Harry Potter lay alone in a bed far larger than any he was used to, in a room far quieter than any he felt comfortable in, regretting altogether the temporal distance between he and Luna.
His life was sacrifice, in a lot of ways. It was who he was, really; it was who he'd been born to be. Because the darkness haunted him, always looming like a dark cloud over even his brightest moments, Harry had accepted the inevitability of distance, of pain. He'd laid his life down so frequently in the last four years, he'd not thought twice about stepping away from everyone he loved for a full year.
It was for Luna, he reminded himself.
Luna wouldn't experience a moment of his absence, and the power of the ward which had protected her since birth wouldn't lapse for ten months while they awaited Harry's seventeenth birthday.
Ten months of danger. Voldemort's network would discover her, realize his affection for her soon enough. They may already know, he thought to himself in the quiet of the master suite. How aware were they of Xenophilius' travels, of his daughter's whereabouts?
Harry felt certain that Voldemort took press seriously. Whether he took The Quibbler seriously was another matter.
The Quibbler.
Harry had suggested, in an offhand sort of way, additional funding for The Quibbler. He'd not heard back from Xenophilius, and he'd not pressed the issue. But the potential captured his imagination.
The Daily Prophet was notoriously biased, in favor (recently, anyway) of Fudge's agenda, and pushing that agenda so aggressively that it had lost all credibility as a neutral authority. Rita Skeeter's sensational (and infuriating) coverage of the Triwizard Tournament was itself a display of less than noble priorities. Harry couldn't help but think that swaying The Daily Prophet must register high among Voldemort's strategic priorities.
Was there a way, Harry wondered, to redeem The Quibbler in the public eye. Xenophilius' own interests, which strayed beyond that of the traditional wizarding household, had eroded confidence in the publication. Speculative inquiries into perhaps nonexistent species didn't do a lot to bolster credibility.
Yet The Quibbler had many advantages, in Harry's mind. It was a free publication, available to the British wizarding community for generations. And only recently had its emphasis turned away from popular issues. If a staff of respected journalists shifted their coverage, and if a number of respected witches and wizards supplemented with relevant editorial content, Harry wondered whether The Daily Prophet might be unseated as the defacto authority on matters of consequence.
The notion, or the silence, or perhaps the itch to do something significant with this stolen time, pressed him out of bed. The candles magically lit throughout the room as soon as his feet touched the floor, and he strayed to a broad writing desk in the corner just beyond the reading nook. A quill and ink sat beside an untouched roll of parchment. He sat, and began to write.
Xenophilius Lovegood,
An anonymous donor has approached my investment firm with interest in supporting your organization. His dissatisfaction with The Daily Prophet has been mounting of late. Biased coverage and dishonest editorial content have confused and misled all but the most sober and aware, and wizarding communities suffer for it's monopoly on the press. Your organization has remained a consistent presence for generations. Might The Quibbler return to the table, addressing matters of interest to witches and wizards worldwide? A team of established voices, shifting their neutral, unbiased attention to matters of consequence may shift the darkening course of events in this important historical moment. Looking forward to your reply,
Orion Grey Raven Investments
The draft consumed the lion's share of an hour, as Harry hadn't the slightest clue how old, wealthy men spoke. After tossing a few drafts, he stumbled upon a carbon copy of a letter from his grandfather, proposing the acquisition of a property to one of his investment managers. Channeling that formality felt a bit simpler after rereading the weathered note.
He'd chosen the name "Orion Grey" on a whim. Orion had stirred awake from his perch and a moment later bobbed happily on Harry's shoulder. Harry tapped the feather quill on the writing desk before him, at a loss. A moment later his straying eyes traced the grey markings of the crow and suddenly the pseudonym seemed inevitable.
After sealing the letter, he shifted Orion from his shoulder to the desk before him, extending the tightly rolled note.
"Orion, I don't suppose you've delivered a letter before. Are you able to locate Xenophilius Lovegood? He lives in a tower, shaped like a rook."
Orion bobbed playfully, clicking his beak and cawing enthusiastically.
"Fair enough. Here you are. I don't suppose you'll need to deliver this until-" Harry stopped short as Orion took flight, parchment in talon, out the window beside his narrow perch.
