"Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" - Marcel Marceau.

It was amazing, when you thought about it, that words - just simple words - could have such huge effects on people. They were just a handful of syllables, really. A few carefully chosen vowels and consonants, strung together to make sentences. But, somehow, they managed to convey a thousand different thoughts and emotions.

Words like "the Weasley twins have been sneaking around the Charms corridor" would send the entire student population of Hogwarts running for cover, fleeing from exploding toilet seats and puking pastilles.

Words like "I'm sorry" could earn forgiveness or condemnation. It all depended on the circumstances, and the intonation. Remarkable.

Words like "wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure" always made Luna smile. Rowena Ravenclaw was such a remarkable woman.

Words like "Lord Voldemort has returned" were always heard, no matter what volume they were uttered at. They sent fear running through the hearts of even the bravest witches and wizards.

Words like "I love you..."

Well, that all depended on who was saying it.

***

"I love you."

It took Neville a long time to get the words out. He stopped and started several times. He spluttered and stammered and shook. But he got them out eventually, and that was the main thing.

Luna slipped her hand into his. She didn't reply. She couldn't.

That was answer enough.

***

"I love you."

"That's nice."

Rolf looked at her worriedly. Just nice? Not 'wonderful'? Not 'I love you too'.

No. Definitely not.

Talk about a moment in which you wished you had a camera.

Luna Lovegood was the antithesis of everything usually considered beautiful, and never more so than when she was hanging cutlery from the branches of a Christmas tree in lieu of actual decorations.

It was a habit of her mother’s, apparently, and she’d sounded so proud when she explained it that Neville hadn’t even considered it strange.

That was probably a sign he’d been spending too much time with her.

It was Christmas Eve (their first Christmas since the war, in fact). For reasons Neville couldn’t quite fathom – Luna probably didn’t understand them either – he had been invited to the Lovegood’s half-finished house in order to help decorate the tree.

She had already festooned the partially-completed brickwork with holly and icicles before he’d arrived, but there was still plenty of work left to do. Neville had never realised Christmas decorations involved such hard work. Even Xenophilus had consented to help them!

Admittedly he didn’t do very much, and retreated to bed rather early, but Luna was delighted to catch a glimpse of the person he had used to be. He’d been a shadow of himself since returning from Azkaban, although the matter-of-fact way she explained that to Neville had left him half-convinced she was joking.

Like the rest of the Wizarding World, the Lovegoods were still recovering from the after-effects of the battle against You-Know-Who. It was a slow process for Xenophilius, but, if you looked at Luna, humming to herself as she danced around the tree, those tragic and terrible events were a whole world away.

She’d been held prisoner in Malfoy Manor and fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, but even that hadn’t been able to shake her out of the wondrous, hope-filled world she inhabited. Neville was both pleased, and more than a little jealous.

When the battered clock on the mantlepiece began to chime - where had the last few hours gone? – Luna dropped the silver forks she’d been hanging with a clatter. She grabbed his hand and, to Neville’s utter astonishment, dragged him out into the snow.

It was bitterly cold, but the warmth of her hand in his was enough to stop him noticing it. She smiled up at him - beautific - and then let go of his hand, springing away to spin round in the flurry of flakes cascading from the sky, arms outstretched.

“Merry Christmas, Neville,” she said, in between catching snowflakes on hre tongue, and he nodded. For reasons even more mysterious than those behind his invitation, his throat seemed to have closed up.

Luna didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, she turned to face him, grey eyes reflecting the moonlight, and, almost instinctively, Neville drew her to him. She felt terribly fragile in his arms, as insubstantial, as the snowflakes shimmering on her eyelashes.

It wasn’t Luna he was holding. It couldn’t be. It was a ghost girl, an echo of Luna, because she was far too perfect, too wondrous, for the likes of Neville Longbottom.

When you dream about something – someone – for so long, it’s easier to keep them a dream than risk losing it all. The slimmest shadow of reality was better than nothing at all.

However, when her pale face turned to his, and her lips moved to meet his own, she suddenly felt very real indeed.