A/N: Warning: Sex is implied here, some swearing. Nothing worthy to be considered M-rated, and definitely not something you won't see in pretty much any PG-13 movie.

If you squint, you'll see the tiniest hints of HarryXDraco. 'Cause in my mental canon, Draco swings both ways.

This is written for the absolutely stunning Alex. I hope you had a wonderful birthday, love. Sorry for my lateness.

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how we begin

Luna doesn't care about Draco's money or the tattoo burned into his arm. And when she holds his hand, it feels more intimate than taking their clothes off – and he doesn't mind. Happy birthday, Alex.

He was twelve and she was eleven. She stood in the row of anxious first years, while he let himself feel smug that he was so mature because he's a full twelve years old. A second year. Aged and wizened, practically as old as Dumbledore himself, except not as wrinkly – and plenty more handsome.

He didn't pay much attention to the sorting – he only cared when a surname he recognised was spoken. He saw plenty of people that he's met at parties or heard about from his father.

When the name 'Lovegood' is announced, a faint bell rings in his mind. He can't remember exactly why, so he looked up.
A round-faced blonde girl walked up to the seat, looking calm – no, that wasn't it. Disinterested. Like the sorting was as interesting as a sunny day; something to be enjoyed and not carefully observed.

The hat pondered for a bit before yelling; "RAVENCLAW!"

There were a few whoops from the Ravenclaw table and some scattered applause. He wasn't not part of people clapping; he's too haughty for that. Why should he cheer other people getting sorted into infernal houses?

Malfoys don't applaud. They silently acknowledge and appreciate when necessary.

Soon the sorting was over and food appeared. Draco had to be careful to not let the sleeves of his perfectly-fitted robes slide back too much as he put the fine silver into his mouth. Someone might see the bruises flowering on his wrists. Contrary to popular belief, Draco didn't flaunt every injury he received like it was something worthy to be shown off.

He didn't want people asking him what happened, anyway. He wasn't in the mood to spin off a lie about the train ride to Hogwarts. As he covered his wrists and helped himself to some chicken, he wondered where the bloody Potter boy is. He talked at Goyle about his holiday and promptly forgets any mentions of a Lovegood.

Their beginning isn't an important or dramatic one. There are no awkward situations or quirky one-liners designed to make an audience laugh. It's just a name yelled into a crowd and a slight raised eyebrow. Nothing special, nothing spectacular.

It's not a true meeting, but it's their start. Neither of them speak to each other until a few years pass, and neither of them are aware that they're missing anything. The only times they are aware of each other is when they pass each other in the passageways, Draco sometimes gawking at her earrings. He briefly considered inviting her to the Yule ball, strictly as a joke. He accidentally knocked a book out of her hand during his fifth year. She was just another student to him, a strange and unusual one, but someone he doesn't care for.

They're just two people living their owns lives separately; just in the same castle.

.

Then of course, there's a war. Any last pretense of his childhood finally ends.

It's terrible and ugly and Draco hates every moment of it.

But wars end. Eventually.

.

People are jailed, some punished. Several protest against Draco's freedom, saying that he bought his way out of a prison. A free guilty man.

In a way, it is true. He did promise to make huge donations towards building chunks of the wizarding world that had been lost to the battle, and it was money that the Ministry could simply not refuse. He wasn't ashamed of it; he had the resources he needed to get out. He was sorted into Slytherin for a reason.

Of course, some hate that he managed to walk away. But Draco is hardly a criminal. As far as Death Eaters go, his crimes are barely cracks in his innocence. Not to mention that many are uncomfortable with putting a barely seventeen-year-old boy into Azkaban for a failed murder. The jury said that he had been under the wrong influences for far too long.

Azkaban is running out of space, anyway.

.

He likes to think that he was never 'bad' to begin with. He was never on the dark side (he thought the term was far too pretentious, like some awful children's book theme), and he was hardly in the side of the Potter and the angelic wizards either.
It's no secret that he hates Harry bloody Potter. The boy was loved because he managed to not die.

Draco was far better magically trained. He had spent nearly his entire childhood working upon every single magical art possible, and yet Harry seemed to get every single talent handed to him on a platter. Everyone loved Potter because he was wonderful and amazing and perfect.

It's hard to be nice to someone that's good at things you've worked your whole life on achieving.

