Simplicity

It was inevitable that we should meet. Only a field separated your tall, crooked house from my low, squatty one. I bet if you looked out of your window you could have seen it. I could see the top of your chimney from my window if I stood on a box and shoved the pale pink curtains aside.

I remember the day it happened. I was sitting in the field with a new doll, and you came waltzing up the rough, narrow dirt road, a little teddy bear clutched in your arms. It looked damp, as though you had shed tears over it, and I noticed the redness of your eyes and the stifled sniffs and coughs you made. I supposed it was your brothers, the twins, both of whom I'd seen before in the field, flying on little brooms and making funny jokes. They never noticed me, though, perched in an upper branch in the apple tree.

But you saw me, and, with a wipe of your eyes, you spoke.

"What're you doing up there?"

"Playing," I answered, smiling. "Want to come up?"

"I can't climb," you said, staring at the ground. "Besides, Teddy doesn't like it."

I nodded with understanding. "I'll come down then. My dolly's getting worn out anyway."

We talked for a while, exchanging the pleasantries we had heard our parents say to various people.

"I'm Ron," you said, smiling and extending out a hand.

"I'm Luna," I answered, shaking your hand nervously. I searched for the words to say.

"Um...I like your Teddy," I said, pointing unnecessarily to the sodden, patched thing you were still clutching.

"He wasn't a teddy just a minute ago," you answered solemnly, blinking as your eyes brimmed with tears. "Fred and George turned it into a spider. They said it was a joke, but it wasn't funny. But I didn't cry, I was brave."

"Of course not," I answered sympathetically, patting your arm as my mother had done me thousands of times.

"They're always picking on me," you continued, apparently unused to be listened to. "They say I'm a baby 'cause I used to be youngest, you know. But I'm not anymore!" you added, grinning. "I got a little sister and she's the baby, but Fred and George like her 'cause she spit on Bill one time...But I'm used to it"

"What's her name?" I asked excitedly, clapping my hands together.

"Ginerva," you said, sticking out your tongue and frowning. "But Daddy says we can call her Ginny!"

"Why'd they name her that?" I asked curiously, looking at you sideways with my head to one side, thinking.

"I think it was my great-grandmother's name," you said knowledgably, nodding vigorously. "That's what Mommy said anyhow."

"Oh," I said. "How old is she?"

"Your age," you said after a moment's pause. "But promise you won't be friends with her. She's mean like Fred and George, I don't think you'd like her."

"Ok," I said, smiling. "I'll only be friends with you then.

It was the beginning of a very simple friendship, but very complex in the minds of a five-and six-year-old. We'd meet every day by the apple tree, the four of us. Me, you, your Teddy, and my dolly.

It went on complacently for years. Three very long, simple years of childish friendship in its purest form. And then, my mum died. The memory flickers somewhat like an old, slightly damaged movie reel. I can see her in her study-turned-lab, frowning and hesitating before pouring a white substance into a red one, and then--

And then she just fell. Once the wisps of smoke faded, and I saw she was blue all over. An icy, winter blue, like frost on a window.

"Mommy?" I asked softly, walking tentatively up to her. "Mommy?"

When she didn't answer, I called for Daddy. He came running in, and the rest is hazy. I faintly remember looking at the concoction Mommy had mixed, and saw it was a pale pink.

Next thing I remember, I was tearing everything pink into a million tiny pieces. I hated the color pink--it'd made Mommy blue.

I ran to the field, dragging my dolly with me, and I found you there, talking quietly with your Teddy, but you stopped when you saw me running up the hill and flinging myself roughly on the ground beside you.

"What's wrong with you?" you asked, lifting up one of my dirty blonde braids and peering at me with curiosity.

"Mommy's BLUE!" I screamed, beating the ground. "BLUE! Because of pink stuff. Pink stuff killed her. I hate pink!"

"You're wearing pink," you said, eyes widening.

I stood up. "You haven't got ANY tact!" I yelled stiffly through tears.

"What's tact, anyway? And why're you so mean now?"

"I dunno," I sobbed.

"Then--"

"Leave me alone!" I screamed, running away and leaving my dolly on the ground.

I didn't come back to the field after that. You went to school, and then I went to school, and we acted like we didn't know each other. I never forgot, though. I think you did when you were walking around with Harry and Hermione.