For at least two hours Harry paced the room, unable to sleep. He couldn't stop thinking about Luna. She was out there, likely sleeping peacefully, unaware of his presence. He missed her terribly, though she'd left his house less than six hours before. The notion that he wouldn't see her for a year overwhelmed him. He wanted to watch her, trace her shape with his eyes, capture her and relive every experience of her.
Suddenly he remembered the sketchbook. A moment later he'd returned to the writing desk, summoning the memory of an afternoon spent in the branches of an ancient ash.
She was wearing a faded pair of skinny jeans, a black scoop-neck tee, dampened by the summer heat. She'd just pivoted her body toward his, her thighs straddling the broad branch upon which they sat. She leaned forward, arms extended and palms pressed flat against the branch between them. Her shoulders shrugged, arms gently pressing her breasts together, accentuating the soft curves of her chest.
The charcoal pencil was incredible, and at every stroke Harry felt a surge of gratitude. The sketch before him captured her perfectly - his memory of her form, her shape and stunning beauty.
His pencil traced her face, the straying wisps of her hair, the tiny beads of sweat gathering on her brow. Many minutes of his attention were set on her lips, capturing the swell and shape with perfect attention. He thought about her kiss, her tongue, the perfect nip of her teeth on his neck.
As his attention shifted to the graceful lines of her neck, the hints of her chest in her scoop neck tee, he suddenly realized that the lace of her bra was visible that afternoon in the damp tee that clung to her chest in the heat of the afternoon. An hour was spent on ever detail, tracing the textures beneath with painstaking detail.
As his pencil drew to her waist and thighs, he caught himself imagining her, what mysteries lay between the perfect swell of her thighs. He traced every fold of the fabric as the tip of the charcoal drew near to her center. He realized after another full hour that the stitch of her denim seams were visible, the texture of the fabric precisely preserved. He wondered what it had felt like, whether a shot of pleasure coursed through her as she leaned her center firm against the branch.
It was nearly dawn when he finished his sketch, painfully aware of his arousal, and desperate to see her again.
Luna stirred at four that morning to a pleasant sensation on her lips. She inhaled deeply, waking slowly as her lips radiated with some distant, mysterious attention. She lay there, altogether confused, as the remarkable pleasure shifted from the swell of her lower lip to her neck, slowly tracing the lines of her jaw, shifting to the lines of her clavicle, gently teasing.
With a whisper, hardly daring to move, she lit the candles on her night stand. Shifting her shoulders atop a small pile of down pillows, she took note of every aspect of her surroundings. Her wand at her fingertips, she whispered a short incantation in a strange dialect. A moment later her brow furrowed. Nothing present, no magical creature or force, could account for this. She bit her lip, began to loose the buttons of her top.
The pleasure of each stroke grew more intense as this mysterious attention shifted to her chest. She watched with unbroken attention as wave upon wave of delight radiated from the swell of her breasts. Her nipples stood erect, the dusty pink shifting in time to a darker rose. She was breathing faster, fuller. For nearly an hour she lay, at times eyes closed, at times overwhelmed. She found herself, unaccountably, thinking about Harry Potter - the boy hero whom she'd never met and who of course she found exceptionally attractive - and she blushed a deep crimson as her body shifted under the weight of overwhelming arousal.
In time, the attentive strokes shifted to her thighs, and Luna's soft gasps transformed into gentle moans. The force of the attention, the waves of pleasure, grew — crashing into her in intimate rhythm — and captured her altogether. Stroke upon stroke traced the swell of her inner thigh. She bit her lip, blushing again before whispering an incantation to secure the lock on her door and another to obscure any sounds that might attract the unwanted attention. She tugged at the waist of her shorts, shifting her hips until she was free of them altogether. A moment later, she slid her fingers into her panties.
Just then, the force of that mysterious attention shifted to the building warmth between her thighs, and she gasped with a powerful groan. She tugged gently at her flaxen mound as, stroke upon stroke, intimate pleasure radiated from her center. Sparks shot through her spine as this mysterious attention settled, stroking again and again, and she traced the folds of her sex, wet with longing. Surges of pleasure captured her, crashing against her wave upon wave. She thought of Harry - perfect, beautiful Harry, with his messy hair and charming smile - as her fingers circled her clit in building, intimate rhythm, joining the chorus of overwhelming pleasure.
She came, lost and overwhelmed, a deep moan escaping her lips as her body tensed in ecstasy.