But that wasn't why he didn't support the 'good' side. He wasn't on anyone's team. All he wanted was to stay alive–
No, that was the wrong term. He wanted a future. He still wanted to see the world and feel what it was like to live. To have bare skin on his, feel the rush of getting a job, leaving home, building a family. To grow old. Be happy.

He wanted peace. And he didn't want to the be the one killing anyone in the name of it. He didn't want blood on his hands. He didn't want to be a murderer to stop others from fighting.

.

They meet again when he's about to turn twenty. A certified adult, but technically still a teenager. He's a bit of both, and not really either. They bump into each other in Florish and Blotts, him looking for a book about dealing with goblins – it's a long story that he tries not to think about too much. She's absent-mindedly browsing the shelves with a book held close to her chest, her hair pulled into a messy bun.

She's most likely to be looking for a book about nargles or fuzzweavers or whatever the hell she talks about these days. Yes, he does sort of know a fair bit about the Ravenclaw. It wasn't because he tried; it was just the mentions of her stuck in his mind.
Luna's dressed like an almost-muggle with ridiculous blue trousers that he thinks are called 'jeans', with a simple white cotton shirt tucked into it.

He can see her bra when she leans forward to take something off the shelf. The little blue dots under her shirt shine, and he tries not to wonder if there's lace or a little bow in front. Most of the girls he has slept with had something to that extent, something bold or elegant adorning their undergarments. Like it mattered. His eyes lift to see a wand tucked behind her ear, like a pencil or a quill. There's a necklace around her throat, with small blue-purple shapes that seem to move every few moments.
Her fingers slip over the books and stops on one, seemingly at random. She turns to him, the fifteen feet of space between them feeling suddenly very small.

She lifts the book so he can see the cover. "You might enjoy this one," she says. "Very informative."

Sightings of Supposedly Mythical Creatures is embedded into the leather.

She's humouring him, he realises. Taking the piss. He covers the space between them and takes the book from her hands, opening at random and reading a few lines.

"They misspelled 'necessarily'," he says, sounding unimpressed. He closes the book and hands it back to her.

"The disclaimer in the front says that most of these sightings occurred when the person was under the influence of chemical substances that 'freed the mind of social constructs'," she replies as she put the book back on the shelf. "Some of the prose is quite lovely, though." She adds thoughtfully and leans back against the shelf, looking at him. His personal space suddenly feels invaded. She looks at him like she knows everything about Draco, as if his entire life has been spilled onto the floor for her to see.

"I have an appointment," he mutters and turns around towards the exit.

She chuckles almost inaudibly.

As he leaves the store empty-handed, he tries to think about why he sortofkindamaybe likes Luna. Just a little bit.

It's definitely not because of her body – Draco has seen a lot more impressive girls (and boys) wearing a lot less clothing. It's not because she's a great conversationalist – they've barely spoken more than three times to each other in the past, and it's sure as hell not because she has some kind of blood status.

Maybe it's just because Draco has the feeling that if he fell asleep next to her, he Luna would be the first one that he wouldn't mind waking up next to.

.

He tries to forget their brief meeting. Sometimes he'd see a girl with the same shade of hair as her or wonder what she did after the war ended. It's just small little glimmers of thoughts that he doesn't really care for.

The next time they see each other, it's been a good few days since the faintest idea of Luna crossed his mind. Of course, they'd find each other again when neither were expecting it, and when Draco is doing something bizarre like taking muggle transport.

She's standing on train and he's sitting down on grimy plastic. Once he spots her, he calls her name and rises from his seat. He offers it to her with a composed expression, while she looks mildly surprised.

Which, as he knows, is Luna's equivalent of mind-blown. Was it really that shocking to find out that he could be a gentleman?

"What's with the face?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

She shruggs as she sits down. "I never expected to see you in muggle transport, that's all."

"My floo network shorted," he said. "Decided to take a scenic route."

She knits her eyebrows a fraction. "Why didn't you just apparrate?"

"I'm trying out muggle appreciation,"he says. "Part of the Ministry's way of reforming minor-offense Death Eaters." It's not technically a lie, but it's not the truth either.

She nods, as if having a conversation with a Death Eater was something she normally did. Wasn't she one of Potter's friends? Weren't all those damned Gryffindors obsessed with the battle of good and evil?

