A/N: I'm not terribly fond of interrupting the story, but in some cases it's necessary. I hope you'll read this before you proceed.
Love is, I think, the most compelling force in the universe. It's at the heart of any great story, and this story is no exception. I sincerely regret the reticence that many authors feel about reflecting on the complex dynamics of love honestly. Too much is taboo, and that's a problem.
I wrote this story to explore, slowly and carefully, in as much detail as possible, the unfolding affection of two teenagers. I want to watch them fall in love, grow up together, experience all the awkward seasons of development hand-in-hand. My intention is to catalogue the artifacts of love comprehensively — to watch Harry and Luna fight back the darkness together to the end.
My hope to honestly, comprehensively reflect on the dynamics of their affection, however, means things. The physical components of their relationship shouldn't be ignored, in my opinion, and that means chapters like this one are important. If you, however, feel uncomfortable reflecting on the physical components of the relationship of teenagers, please ignore this chapter. It doesn't contribute to the plot, so you won't miss anything. If you have concerns about the content of this chapter, feel free to send me a note.
They'd agreed that Harry should be alone by two, so Hermione departed shortly after one thirty, and Harry escorted Luna to the far hedge of the local primary school.
After stooping to pick up a rusty tin can, punctured on one end with a thread of loose string attached, Luna exhaled slowly, turned to face Harry directly, and threw herself full into him.
"I know you'll be okay, Harry. But I hate that you'll be alone."
He held her there for a moment, and then he pulled away to kiss her softly. "I've never felt less alone."
She nodded, tugged him into a last embrace, and kissed his cheek.
Her piercing gaze held his unwaveringly, tears welling in her eyes.
"Home."
Luna stood beneath the branches of the ancient ash, a stone's throw away from the Rook's shining white brick, and fought the tears that fell for Harry, for the darkness of this broken world, and for the helplessness she felt in that moment. For there was, she was certain, absolutely nothing she could do for him.
So she sat in the shade of the ash, her knees curled into her chest between the gnarled roots, and listened to the breeze dancing among the leaves above her. She watched the willows roll in the wind. She listened to the warbles of the swallows, the burbling of the brook at the foot of the hill, and the distant bells of fairy laughter. In time, she remembered that there was light enough in the deep greens and blues, in the soft melodies and gentle whispers, to beat back the darkness forever. And she breathed full again.
By late afternoon, Luna was hungry. She made her way up the hill to the Rook's green, round door. She turned the shiny yellow brass knob, and closed her eyes as the friendly magic that saturated her home welcomed her warmly. She cleared the distance to the kitchen and after a few minutes sat at the small round table with a cold dinner of crusty bread, cheeses and olives, sliced summer fruits, and a modest glass of white wine.
She hurt for him. He must be alone by now, she thought. At the ministry, she assumed, in some featureless room. Waiting alone. All she wanted was to be with him at that moment, to tell him that it was going to be okay.
But was it going to be okay? Her sight had shown her that he'd survive the attack, that he'd be arrested, that he'd stand before a divided Wizengamot in a trial that Luna couldn't imagine would be fair. But nothing more. And everything in her trembled at the void beyond that scene.
She had so much to say to him just then, and no way to know when she'd have an opportunity to say it.
Just at that moment, Asher arrived on the sill of the kitchen window, toying with a bottle cap in his right talon, and Luna decided to write.
My dear Harry Potter,
As my quill scratches ink to parchment, I feel utterly helpless. For you are alone, my darling, and I am powerless to prevent it.
If there is kind purpose orchestrating the twists and turns of the path before us, I cannot see it now. I see only thorns and darkness, only the promise of violence hiding in thick shadows. Cruelty alone harbors such wretched intentions.
Yet even as I write this, I cannot help but hope. For every kind word you've spoken, every act of sacrifice, every relentless expression of goodwill that has characterized your days is a beacon of bright light piercing that darkness. You, Harry, teach my heart to hope that the darkness will not prevail. If there is, indeed, kind purpose, you are an expression of that purpose. And I will follow your torchlight beyond the horizon.
In the wake of that hope, I am not afraid. I trust you, Harry Potter, because you're brilliant and strong, but more than anything because you're good. And I cannot believe that the darkness can stand against such unflinching goodwill. I'm not afraid of what's to come. But I'm impatient for what's beyond it.
You. You're beyond it, Harry. Beyond this momentary isolation, beyond this trial, beyond Voldemort himself, You're there, with me. I've seen it. So I'm not afraid of the long nights and dark days between that moment and this. I'm not afraid anymore.
