Luna(tic) (Marauders Era)

34. What it Takes to Fix Broken Things

Luna was curled up in a corner. Waiting for nightfall. Waiting for salvation. Waiting for that figure out of a fairytale who would swoop in and save her. Waiting for the moon.

Luna didn't remember much about the character Madam Moon. She couldn't even pinpoint a story it had come from or a memory of her mother reading it to her. But she remembered that it existed. She remembered that Madam Moon was kind and good and helped the maiden on her way. She remembered that in the moment of greatest peril, when the hero was lying on the ground, bleeding out, when all seemed lost, the moon whispered hush. Hush darling. It's going to be alright. I'll make it better. I'll make it all better.

Of course, Luna wasn't a maiden in a story. She wasn't a hero. She was a half mad girl scattered across the surface of real life, but every time the moon was full, she still found herself hoping. Believing. Believing there was some benevolent force up there in the silvery light. Hoping this time she would show herself. This time she would help.

She never did, but it didn't stop Luna from watching. From waiting. Because somehow, though she had no idea how, she knew the moon was there. Watching and waiting. Just like she was. And maybe it sounded foolish. Maybe it was another madness, but somehow, Luna knew with utter certainty that the moon had helped her once before. Long ago. At a time she was too young to remember properly. But she did remember that she'd been at that crossroads, that moment. That bleeding out, this-is-how-it-ends moment. And she had seen the sweet silver light of the moon and heard her whisper hush. It'll be alright. I'll make it better.

And right now, Luna wanted nothing more than to hear those words. That promise. She didn't even care if it was true. She just wanted someone to say it and the only person who would, who ever had, was the moon.

But right now, the moon wasn't shining. Right now, the sun was still up and Luna had never hated the sunshine more. Because right now, there were tear tracks on Luna's face and a shaking in her limbs and her heart and she felt like she stood on the very edge of the sort of falling apart that was permanent.

She felt like this was how it ended. Because surely, surely, this was how something ended.

The question was what.

On the one hand, there was Sam, who Luna loved. Sam, who had to come back. Sam, who had always and would always deserve better than Luna could give.

And on the other hand, there was her life, which was fragile. Which was hanging by a thread, threatened by a whisper that sounded like Lunatic. That sounded like don't tell me he's dead. That sounded like the breaking of all the quiet denials Luna had held onto for as long as she could remember.

And there was no balance between the two. There was never balance between these two kinds of sanity. There couldn't be. Luna had learned that the hard way.

She had been young, young enough not to have learned yet. But old enough that imaginary friends had fallen out of style. Old enough to have become familiar with the rolling eyes of her peers, the sighs and the jabs and the whispers and sometimes shouts of he's not real. Old enough to have already started ignoring them. Or pretending to, anyway.

What she hadn't been old enough for yet, what that day had brought, was the response of the adults she had somehow never considered. Her friends, the children she spent her time with, they were her life. Her world. And it had never occurred to her that the teachers were paying attention to the words said at recess. To the imaginary friends that should have disappeared. It had never occurred to her that hiding Sam might serve some purpose more than just the silence of her peers.

Until that day.

Luna had been brought to an office after school and greeted by a man in a suit with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. A smile that said something more like I'm sorry than it did the intended you're safe here. A smile, in short, that Luna had known even then, not to trust.