said suddenly, shattering the silence that had fallen between them.

"What happened to her?"

"She died."

She spoke the words bluntly in the same tone as she always did, as though she had come to peace with the idea that her mother was no longer around. There was no bitterness or sadness in her voice, only gentleness as though speaking too loudly would disturb the dead woman's peaceful slumber.

"Oh. I'm sorry." He didn't quite know how to reply to that statement. His housemates so rarely discussed personal matters or emotions that he was ill-equipped for such situations. As for his own emotions, he did his very best to lock them carefully away so that he might remain level-headed and detached at all times. Blaise's discomfort increased.

"It was a long time ago." Loony turned her head slightly so that their eyes met. She held his gaze steadily until he was so uncomfortable that he chose to stare at his hands instead. When he raised his head to hers again, she'd resumed her silent scrutiny of the night sky.

"What… er… what was she like?" he asked awkwardly.

"She was my mother," the girl replied simply. Blaise was about to ask again, thinking she'd misunderstood his question, when he realised that her answer told him all he needed to know. She was Loony Lovegood's mother, which meant that she had probably been a little odd. But she was a mother, which meant that she had been warm, familiar and comfortable. Those words conveyed the deep sense of love which a mother and child share, a love that endures beyond the grave.

"I lost my father when I was little," he said suddenly. He surprised himself with that revelation – he hadn't intended to say anything, the words had just bubbled up in his throat and spilled out of their own accord.

"Where did he go?" the blonde girl asked.

"What? No, I mean he died when I was little," Blaise clarified quickly, thrown off-guard by the miscommunication. "I don't remember him, really."

Shut up, brain, he commanded as more words he hadn't meant to say went tumbling into the light breeze.

"He loved you anyway, you know."

The girl had a really unsettling knack of knowing exactly what Blaise was thinking even when he himself didn't have a clue. Always straight to the point and succinct, her words might have seemed entirely random and incoherent but the more Blaise listened to her, the more sense she made. He was starting to realise why she'd been put in Ravenclaw. Previously, he'd been of the opinion that the hat had been drunk when he'd made that decision. Now, though, he understood it.

"So why didn't you go home for Christmas?" he asked, simultaneously wondering why on Earth he was bothering to make conversation with her.

"Daddy's in Iceland interviewing someone about the dangers of owning an Umgubular Slashkilter and he said it was too dangerous for me to come with him."

"Oh. Right." Blaise didn't know what to say, having never heard of an Umgubular Slashkilter. "My mother's in Spain."

"Umgubular Slashkilters don't live in warmer countries, you should tell her to try further north."

"I don't think she's looking to own one. She just didn't want me around because her boyfriend doesn't really like me."

"Not many people like me, either."

Once again, Blaise found himself at an utter loss for words. How was it possible that this girl could make him speechless and more talkative all at the same time?

The clouds shifted across the sky as the two of them sat in something close to companionable silence. The moon shone down and made the silvery lettering of Blaise's book wink in the darkness. The light caught Loony's eye and she scooped it off of the ground.

"This book isn't very good, you know," she said, flicking through the pages. Blaise wanted to rip it out of her hands, to tell her to be careful with the rare book (especially because she seemed like the clumsy type), but he held his tongue.

"I mean, it's missing some of the major creatures. Not a single mention of nargles or moon frogs or heliopaths…" Blaise realised quickly that she was talking more to herself than to him, but was fascinated despite himself by the allusions she made to creatures he'd never even heard of.

"What are… nargles?" he asked before promptly biting down on his own disobedient tongue which kept saying things even when he knew that silence was safest.

Loony beamed at his accidental display of curiosity and launched into an extensive description of a huge number of creatures that he suspected weren't entirely real. Despite the cynical logic in his brain telling him that the girl was spouting a load of nonsense, Blaise found himself captivated by her detailed depictions of these fantastical beasts. He leaned forward unconsciously, lapping up every word that fell from her lips.

