They immediately set about exploring the Potter library, Luna with Harry, Fred with Hermione, George (after a moment's confusion) with Ron.
After an hour or so navigating a section of the library which seemed to collect many of the more ancient and abstract texts, Luna laced her fingers through Harry's and whispered softly in his ear, "Take me to your room?"
He stirred at the warmth of her breath, and nodded, stealing a kiss before leading her down a nearby staircase. They made their way into his loft carrying a small stack of beaten tomes.
She sat in the middle of the mid century leather sofa, and tugged playfully until he tumbled to her side. She tucked into him, with her left hand cradling a small volume entitled Notions on the Soul; with her right hand, she slowly traced the inside seam of Harry's jeans.
For his part, Harry opened a tattered volume entitled Improvements upon Common Potions and Antidotes, with at least some intention to focus. He failed altogether, as the sensation of Luna's fingertips radiated up his thigh. He stirred, closed his eyes, and savored the pleasant sensation.
She lifted her hand to turn the page, and Harry nearly felt relief. In the best moments, Harry found himself profoundly distracted by Luna's presence. She was intoxicating, her smile overwhelming, her shape alluring. He'd learned that, even in benign moments, his body's response to her attention was becoming difficult to manage. In this case, as the tips of her fingers played with the stitches of his fitted jeans, as she absentmindedly scratched and tugged, he felt himself stir, swell, and begin to lengthen. He breathed a sigh of relief when she reached up to check the book's appendix, flipping through the yellowed pages. Yet just as he supposed her attention had set fully back upon her book, she returned her fingertips to the inside seam of his jeans, this time a bit further up his thigh.
His heart was racing, and he began to breathe more carefully than before. He'd given up altogether on the book in his right hand, willing himself with total focus to relax. He tried desperately to think of anything, literally anything other than the fragrance of lavender, the occasional melodic hum, the contours of Luna's shoulders and chest. The gentle curves of her thighs and hips, the texture of the lace beneath her cotton top.
Every effort to redirect his imagination failed completely, and the renewed sensation pleasantly shivering up his thigh compounded the now clearly visibly situation. He was hard in his denim, and her hand was absentmindedly straying along the stitched seam of his left thigh, inches from his head. He lifted his chin, willing with every inch of his magical being that some unexpected distraction might capture Luna's attention.
Instead, she lifted her right hand, turned the page yet again, and returned her fingertips to their former location, in lengthening sweeps exploring the contours of his thigh along the stitched path, until the outside edge of her smallest fingertip encountered an unexpected lift in the fabric's contour.
For a moment, without shifting her eyes from the pages before her, she paused. Her fingertips rested there, three fingers gently laid upon the seam, her smallest finger just touching his length. Harry bit his lips, struggling between notions of embarrassment and desire. He decided that perhaps the best approach would be to pretend she hadn't noticed, so he exhaled slowly and turned the page of the book, still cradled in his right hand.
For what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only a few seconds, Luna's right hand didn't move. Finally, she pulled her hand away, flipped a page in her book, and returned her hand to his thigh. This time, she dragged her fingertips lightly along the seam, from his knee to the center of his thigh, again and again in a hypnotic rhythm. As her fingers lightly scratched and tugged at the texture of his denim, over time she strayed further up his inner thigh, slowing her pace in gentle sweeping movements. Every shift and light scratch sent shivers through him, radiating pleasure.
Further and further she toyed with the seam, until again she was merely inches from his length. Again she slowed, now hardly moving at all, and her fingertips began to explore the lifts and contours of every fold of fabric. Harry's pulse was racing as the tip of her fingers found him yet again. This time, she didn't pause, and she didn't pull away.
He heard her slowly exhale through loosely parted lips as she traced the sharp contours of fabric, pressed firmly against his head. The tips of her fingers carefully, softly dragged and pressed, tracing the shape and textures so comprehensively that Harry felt his hips involuntarily tense.
Luna must have detected the movement, because at this she shifted, turning just slightly toward him. Still holding the book in her left hand, keeping her eyes fixed upon it, she lay her palm flat against his length. She bit her lip and exhaled with a soft moan. A moment later she lifted her palm again, setting her fingers at work to trace his full length. Harry noticed, despite overwhelming surges of pleasure and hardly any ability to restrain instinctive movement, that Luna's eyes were closed now. She was licking her lips as her fingers followed the length of his shaft to his center, back again, traced the shape of his head, back again. Again she lay her palm flat against his length, but this time she pressed, feeling the tension. A moment later, she wrapped her fingers as tightly around him as she was able through his now very tight jeans. She held him, groaned almost inaudibly, and then gently, carefully, ran the heel of her palm against him, with perfect pressure, until her fingers met his center, and then pulled, as gently, as carefully, with perfect pressure, until the heel of her palm met his head. This perfect motion, this intoxicating pressure — maintained with overwhelming intensity — overtook her, became the heart and breath of her. She breathed fuller and harder as she pressed and pulled with building, intimate passion. Harry couldn't breath, couldn't move, couldn't think. He was taken altogether, and lost in her whims.
Time and context was altogether absent to them, and just as Luna was finally setting aside her book and abandoning any artifice of distraction, a voice carried up the stairs.
"Harry! Luna! Come quickly, we've found something!"
There were no words for the disappointment they both felt just then. Luna, who was just turning to face him, let her face fall into his chest.
She whispered. "I really wanted that." She shook her head against his chest. "Harry Potter, I really wanted that to keep going."
"Luna Lovegood. Darling. I can hardly breathe. If I knew a spell to stop time..." He drew a long breath, and then laid his head against hers. He held her for a moment, until she pulled away and met his gaze.
"You must promise we'll return to this moment, perhaps with a touch of privacy?"