Notes: Written for the Connect the Characters challenge.

Pairing: Barty Crouch Jr/Luna.

Warning: Underage.

He doesn't know how it falls into place. He's not here for this-he's not supposed to be exposed-but one look from the ethereal Ravenclaw with straggly blonde hair and serene grey eyes, and he's lost in a place he never expected to be. She is not his Lord, she is not the one he has devoted himself to, body, mind, and soul, but she has something else, tipped into a pocket lined with cherry blossoms and old candy wrappers-she has his heart.

What a trite thing to say, he despairs of it daily, but isn't life sometimes trite? Isn't reality drawn in cliches? She skips down the corridor to his office, barefoot, twirling her wand in little curlicues so that wisps of lavender rise about her, painting her world in pastels. Her laugh makes his chest tighten and he hastily retreats to his chair, listening to the wooden leg thump against the floor and despairing at it. This isn't you. He knows it, and she knows it.

She isn't meant to know it, but then again, Luna Lovegood knows a lot of things she's not supposed to, doesn't she? She's curled up more than once in his lap to calmly recite them, her airy voice whispering tales of nargles and blibbering humdingers, of the time Professor McGonagall came out of the Headmaster's office with her robes tucked into her knickers, of the too-long glances that Draco Malfoy and Parvati Patil share when they think no one's looking. Of the way her shoes keep disappearing into the rafters and when he hears that, his fingers curl in anger and he is hard-pressed not to find the culprits that very instant. Find them and punish them, hex them, curse them into next year. Transform them into bricks and smash them apart for hurting his Luna. His fey-eyed girl.

"I love you, Barty," she whispers into his hair, when the Polyjuice Potion has worn off, and he is himself again. He can't say the words back, but she knows he means them. They're as precious to her as the copies of the Quibbler her father sends her, or the radishes she clips to her ears.

"You can be more," she tells him as she hands him the flask filled with potion, her eyes wistful, but he doesn't know how to be. Not anymore.

"I'll try," he promises her, but inside, he knows it's a lie.