So now I'm left, here in my bed, thinking of you. All the fear is gone, but you remain. All of you, Harry. And when I close my eyes I can see your every contour. I can hear your whispers and I can feel the rise and fall of your chest. I can taste your lips and I can feel your unsteady breath on my neck and your body pressed full against mine. I remember every patient kiss, and every longing sigh, and every perfect touch. And I find myself engaged in comprehensive reflection on your body's response to my affection. Your longing sighs, the intimate rhythms, the building tension… my pulse quickens even as I write the words. I am altogether captivated by you.
You are dear to me, my sweet, strong, brilliant, kind Harry Potter.
Whatever lies before you, I'll be here, on the other side.
Yours,
Luna Lovegood
Luna folded and sealed the parchment, pivoted from her four poster and made her way to the open window in her room. Leaning out precariously, she hummed three bars of an ancient melody. A moment later, Asher arrived, the loose bottle cap in his beak.
"Look at you, handsome! What have you found?"
He hopped excitedly, and she gently scratched his neck.
"Asher, I need you to deliver this to Harry Potter's desk. He won't be there, so you needn't await a reply." She smiled as he bobbed politely. "Thank you, kind sir." At this, she kissed him above his eyes and he was off.
She watched the black dot disappear on the distant horizon against the backdrop of a setting sun.
Luna had decided to retire early that evening. In the late hours, especially on difficult days, she'd always been inclined to fixate on fears. She'd find herself, at two or three in the morning, working meticulously through possible outcomes, scenario after scenario layering upon her already burdened mind. Troubled by Harry's situation, she felt it was best to avoid such a cycle.
Around nine she ran a warm bath. She conjured a hot cup of lavender tea to steep on her bedside table as she soaked in her tub beneath inches of dense bubbles — her toes wiggled in a perhaps a more subdued rhythm than usual. A half hour later, her body wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she sat against a small mountain of pillows atop her thick down duvet and dimmed the candle light to a low flicker.
As she sipped her tea, she fought every inclination to worry about Harry. There was nothing she could do, and she didn't know a wizard as capable, as surrounded by supportive and powerful friends. Surely, whatever was to come, she'd wrap him in a tight embrace on the other side.
As she imagined it, she practically felt all the firm textures and pleasant pressures — wrapping her arms tightly around him, feeling his chiseled chest against hers. As she lay on her four-poster, as if she'd magically conjured the memory, she could feel his warmth and his subtle, gentle movements.
She could practically hear his heartbeat as she lay her head on his chest. She could practically feel his warm breath as he whispered in her ear. She imagined his lips wrap gently around her earlobe, punctuating his sweet affections.
Her pulse quickened, her stomach clenched.
She remembered his hand against her abdomen, pressing gently against her hip, shifting softly just beneath her chest. As she conjured the memory, she found her own hand tracing the movements of his. She pressed her palm firmly against her hip, as he had done. She dragged her fingertips along her side, softly and loosely, from the slope of her waist to the height of her shoulder.
Along the way, she allowed the loose wrap of her towel to fall.
She bit her lip, steadied her breathing, and wrapped her hand around her right breast. She wondered what Harry might feel in a moment like this. She allowed her fingertips to softly trace the contours of her chest, gently play with the delicate textures of her breasts, and she thought of Harry's emerald green eyes, piercing her own. She thought of his parted lips, his halted breath, intoxicated with the shape of her. A longing note escaped her lips as her body responded to the vision.
She followed the center of her abdomen with her delicate fingertips, remembering Harry's lips on hers, the flit of his tongue against her neck. She pressed her palm flat against her waist, her fingertips lightly toying with the rough textures beneath, as she remembered the way his body moved with hers when they kissed.
A building tension. A pleasant warmth. A momentum that couldn't be stopped.
Her fingers gently explored the soft textures between her thighs as her mind's eye traced in vivid detail the lines and shapes, the sharp contours of his restrictive denim, the building tension against her thigh as she sat on his lap, the firm excitement so clearly tangible beneath his thin, cotton boxers.
Time stopped, and every memory of Harry's gentle affection, firm embrace, careful attention met Luna in vivid, transcendent detail. A soft cry, a building moan, an impossible lapse of control. All time and space collapsed upon her, wave upon wave.
Just a moment or countless hours later, she collapsed upon the down duvet, gasping for breath. Within minutes, she was sleeping soundly on a small mountain of bright white pillows, wrapped loosely in her cotton down duvet.