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“Do you see them?” asks the girl with messy blonde hair. “The nargles?”He chuckles, learning back as his feet skim the surface of the river. The bridge is too low during the rainy seasons, always drowned deep in the ocean then. But today, it’s the perfect height for them to cool off their feet.“The nargles? No. But I do see the fireflies.” Pause. “They’re pretty.”“Not as pretty as your eyes, Harry.”A splutter. “Luna?!”“What is it? Would you like me to write down how green they are in a poem? Like Ginny did in her first year?”“No—” Harry laughs, trying to picture what kind of poems she would write. Would his hair be like spindled earth and coal? His eyes like mossy leaves? “Merlin, that would be strange for you.”“Why? It’s the truth, your eyes are pretty. Harry? Why is your face red? Did you get bitten by a blue fairy?”He covers his face with his hands. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why, Luna. I’m not exactly used to being called pretty.”She beams. “I know.”And Harry holds her hand anyways, because maybe ‘pretty’ means more than just how things look. Maybe, with her, ‘Pretty’ means ‘a Loveable thing.’