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The golden light of midsummer crept lazily across the Weasleys’ backyard, catching dew on the grass and shimmering through the laundry hung up to dry. The war was over, and for once, life had slowed to a gentle rhythm—one where mornings didn’t begin with fear but with breakfast and birdsong.
Harry Potter was trying to read.
He was sat on the back steps of the Burrow, mug of tea cooling between his hands, a book open on his lap. He’d already read the same paragraph four times.
The trouble, he’d later insist, was Luna Lovegood.
She strolled barefoot down the garden path at first, basket looped over her arm, humming to herself like she was part of the breeze. But then she came back a few minutes later, sandals buckled on, sundress clinging just enough to render Harry catastrophically useless. The dress was butter-yellow, soft and swishing, and the way it caught the light when she spun slightly to look at the drying herbs—well. That was it for reading.
“Lovely day,” she said dreamily, glancing over at him.
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, eyes darting back to his book and then—guiltily—back to her legs. “Really lovely.”
Luna tilted her head. “Are you reading or brooding?”
Harry blinked. “Bit of both.”
She gave him a teasing smile and sat beside him on the steps, the skirt of her dress brushing against his knee. “I always liked how your brooding face looks like a puffskein trying to do long division.”
He chuckled despite himself. “Cheers for that.”
“Mmh,” she hummed, legs crossed at the ankle, sandal wedges giving her the illusion of longer limbs. She plucked a piece of lavender from the basket and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re staring.”
“Sorry.” He blinked. “You just—look really… summery.”
Luna’s lips curved. “Is that a compliment, or a weather report?”
“A compliment. Definitely.”
She didn’t look away. “I like that you notice.”
Harry scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how warm it was. “Hard not to.”
They sat there in companionable silence, broken only by the wind and the faint clang of dishes through the open kitchen window. Luna’s fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against her thigh, and Harry caught himself watching them. Again.
“You’re not doing a very good job pretending you’re not losing it,” she said lightly, turning toward him with a serene sort of mischief.
“I’m not—losing it,” he lied terribly.
Her smile widened as she leaned a little closer. “Yet.”
And then she stood, brushing her dress smooth, the scent of lavender trailing behind her as she wandered barefoot again into the sun.
Harry watched her go, utterly ruined.
Maybe he wasn’t reading that book today after all.
By midday, the group had made plans to meet at the Ottery Vale pub. Ginny had insisted on a quick broom ride, and Harry hadn’t refused—though his thoughts were scattered and filled with Luna.
He and Ginny laughed and looped around the orchard, racing above the trees and weaving through sunlight. When they returned to the house, their cheeks were flushed from wind and speed, and Luna watched them from the kitchen window with the same stillness as before.
She saw the way Harry smiled at Ginny’s jokes. The way Ginny nudged him playfully.
But Ginny didn’t sit with him when he was unraveling. Ginny didn’t know the haunted parts of Harry that Luna had studied like constellations.
When Luna reappeared before the group left for the pub, she’d changed dresses.
The new one was moss green, soft and short, clinging in places that Harry hadn’t quite prepared for. Her hair was loose and glowing in the fading afternoon light. Her sandal wedges made her just tall enough that when she leaned close, Harry had to remind himself to breathe.
The pub was buzzing—full of noise and warmth. Hermione was arguing about Muggle music with Ron. Neville was red-faced from his first sip of firewhisky. Ginny was talking about a Harpies tryout she wanted to attempt.
Harry sat between Dean and Luna. He tried to sip his drink. Tried to focus.
But Luna was slowly, masterfully, destroying him.
Her green dress moved like liquid and shadow, catching the light and teasing him mercilessly. Every time she crossed her legs, his breath caught. Every time she reached for her wine, he caught a flash of thigh or the gentle sway of neckline. And each time, she looked at him with a smile that said she knew.
“You’re quiet,” she murmured near his ear.
Harry clenched his jaw. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?” Her voice was the purr of smoke and sugar.
He turned toward her fully now, thigh brushing hers under the table. “You know exactly what.”
She tilted her head and leaned forward to sip her wine, letting the neckline of her dress dip lower—just for a moment.
“Oh. That.”
His hand moved without thinking. Beneath the table, he found the skin above her knee and pressed his fingers there—not harsh, but firm.
Luna inhaled sharply. Her eyes snapped to his.
“I said,” he growled low, “you’re doing it on purpose.”
“And if I am?”
“Then don’t be surprised when I stop playing nice.”
Her entire expression shifted—flushed, stunned, delighted. “Harry…”
His fingers flexed against her leg before retreating just as casually as they’d come.
The conversation around them carried on, but Luna was spiraling. Her hands trembled slightly as she took another sip. The air between them had changed.
When Harry got up to fetch drinks, Ginny stood with him, laughing about how awful he smelled after flying. She reached to brush a bit of lint off his shirt. Harmless. Friendly.
Luna’s entire body tensed.
She stood too fast and followed him to the bar, catching him just as he leaned over with his coins.
“You don’t belong to her,” she hissed, sudden and raw, near his ear.
Harry turned slowly, eyes wide. “Luna—”
“You don’t,” she repeated, palm pressed flat against his chest. “I don’t want to share you.”
His hand found her waist. “Who said you were?”
Then she yanked him by the collar and dragged him out the pub’s side door into the moonlit alley, her hair glowing pale in the dark.
Luna shoved him back against the wall. Her chest was rising and falling like she’d run a mile.
“I’ve let people float past me my whole life,” she said, voice shaking. “But not you. I want—you.”
Harry stared at her, stunned.
“You’ve got me,” he breathed. “Merlin, Luna. You’ve had me.”
She gripped his shirt, kissed him hard.
No gentleness. No daydream. Just need.
Her lips crashed into his, arms around his neck, pressing their bodies together like gravity meant nothing. His hands found her hips. Her back. Her thighs. He didn’t know where to touch first—so he touched everywhere.
When they broke apart, they were gasping, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen.
Luna laughed softly, unhinged. “I want to ruin you.”
Harry smiled like a man already ruined. “You already have.”
And she kissed him again. Possessive. Breathless. Hers.