The moon played with Loony's hair as she spoke, her silvery eyes dancing and her hands waving wildly to illustrate her points. It was as though he was watching some kind of entrancing dance.

Luna. Her name is Luna. The moon.

Watching the girl and her namesake as they stood in bright-eyed contemplation of one another, Blaise was suddenly struck by a very odd thought. Luna Lovegood was beautiful.

She was not pretty in the traditional sense of the word – her features were not perfectly proportioned and her hair was certainly not well-groomed. But there was something about this girl that radiated beauty. Blaise had seen beauty all of his life; his mother was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. This girl was utterly different, though. He'd never seen anything like her. Blaise's mother was traditionally beautiful. She had long dark hair that fell in straight tresses all the way to her waist, olive skin that seemed to give off a golden glow and black siren eyes that would lure any man to their downfall. Luna was the opposite. Her hair fell in white waves to the small of her back, but it was matted and unkempt as though she'd never learnt how to brush it herself. Her eyes seemed to repel people rather than draw them in and her sense of fashion was obviously extremely questionable. Most different of all, though, was the way that she was unassuming. Unlike Parkinson or Lavender Brown or any of the other girls who clearly spent hours slaving away in front of their mirrors applying makeup and potions to make themselves artificially beautiful, Luna was nothing but natural. She did not attempt to hide her strangeness, but seemed not to notice that she was anything out of the ordinary.

In the moonlight, Blaise saw her for what she was. She was extraordinary.

As Luna talked, Blaise found himself more and more inclined to join in until they were having what could be called a proper conversation, something which was rare for Blaise to indulge in. Time seemed to have ceased altogether as the two of them talked under the stars, until Luna yawned mid-sentence.

"I should go. The eagle doesn't like it when people come back late so his riddles take ages to solve." Blaise nodded mutely, surprised at the reluctance he felt to let this spritely fay of a girl out from under his sight. He leapt down from the stone balustrade, noting the slight tingling in his bottom which meant that he'd been there for too long, as usual. Luna danced down the stairs ahead of him and Blaise made sure that he was only a few steps behind her, not wanting to lose sight of her silvery hair. They reached flat ground again and walked side by side, so close that Blaise could feel his hand brush against hers every few steps. Impulse swept him off his feet, silencing the voice of logic in his head, and he circled her tiny white hands in his bigger tanned ones. She looked up at him in surprise – although, again, it was hard to tell whether it was genuine surprise or just the permanent expression she wore – but didn't remove her hand from his.

I must be insane. What if someone sees me? His thoughts were panicked, but he ignored them and continued to hold her hand gently in his as though cradling the most fragile, valuable thing in the world. The sensation of her, cool against his warmth, sent flutters of nervous excitement throughout his body. He'd never felt this way at the mere touch of skin against skin before, not when Pansy Parkinson or any of the other vapid girls had thrown themselves at him. What's happening to me?

They ground to a halt when they reached the parting of ways, one headed down into the depths of the school and the other climbing up her tower to scrape the night sky to which she so clearly belonged. The pair lingered at the crossroads, looking openly at one another. Luna looked quizzical as though wondering why Blaise was still holding her hand. In fact, she probably wondered why he was holding her hand at all, given the way he'd behaved towards her when they first met. Had she asked those questions, Blaise would not have been able to answer. He didn't know why he was doing anything anymore, only that this was the safest and the happiest he'd felt in a long time. This, standing in silence in a deserted corridor staring into the silver pools of Luna Lovegood's eyes, was peaceful.

The moment he allowed that thought to surface in his mind, the peace was broken by a loud and familiar cackling. Peeves had somehow found them and was floating lazily above them.

"Students caught out of bed canoodling!" he screeched gleefully, loud enough that his shrill voice echoed down the maze of corridors. It would attract Filch, as he had no doubt intended it to. Blaise blushed, knowing very well what the reactions of his fellow Slytherins would be if anyone thought he'd been strolling down the moonlit corridors 'canoodling' with Loony Lovegood.

