Wednesday, late in the afternoon

"Harry, I'm back," she called, moving through the cottage. As she expected, she found him in the back garden, with his hair pulled back in a short ponytail that was nearly a topknot. He wore only shorts and an apron and was tending a banked bed of coals in the dragon-stone barbecue. She smelled onions, garlic or maybe shallots, and the aroma of tomatoes and spices. He turned when he heard her call, a wide smile on his face.

"Welcome home, cher." He craned his neck to kiss her without allowing his apron to touch her robes despite its spotless cleanliness. "Prawns Veracruz and some oysters tonight, yeah?"

While still recognisable from his youth, she loved how his voice had become seasoned with a thick Creole rhythm and the occasional Cajun French verbiage. It made her toes curl, especially when he was kissing her or cooking. They seemed interchangeable expressions of love to him as she was discovering. She nodded with a broad grin and saw that he already had a tall glass of iced tea waiting for her. She sipped and tasted a blend of clover honey and gurdyroot, a refreshing and slightly sweet combination.

"So, what are Prawns Veracruz?" She peered past him and saw a large pan with a red sauce and a plate of large grilled prawns waiting to the side. The basics of Harry's cuisine were fresh ingredients, especially the Trinity of celery, bell pepper, and onion, and a variety of spices. Still, the way he combined them with seafood, rice, chicken, and sausages yielded countless variations.

"I thought you might like a change from all the spice this week. Veracruz sauce is tomato, green olive, onion, a little smoky flavour, and freshly squeezed lime juice for brightness. It has lots of savoury love but not so much heat."

"Thank you for thinking of me. I know you can eat those hot dishes daily, but I'm still building my tolerance."

He laughed and moved the pan off the fire. He turned and took her in his arms, his lean forearms firm against her back. He leaned in and tasted her lips again.

"I love that you let me cook for you, cher. These days, cooking, reading," he paused, and despite his confident tone, his cheeks coloured, "and making love, these have been my happiest days in Britain, well, in my life, I suppose."

"I'm very happy, Harry. You came back and brought me back to life."

They held each other briefly, and then he returned to cooking. He plated the rice, prawns, and sauce and followed her inside to the table. When she saw that he had removed his apron and wore only his trousers with his feet and his tanned chest bare, she smiled and slipped her own robes off, so she sat down to dine in only her daisy-yellow underwear. He smiled his wolfish smile.

"The sun comes out from the clouds at last," he said appreciatively, sliding her plate in front of her.

They ate in companionable silence. Luna found that the juicy prawns burst with fresh sweetness, and the sauce added surprising notes of salt and acid, creating a dish totally different from the spicy beans and rice or the rich gumbo he had been making. The oysters were raw, with just a squeeze of lemon, like a kiss from someone fresh from swimming in the sea. The meal was like a vacation to an exotic land, yet every individual element was familiar and comforting.

When they had finished eating, she insisted on doing the dishes. Standing at the sink, she orchestrated the cleaning of each pan and dish with a few quick charms. Just as she finished, she felt Harry's strong arms reaching around her and his chin settling onto her shoulder. His bare chest pressed against her back, and she could feel the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck standing up as if they reached for him. She pressed her body back against him and closed her eyes.

In her other attempts at relationships over the years, this is where the man would ask, "What are you thinking?" And that, of course, would ruin everything because then she would be thinking about thinking, not about the man with his arms around her, the man breathing soft breaths against her cheek, the man whose firm, strong body was meeting hers in a delicious but not forceful way.

"You feel good to me, cher," he whispered, holding her tightly.

That was it. That was why Harry Potter was perfect for her. He shared rather than demanding, he lived for the feelings between them and not entirely in his head. She didn't think just then; instead, she felt keenly and deeply.

"I do feel good, to me too." She pressed back a little more firmly, her yellow-garbed bottom pressing against him. "I'm very happy right now."

"Then I am happy, too. Ça c'est bon, cher." The Cajun marinade of his acquired French dialect made the phrase come out, "Sa say bohn, sha," and it made her toes curl.

She turned to face him within the circle of his arms. She looked a long time into his eyes, those famous emerald eyes, and all she saw there was warmth, respect, joy, and perhaps, if she was not imagining it, love. She reached her arms around him and, grabbing handfuls of his lean bottom, she pulled herself into him even more tightly.

"Harry, I should very much like for you to stay with me." Her voice was soft but firm, with none of the distraction or hesitation which she usually allowed when speaking. She was very earnest.

He regarded her solemnly, ignoring the passing instinct to tease or question. When those errant thoughts had fled past, he replied with his own clarity. "I am staying with you, Luna."

He pulled back and, taking her by both hands, he slowly retreated towards the bedroom, drawing her along with him. He backed up carefully but with the clear instincts of someone now familiar with the cottage's layout, steering them confidently across the threshold and into the bedroom. As he moved as if to pull her with him onto the mattress, she pulled back gently, stopping them both just short of the bed.

"I want you to stay. With me. Us together, you see." She didn't blink, didn't look away, the limpid, luminous grey pools of her eyes expanding to fill his sight, his world. "I don't want you to leave."

He smiled then, not his lopsided seductive smile, not the wry, self-deprecating smile he had used so much when he had first arrived on her doorstep. Harry Potter smiled like an innocent child, smiled from his heart.

"How could I leave? When already this is chez nous-autres? When this is home, cher?" He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across it. "Because you are here, this is home."

"It's too early to go to sleep," she observed.

"Then let's not sleep."

He pulled gently, and she tumbled onto the bed atop him. Their lips met, and she tasted joyful tears on his face as they mixed with hers.