Luna had never liked oral. It had always tickled but failed to arouse.

But he was so enthusiastic and earnest in his desire to please her, and she had wanted him for so long.

She decided to let him have his way. She would lean back, let out a few deep moans, clench up and relax. Afterwards, she would ask for what she really wanted.

Halfway through her second sexy moan, she noticed a strange sensation in her chest. It was as if dozens of tiny needles were pricking her skin. The feeling spread outward, up her throat, around her breasts, and down her belly. When it covered all of her, it faded and she realized she was sweating. From her eyebrows to the backs of her knees she was drenched with sweat.

To her horror, her throaty moans had become tiny, embarrassing mouse-like squeaks. She sounded like a rat caught in an accordion. She tried to control them, but they were coming out louder and quicker, and she was so embarrassed. He must have been so embarrassed. She shoved her fist into her mouth to stop them, but she was screaming now. Her whole body shuddered.

With a shock, she realized he'd poisoned her. Somehow, he'd snuck something into her drink. No, she'd always kept it with her. It must have been on his tongue.

He was using his tongue a lot, now.

It must have been poison, because every muscle in her body was clenching, squeezing with all their might. Then, when they'd exhausted their last drops of energy, they failed. One by one, they became weak and lifeless.

She slumped down, helpless, unable to move. She tried to raise her head, to say something, but she was nothing but a trembling, drooling mess.

Two strong arms slid underneath her, lifted her, and she was held against Harry's chest. She melted into him, little more than a wet lump of weak joy. He carried her back through the hall and into her bedroom.

Gently, he lowered her to the bed, but she felt a twinge of worry. She was weak, too weak to do anything for him. She wanted to be good for him, to inflame him with passion, not lie there half-conscious. He'd think she was bad in bed, and she desperately wanted to avoid that. She tried to muster strength, enthusiasm, but the world was dimming, and she slid into darkness.

When she woke, the light had changed. How long had she lay there? Had she slept? She realized, with a start, she'd come so hard she'd passed out. Was that even possible? Her cheeks reddened with what she thought was shame, but slowly realized was desire.

A strange, mischievous, vindictive urge rose inside her. She was going to do to him what he'd just done to her. She would make him scream like a silly doll. She would make him tremble and cry. No, even that wasn't enough. She'd use legilimency on him. She hadn't practiced it or trained for it, but since she'd become a mother, it came naturally to her. She'd use that magic now, even if it risked the safe bubble she'd put around her home. She'd slip into his mind, past his defenses, and find the darkest little fantasies he hid from even himself. She'd do what he wanted before he even knew what it was. She'd satisfy his every urge.

For the rest of his life, the slightest thought, the tiniest image would remind him of her. He'd come across a clump of grass the color of her hair or hear a windchime that sounded like her voice, or even a flower that smelled like her soap. Then, no matter where he was, no matter how inconvenient it was, he would get a raging erection. In that moment he would know she owned him.

She turned and reached through the covers to take him and found only coldness. The bed was empty. He was gone.

She fought down the panic that jumped inside her. He wasn't gone. He wouldn't have left without a word.

Would he?

He was in the bathroom. He was downstairs. He was cooking breakfast. He was (hope of hopes) playing with her children, making a place for himself in her life.

She fought that down, too. Hope was just as toxic as fear.

She threw off the bedcovers (far too aggressively, she noted) and put on a robe. With stiffly controlled movements, she checked the bathroom. Empty. She went downstairs and looked in the kitchen. Empty.

He was gone.

She wasn't sexy enough for sex, so he'd gone down on her. She'd made gross, embarrassing noises. She'd passed out and hadn't reciprocated.

He'd been so disgusted by her, so ashamed, he'd sneaked off in the dark.

The tears came, and she couldn't fight them. She wiped them off with her right sleeve, but they kept coming. Then suddenly, they stopped. Her kids were waking up, and it wouldn't do for them to see her crying.

They needed to be dressed, and fed, and kissed. They needed her to listen to the dreams they'd had. They needed her to walk them to school and kiss them, yes again because that was what Mama Luna did. She kissed their cheeks every chance she got, even if their friends were watching.

And yes, Min, you can go to the daycare today if you want to. No, Mama Luna isn't sad. She's just tired.

There was joy in her life. She reminded herself of that while she walked home, her umbrella tucked tightly under her arm as if she didn't care about hiding her magic. There was plenty of joy.

She loved her children, she reminded herself. She loved her home. It was a happy time for her. Cooking was happiness. Cleaning was happiness. Being alone at night and having a whole bed to herself was perfection.

But she'd have to say something. No, that was too humiliating. She'd already humiliated herself enough. She'd have to write something. She'd have to brush him off. She couldn't let it end that way: her acting like a lovestruck fool and him avoiding her. She would take control again, reframe their relationship. She'd save face, and they could go back to being friends. Distant friends.

Her notepad, the one she used for shopping lists, was sitting out on her marble kitchen counter along with a pen. The pen went dry, ruining the first note. She made little circles on the page until the spirals turned blue. Then she tore off the page and tried again.

Dear Harry,

She fought the urge to write "dearest."

I'm sorry about last night. That wasn't what I wanted to happen.

Good. Put the shame on him. Let him feel embarrassed for once.

Don't feel bad. These things sometimes happen between old friends.

Were they old friends? She'd always wanted more, but knew she couldn't have it. Yes. She'd grown used to that distant yearning. She could go back to it.

I hope we can still be friends.

She crossed that out. She'd already said "friends."

I hope this doesn't change things between us.

Love,

Luna

She knew she wasn't going to keep the "love." She just wanted, once in her life, to sign a letter "love" and really mean it. She wanted to, just for a moment, be able to pretend she had that, had someone, had love.

She rewrote the letter – this time with Sincerely - and went to the window. She didn't have an owl; she didn't trust the Ministry not to track them. However, there was a mourning dove who lived in the tree in her back yard that would do her bidding in exchange for a piece of bread (the store bought kind, not the one she made from scratch). He came down when she called and fidgeted endlessly while she tied the message to his leg. Like her kids, he squirmed when she kissed him on his little head. Like her kids, he still grumpily refused to leave until she kissed him again.

Luna went back to her house. She threw out all the crumpled pages of her failed writing. Upstairs, she wiped down the bathroom and straightened her bed. As she moved the blankets, a small piece of folded paper fell on the floor.

It was the same paper as the one from her kitchen counter; inside, a note was written in the same blue pen. It was hard to read some of the words; the pen was drying out as it was being used.

Luna

Sorry for sneaking out. You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to wake you. Double class with the Gryffindors and Slytherins this morning. You can guess how well that goes.

When can we meet again? I can make myself available whenever.

Love,

Harry

She rushed to the window, threw it open, and called out for her mourning dove, but he was long gone. Her scream of anguish was so loud, one of her neighbors rushed over to make sure she was okay.