"We aren't canooodling," he spat at Peeves, dropping Luna's hand like it was disgusting to him. He thought he saw something flicker across her face briefly, but it was gone before he could analyse it.

Peeves cackled again, and held up something that was easily discernible, even in the half-light of the moon. Mistletoe.

"Oh, but you will be!" he chortled. "Zabini and Loooony kissing in the corridor!" Blaise looked at Luna, trying to hide the question that he knew she would read in his eyes.

Luna looked up at Peeves calmly. "There are nargles in mistletoe, you know." She took a step away, and Blaise's heart lurched a little bit, as though trying to propel his body forward to close the gap between them.

Peeves was screeching with laughter now, a sound that grated horribly on Blaise's nerves. Before he could whip out his wand and fire hexes at the poltergeist, another ghostly figure rounded the corner. The bloody baron looked even more gruesome in the moonlight than he did during the day, so it was little wonder that Peeves shrieked and zoomed away as fast as he could. The baron pursued him, passing straight through Blaise who closed his eyes and shuddered as his insides felt like they'd been drenched in icy water.

When he opened his eyes, Luna had already put more distance between the two of them. He wanted to call out, to tell her to wait, but he knew that he had no right. The moment even the smallest possibility that others would discover the two of them together had appeared, he had dropped her. Blaise kicked himself mentally for behaving like an arse towards the first person he had managed to talk freely to in all of his school years.

So, he didn't call her back or run after her. He let the silver-haired, ethereal girl disappear around the corner. No one but the moon was around to hear the boy whisper from the shadows, no one but the moon smiled down upon him as he melted into the darkness.

"Goodnight, Luna."

"Blaise, have you seen this?" Pansy Parkinson said, thrusting something on his lap. Blaise was too busy simultaneously marvelling at how irritatingly nasal her voice was and thanking every higher being he knew of that she hadn't thrust herself on his lap for once to notice what it was until he stood up. He had every intention of escaping to his dormitory because, although he knew that Crabbe and Goyle would be there stuffing their faces, that was a more attractive thought than Parkinson manoeuvring herself on top of him.

A newspaper flopped to the floor and a few of the photos inside squeaked their protests as they hit the black marble of the Slytherin common room. Parkinson, too, looked like she was about to protest his sudden movement. Blaise snatched up the fallen newspaper and began backing away with what he hoped was an apologetic expression.

"Er… sorry, Parkinson, bit too noisy to read in here. Think I'll take this to my room." Even a troll would probably have seen through that lie – the common room was deserted but for a smattering of people. Parkinson, thankfully, could have lost to a troll at chess. Instead of looking insulted, she actually seemed to light up and looked delighted. She launched herself from her chair and moved to take his arm.

"Okay, let's go to your room, Blaise," she said, fluttering her eyelashes coyly at him. Blaise thought she looked like she was having a fit. He wrenched his arm from her grasp roughly (but previous experience had told him that any chivalrous actions would merely be taken as encouragement) and strode away. Undeterred, she began to follow him, the click of her heels echoing around the stone common room.

"Actually, I read better when I'm on my own," he called over his shoulder, as if hoping that throwing meaningless words at her would halt her.

"But that's my copy," she whined. The clicking of her heels was closer now – she was definitely gaining on him. He pulled out his wand and briefly considered hexing her. That would certainly get her to leave him alone, for a little while at least (until she managed to persuade herself that the hex was in fact a sign of affection), but it would also land him in detention. Instead, he turned his attention to the newspaper in hand. What was so important about this damn newspaper? Parkinson had never really been one for reading, so what was it that had interested her for long enough that she'd actually tried to make sense of the little black squiggles?

He didn't have time to riffle through its pages while he was still far from the relative safety of his dorm room, so he murmured a quick geminio charm and tossed the extra copy behind him. A little squeak told him the pages had hit their target. Blaise allowed himself a victorious smirk as he rounded the corner and slipped inside his room, locking the door behind him.