We met that moment on the train, and I could tell you were uncomfortable. You didn't even want to enter the compartment at all, and you wouldn't have if Hermione hadn't made you. For a minute, our eyes met, and then you looked away and I returned back to the Quibbler like nothing had happened.

Sighing, I walk up to the field, book in hand instead of a doll, and I climb up the apple tree and sit on my favorite limb, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I attempt to find my page. I look up, thumb on the right page, and see a familiar red head walking up the narrow lane looking very forlorn and strained.

From six to seventeen, I think, smiling slightly.

You're not the freckled, chubby-faced little kid you used to be, or the teenager in puberty, but the picture of a boy on the verge of manhood. I can see it in your eyes as you draw nearer, the gleam of determination. No, you've changed appearance-wise. You're tall, slightly gangly, and sprinkled with freckles. Easy-going, sparkling blue eyes and a nice, small smile blend into an average oval face, contradicting the sharp, long nose.

Personality-wise, you're almost the exact same. You're still are ill-tempered, but oddly patient. You're still normally smart, a bit ditzy, courageous, noble, and just--just so Ron. There are no words to describe you. There is so much to you, and yet you think yourself nothing. You still like to brag, you still like to be the best, and to me you are and always will be. Simply because you're you.

My book slips out of my hand and falls with a loud plop on the ground as I muse. You look up into the tree, grin, and beckon with a finger for me to come down. With an eye-roll, I slip down the trunk and land somewhat shakily on my feet, smiling.

"Hey, Ron," I say quietly, sitting down.

"Luna," you nod, smiling a smile that didn't take care of the distress in your eyes.

I peer sideways at you, head cocked to the side. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you sigh.

"No, it's something." I touch your hand softly. "We used to be friends, Ron," I add softly.

You jerk your hand away and start fiddling. "Do you remember...back in those days?"

"Yes," I answer dreamily, leaning against the tree's trunk, closing my eyes and breathing in the delicate scent of apples. "It was simple, you know."

"It was," you agree. "But things aren't anymore, Luna. Harry's got to beat Volde--You-Know-Who and...and I'm supposed to be ok with it, you know? Me and Hermione both. Hermione's fine with it, and she's just soothing him like she does, but me...I can't..."

"You can't accept it," I finish for you, nodding, opening my eyes, and looking at you with understanding eyes. "You don't want to because it would disrupt the pattern you've adjusted to. You don't want to believe it because you don't want to believe things have changed."

"But..."

"But they have," I continued, smiling consolingly at you. "You feel like your losing Harry due to circumstance beyond anyone's control, even Harry's. Hermione can help him, but you feel like you can't. But you can, Ron."

"How?" you ask, looking at me, eyes burning with questions. 'I'm not brilliant or brave or--"

"That's where you're wrong," I stop you, putting a hand on your shoulder. "You are brave. You can help, simply by being you. You can fight, just like Harry. Just your role will be less noticeable, but nonetheless important." I grab your chin gently. "Never think you're not important. Because you are. You're important to me."

You look at me for a moment, and then--then--

Then you kissed me. Gently, just a brushing of lips, but I felt as though my entire world made sense, as though the approaching darkness and destruction of war wasn't on the verge. For a moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was this--this passing from friendship to something new and beautiful.

You pulled away, the tips of your ears red. "I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean--it just happened--and--"

"I liked it," I said bluntly, grinning up at him.

"Really?" you asked incredulously. "Are you sure, because...Well, you're sure?"

"Very, Ron," I assured him.

You let out a slow breath. "Thank Merlin."

I lean against your chest, breathing you in. You smell faintly of pine cones and peppermint, and so...so...so Ron.

Tentatively, almost as though you don't dare, you wrap your arm around my shoulder. I close my eyes and smile, and I feel you relax as you realize it's ok.

"It's amazing," I whispered almost to no one.

"What's amazing?"

"How simple this is," I say. "I don't suppose I should have expected anything less. We never were really that complicated, you and I. Simplicity itself, I imagine."

I felt in my bones that this was only the beginning of an entirely new chapter of life. Life that dealt with the war, that stomached everything thrown it's way. Life that was, in a very complicated way, simple.