He remembers that she was in Ravenclaw; the house most similar to Slytherin. They both admired fast-thinking and ingenuity, even if Slytherin focused more on making the most of each opportunity while her house was more academically inclined.

"Would you like to see my apartment?" She asks after a moment of relative silence, with the rattling of the train playing in the background. "I need some help to water my plants."

It's a strange request, and he can't help but wonder if it's not some sort of weird innuendo.

He tries to picture her living in an apartment, and just can't. Luna was free, not someone to be bound to a city. Maybe she magically expanded hers; it wasn't an uncommon practice amongst young wizards and witches that weren't earning a steady enough income for large houses.

Of course, Draco could get any place he fancied. Right now he had a bit too large house near the countryside, where muggles wouldn't bother him and witches and wizards won't whisper about his status. Sure, he was alone, but it was easier to be secluded than be with people.

They ride the train in a comfortable silence while he leans against one of the railings, trying to figure out how muggles tolerated this every day of their existence. It was just so...mundane. Pointless. How many hours did they waste just getting from one place to another?

The train rattles to a stop and Luna indicates that they should get out. He wonders for a second how long it would take to get her into bed if he wanted to.

Because that's what Draco does – he just has sex. He doesn't make love. You need to care for someone to do that, and intimacy is not something he knows. Stripping his walls along with his clothes is a concept totally unreal to him.

She leads him across the wet streets of London and into a building, up an elevator. She throws open the door of her apartment with a mock flourish.

He's surprised at how normal it is. The walls of her living room are yellow, and there's one wall plastered entirely with still photographs. Pot-plants line her windows. Strings of beads hang from the ceiling. The lack of magical items is almost worrying.

"Why did you bring me to your place?" He asks, deadpan. No-one had ever invited him to his apartment to show him around. They'd either invite Draco so that they could fuck or because they wanted to be able to say that they screwed Draco Malfoy.

"You can leave, if you don't want to be here." She replies, her voice unconcerned.

He feels a bit hurt that she doesn't seem worried at the idea of him leaving. He pushes that notion away from him. She shouldn't care about Luna's opinion about him.

"That's not what I meant,"he says, not really bothering to try and backtrack too much. "Why me? Aren't you a bit worried about having a Death Eater in your living room?"

"You're not evil, Draco." She says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And I trust you enough to not kill me."

He ignores the 'trust' part. "I was bad enough for Voldemort," he says. He's sort of pleased that she doesn't flinch at the name. It's good to know that neither of them are scared of what's been set in the past. It's the legacy he left behind that should be feared.
She smiles sadly, looking older than what she is. "No, the fact that you could've been of use to him is the reason you got that on your arm."

He doesn't answer. He's been used plenty of times by plenty of people. Instead, he looks around the surprisingly normal room, hoping for a distraction.

She offers him one. "Do you want coffee?"

"What the hell is that?"

"A muggle drink. It's good, trust me."

He crinkles his nose. "I don't consume muggle products," he says firmly.

"Muggles seem to get a lot more things done right then we do. We snap our fingers to solve a problem, and they must analyse the molecular build or figure out the exact physics and design things down to each decimal point." She replies, looking at a wall plastered with still photos.

"They waste their time," he replies firmly. "And they're pretty stupid."

Luna raises her eyebrows. "My grandmother was a muggleborn. She said that muggles are much smarter than us since they have to think their way out of every problem."

"They chased us into hiding," he echoes his father's words. He doesn't fully realise that he doesn't see Luna as any worse now that he knows that her blood has been diluted.

Luna is still Luna.

"We've both done our own fair share of bad things," she replies. "So, do you want coffee or not?"

He sighs. "Fine." After all, he's trying to get her into bed, right? What's a little bit of drink?

She boils the water, and turns on some strange machine that has espresso-deluxe written across the side. After a few minutes of waiting, she sets down a cup in front of him and waits expectantly for him to drink.

He takes a cautious sip.

Fireworks explode. Angels sing. He falls in love.

"How is this not world-famous?" He asks in surprise.

The corners of her mouth pull up a fraction. "It is."