As predicted, Crabbe and Goyle were lying in their respective beds amusing themselves by seeing who could fit the most cauldron cakes in their cavernous mouths at once. They afforded Blaise a cursory grunt as he crossed the room and made his way towards his bed. He didn't bother to return the greeting, knowing that the food spread out in front of their corpulent bodies had once again recaptured their entire concentration. Malfoy's bed was empty – no doubt he was off subtly stalking Hermione Granger. Blaise shook his head. Although he knew his friend (or rather, the person he most tolerated) had all the severe emotional problems that came with being descended from an old pureblood family, Blaise had very quickly seen through Malfoy's protestations that he despised the filthy mudblood. It only took half a brain to understand why Malfoy was so quick to bring her up in every single conversation, why he taunted her constantly without any provocation. Luckily for Malfoy, not many of his entourage had even half a brain to their names.

Blaise settled himself into a cross-legged position on his green duvet, flicking his wand to draw the emerald hangings closed.

For the first time since it had landed on his lap, Blaise actually looked at the newspaper fully. It was not The Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, both of which had been thrust at him at some point in the past couple of years by a crowing Pansy Parkinson whenever they published anything particularly nasty about Harry Potter, Hermione Granger or any other of those oh-so-wonderful Gryffindors. Instead, he was faced with a brightly coloured edition of The Quibbler. Emblazoned on the front cover were the words HARRY POTTER: THE TRUTH AT LAST!

Blaise flicked to page three and was greeted with a large picture of Potter's face. He rolled his eyes and began to read.

HARRY POTTER: A GRAVE STORY

The Ministry has worked very hard to convince us that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has not returned from the dead, despite Harry Potter's explanation of the death of Cedric Diggory, a Hufflepuff student and a Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament. The Ministry's official view is that both Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore are blithering idiots.

BUT ARE THEY?

In an exclusive interview with Rita Skeeter, former sharp quill of the Daily Prophet, Harry Potter tells the whole story.

Harry Potter sits before me and his silence in this overcrowded tavern is marked. His green eyes, sparkling with the barest hint of unshed tears, single him out from his companions. These are the eyes of a child who has seen many horrors. To look into his eyes is to believe him.

Blaise paused to snort derisively. He'd never liked Rita Skeeter, especially after she'd published an article about his mother which insinuated that her latest string of husbands had died through more than just a series of unfortunate events. When Malfoy and Parkinson had acted as Skeeter's eyes and ears last year during the Triwizard Tournament, Blaise had found an increasing number of excuses not to be around them for extended periods of time. He had no wish to lay himself bare before Skeeter's twisted quill.

Blaise's eyes scanned the text quickly, flicking over the words and drinking in their meaning. When at last he reached the end of the article, Blaise leaned back against his pillows and let out a low whistle. Naturally, he'd known that Potter had been telling the truth straight away, since most of his Slytherin cohort had one or both parents tied up with the Dark Lord. But to come out and give the names of Death Eaters, especially Death Eaters like Lucius Malfoy who held a lot of authority in the wizarding world, was brave. And stupid. Very stupid. Typical Gryffindor, Blaise thought, tossing the magazine onto his bedside table.

And of course, he'd used the Quibbler as a medium for his stupidity, because who else would be crazy enough to print the terrifying truth? Only Xenophilius Lovegood would do such a thing.

It wasn't until a few days later, when Umbridge had banned all copies of the Quibbler, that Blaise realised the full consequences of the elder Lovegood's decision to print Potter's story. Naturally, the moment the Quibbler became contraband, everyone had somehow acquired a copy. Whispered conversations in the corridor assured Blaise that everyone had read the story. But the whispers weren't exactly reassuring.

Although many now believed Potter, a worrying number (lead by those whose parents had been denounced as Death Eaters) turned in fury against Luna Lovegood. Her friends, primarily Ginny Weasley, accompanied her to and fro between classes, using their best hexes against all who raised their wands against the blonde girl. But they couldn't always protect her, and very often Luna was left to make her way alone. No one hexed her outright, but little things happened to her so frequently that it was clear they were not just simple coincidences. Her bag would break suddenly of its own accord every few steps; her books would set about tearing out their own pages; ink was periodically spilled all over her and her belongings. She took each misfortune, each 'accident', in her customary way, never rising to anger or raising her wand to retaliate.

Blaise watched her as well as he could from a cautious distance, knowing that he would put himself in harm's way if he were seen to be openly protecting her. The teachers kept an eye out for the girl (although their efforts to help were not nearly good enough, in Blaise's opinion), but he knew very well that if his cohort turned against him, the teachers were likely to turn a very shortsighted, if not utterly blind, eye to it. Blaise was not one of the 'golden' children who faced up to adversity every day. He was no Harry Potter in terms of courage, no Hermione Granger when it came to brains, and no Neville Longbottom for loyalty. He was stuck in the middle – not revered at the top or close enough to the bottom to merit protection. And he was a Slytherin, a member of the most hated house in school.

So no, he couldn't help Luna actively, forced to watch from the sidelines as the school punished her for her father's honesty.

Until the day he stumbled upon Luna in an abandoned corridor on the third floor. He hadn't seen her come into lunch and, mumbling something about a stomach ache, left his table as soon as possible. He had wandered through the corridors of his school, the lie about his stomach quickly becoming a reality as it knotted itself with worry.

Then, he found her.

She was sitting, her back against the wall, eyes closed and her head tilted upwards. Even from a distance, Blaise could see the stream of blood that dribbled from her forehead, trickling down her cheek. His heart clenched painfully and he sprinted over to her. Luna was even paler than she normally was, her skin almost translucent. Her eyelids fluttered open as he crouched down beside her, recognition replacing fear in her grey eyes. Blaise rummaged around in his pockets, hunting for a clean handkerchief.

He found one that his mother had had embroidered in Paris, an expensive Christmas gift he'd absolutely hated. She'd never really known what to get him, having not wanted children in the first place. Now, however, he was oddly thankful that she'd never been a wonderful parent because it meant that he could gently stem the flow of blood from Luna's wound, watching as the blood bloomed on his handkerchief. He dabbed at the cut until only faint traces were left and his handkerchief was no longer white.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital wing now," he announced as he circled her tiny frame with arms that Quidditch had strengthened. She didn't say anything, which he took as encouragement. He lifted her, marvelling at how light and elfin she was in his arms. She slipped an arm around his neck and, despite the urgency of the situation, Blaise's skin tingled where she touched him. They made slow progress towards the hospital wing although the corridors were empty and all the students were chattering happily over plates piled high with food. Neither one spoke to the other, but Blaise tried to pour everything he was feeling into the embrace of his arms around Luna.

"What happened, Mr Zabini?" Madame Pomfrey regarded him with suspicion which Blaise felt was highly unjustified. She seemed to be implying that he was the one who had hurt Luna, although why any attacker would feel the need to bring his victim to the hospital wing was beyond him. He resisted the urge to point this out to the portly nurse, opting instead for telling her the simple truth.

"I don't know… I found her in a corridor on the third floor like this. I think I stopped the bleeding."

The nurse waved at one of the beds and instructed Blaise to set Luna down upon it. He did as he was told, stepping back and allowing Madame Pomfrey to look over her patient.

"You did a good job staunching the flow," she said after a while, pulling back from the pale form of the girl. The suspicious tone was gone from her voice; it seemed she trusted him now. "It isn't as bad as it looks," she continued, now speaking with the obvious aim of reassuring him. "Scalp wounds always bleed a lot. I'm going to get some dittany and a sleeping draught. You may stay with her until I return." With that, she bustled away to her supply closet and Blaise found himself alone with Luna again.

"Who did this to you, Luna?" he asked furiously the moment the nurse was gone.

"It… It was an accident," the girl replied faintly, her voice worryingly soft.