He slurps his cup down greedily while she traces lines into the wood of the table, fingers swirling lazily, sipping her coffee. He notices that she has short and stubby nails, and they're kind of cute. Or maybe that's just because they're painted a sunshine yellow with sky-blue streaks down the center.

He looks down at his own nails. They're perfectly shaped, of course – a couple of quick manicure charms sorts that out for him – and they're long and spindly, perfect for handling a wand.

"You have pianist hands," she tells him when she notices him looking down.

He nods. "My father made me play for two years."

"Why did you stop?"

"Hurt my wrist just before first year. There was a backfired spell, so it took a while to heal." He tries not think of Madam Hooch griping at him about his bad grip. At that point he could barely twist his wrist to fit around the broom, and maybe he took out his frustrations on Potter. By the time he went back home, his father said that he should dedicate himself to practising more charms instead of working with music.

He doesn't tell Luna that it was actually an injury that only muggles suffer from. Usually his father would apologise a few minutes later and cast a healing charm, but that time Lucius had left his son in the drawing room before he felt remorse for injuring his son.

Draco had just made sure he wore long sleeves, a habit he kept for most of his childhood.

He can see that she knows he's lying, but she doesn't argue. "Do you think you'll ever start again?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. My teacher said I was a natural." It was the only thing he had been good at without really trying.

Moments pass. The labyrinth her finger makes on the table gets longer and more complicated.

"Do you want to look at stars?" She asks, once his cup is drained and the taste of coffee is warm on his lips.

He nods. By Luna's standards, stargazing was probably one of the dullest things she does.

She takes his hand – it's warm. Not many people had taken Draco's hand in the past; they usually just pulled him closer by the belt loops and rocked their hips against his. He likes how Luna didn't touch him like he's a whore.

After walking past a few doors – his heart jumps a bit when he spots her bed peeking out from one of the ajar doors – and leads him into an empty room with white walls and wooden floors. It reminds him of a ballet studio, almost. Except there are no bars or mirrors.

"I thought we were going outside," he says flatly. His words bounce slightly against the walls. She probably has miniature muggle light bulbs or something embroidered into the walls or nargles or something.

"Look up."

He looks up. The ceiling of the room is enchanted, just like the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall. He can see every star, shining down at him like he deserves the light. He grins.

"Why do you keep this room empty?" He asks, looking at her again.

"I like how it echoes. And don't you ever feel like you need just a lot of space sometimes? I draw here when the weather's bad. I come here when it's too cloudy to look at the stars outside."

Luna smiles again and turns off the light with a flick of a switch. Draco doesn't really know how electricity works, maybe he'll ask her one day.

"Sometimes I slide around in here in my socks," she whispers as she glides across the room. "And sometimes I just yell things and listen to the walls say it back to me."

He smiles and tries to picture Luna taking running dive from the passageway into the room, sliding round in white socks. It's fitting.
Without warning, Luna lies down, face towards the ceiling. Draco hesitates for a moment.

"Don't worry," Luna says. "The floor is perfectly clean."

Draco joins her, easing his way onto the wood, careful not to make any loud noise that would echo through the room. The wood isn't that uncomfortable, but he knows that after a few hours his back will definitely start to complain. He settles next to Luna. He can feel her warmth radiating out of her, even though they're not touching.

He fixes his eyes on the sky. The stars are more beautiful than they are in the city, they're stronger and brighter – probably part of whatever charm Luna used to show the stars.

Draco feels sort of happy.

He pushes that down. This is probably just her weird foreplay or something. After all, the idea of someone being interested in Draco for something other than sex would be bizarre.

But then again, that's exactly what she is.

Draco's breathing evens out as she begins to point out different constellations and he tries to see the imaginary dippers or whatever she's talking about. She explains some of the mythology to him, and he tries to wrap his head around people praying to gods and goddesses of things like the ocean or marriage or of the sun. It's ridiculous, something pureblood families would've never fallen for.
But she seems to be happy, and that's good enough for Draco. At some point, her head nestles onto his shoulder like she cares. His arm delicately traces lines on her freckled shoulder. She smiles into his chest.

After two hours of lying together, his back his stiff and he's aching slightly. He falls asleep anyway.

When he wakes up, he's alone in the empty room. He can smell bacon cooking.

"Luna?" he uses her name for the first time.

"Yes?"

"How about we look at the real stars tonight?"

He can hear her smile.