"No! I know it wasn't an accident. Tell me who did it!" Her defence of her attackers angered him beyond belief. Could she truly believe that someone hadn't intended to cause her pain, even as she lay in the hospital wing?

She looked shocked at his violent tone of voice, meeting his eyes for the first time. "I didn't see anyone. My back broke and I tripped. I must have cut my head on something sharp in the bag."

Blaise growled in frustration, but knew that this was what Luna honestly believed was the truth. His breathing, which had been ragged, began to slow and even out as he relaxed in her presence. Just being with her was a balm.

"I'm going to find whoever did it and make sure they never hurt you again," he said, startling himself at the protectiveness in his voice.

Luna did not reply, gazing up at the ceiling with big, astonished eyes and the nurse returned moments later carrying bottles of potions. She made to shoo him away but Blaise shot her such a pleading look that she consented reluctantly, grumbling about visiting hours as she bent over Luna and applied dittany to her wound. Blaise watched the girl's face attentively as the salve was smeared on by Madame Pomfrey's expert, calloused hands. Luna bit down on her lip, hard, to prevent the hiss of pain escaping and the sight made Blaise want to shove Pomfrey's hands away.

She's hurting her! a part of him yelled frantically, but this time logic won out over passion and he reminded himself that the dittany was healing her more than it was hurting her. He did his best to relax his tense shoulders, perching awkwardly on the side of the hospital bed next to Luna and positioning himself so that he could watch over her like a hawk. He noticed Madame Pomfrey shoot him a look as she measured out the correct volume of sleeping draught but he ignored it, thinking she was probably ruffled that he was messing up her pristine bed.

Luna gratefully swallowed the sleeping draught that the nurse administered, but her eyes did not take on a sleepy quality immediately. Instead, bright and alert, they turned to gaze at Blaise. The boy was immobilised immediately, and everything but Luna seemed to fade away. He didn't notice the matron slipping away. All he saw were Luna's lips as they parted and a few words fell from her tongue.

"That was nice of you, Blaise," she whispered, using his name for the first time. It was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

"Luna, I'm so sorry…" he trailed off, not knowing what he was apologising for. He hadn't attacked her, after all. Then again, he hadn't protected her either, too scared about what people would say if they caught him. He was sorry he'd been too much of a coward to take care of her, sorry that he'd pushed her away from him on Christmas Eve, sorry that he had ever considered her as anything less than extraordinary.

She shushed him quietly as her eyelids slipped over her startlingly bright eyes. She looked so peaceful and beautiful in her sleep that Blaise couldn't tear his gaze away.

"I like you, Luna Lovegood." He hadn't meant to admit it out loud, barely being able to admit it to himself, but the words rose unbidden to his lips and slipped out before he could control himself. Once they were out in the air, it was too late to pull them back into himself and bury them forever in the iron vault where he locked away the rest of his emotions. But he'd had enough of hiding himself away, shutting himself off from the real world. He wanted to shout about Luna Lovegood from the top of the Astronomy Tower where they'd spent Christmas together. Blaise no longer cared if his so-called friends found out about the pair of them. In fact, he rather liked the idea of announcing it to the Slytherin common room as a whole, and seeing the priceless expressions on their faces first hand. He resolved to do so the moment he left Luna's side. I want her, and I'm proud of it, Blaise felt like crowing. The only reason he didn't announce his new-found feelings to the world was that he had a feeling Madame Pomfrey would chase him out of her hospital wing yelling (rather ironically) that patients needed absolute silence to recover.

His heart was lighter than he'd ever thought possible. As the weak sun streamed through the window, no comparison to the sun that was burning in his heart, Blaise threw his last shred of caution to the wind and bent over the fair head that rested on the pillow, surrounded by a tumbling mane of blonde waves.

Ever so lightly, Blaise brushed his lips against the high cheekbones of the slumbering girl. "And that isn't the wrackspurts talking," he whispered against her pastel skin.

Luna smiled as she drifted off to sleep.