Yours, Luna Lovegood

Dumbledore

After an uncomfortable tug behind his navel, Harry Potter appeared beside the far hedge of a primary school two blocks from the Dursley's home, holding a tin can threaded with loose string. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he set off, strolling leisurely through Little Whinging, enjoying the evening breeze and reflecting on the last sixteen hours.

Luna Lovegood was absolutely perfect. He thought about her smile, the sense of mystery behind her melodic speculations. He thought about her charcoal sketches, the bead of sweat that trickled down her neck. He thought about the way she stretched her lean body over the printing press, how her face shifted as he returned her gaze to the soft curves of her chest. He thought about the tight swell of her bottom in those jeans, her thighs wrapped around his waist. He thought about her lips, her tongue, her longing sighs and the intimate rhythm of her movement as they kissed.

She was fascinating in every conceivable way. And he was completely taken with her.

Harry fought to contain what must have been a ridiculously broad grin as he turned the knob to the front door of No. 4 Privet Drive.

Just to Harry's left, Albus Dumbledore sat in a oversized crimson wingback conjured squarely in the center of the Dursley's living room, wearing a deep purple robe with thin, bright orange pinstripes, casting an expression of weighty concern through the rising steam of a hot cup of tea.

"Good evening, Harry Potter."

***

Harry, expecting an empty home, leapt back violently, shouted and nearly wet himself.

Dumbledore's expression shifted immediately, and stumbling to quickly conjure a side table upon which to set his tea, he leapt to his feet. "Of course. I'm terribly sorry, Harry. I expect my presence was unanticipated." He gathered himself, taking a breath. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

The headmaster immediately conjured a slightly smaller crimson wingback, opposite his, a second side table, and a steaming cup of fragrant lavender tea. Luna came to mind, piercing a storm of questions and a general sense of confusion.

The headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, seated on an oversized crimson wingback, sipping lavender tea in the midst of the Dursley's family room, surrounded by plastic wrapped sofa covers, struck Harry as surreal on a level he hadn't yet encountered.

"Thank you, Professor. I... uh... I don't mean to be rude, but why..."

Dumbledore nodded his head differentially. "Ah. Why am I here, right now, in your home at nearly midnight? A valid question." He paused, shifted his eyes to the far corner of the room. "The answer? I'm here because we have much to discuss. And because, I'm afraid, I owe you a sincere apology."

Harry, not any less confused, made his way, disheveled, to the nearest wingback chair. He took a seat, and his tea in hand.

The headmaster conjured a small, emerald green glass bowl full of small, yellow candies. "Would you like a lemon drop?"

Harry shook his head politely.

Dumbledore smiled, a gravity behind his aged eyes. He sat again, continued. "It's difficult to know where to start, Harry, so I hope you'll bear with me. Perhaps the most direct route is to begin at the beginning. I am here, at your home at midnight, because nearly 15 years ago I cast a powerful trace on your still recovering infant body. It was, if I may say so, a nimble bit of magic. With this trace, I have since been able to monitor your location from anywhere in the world, and to ensure at a glance that you were alive."

He hesitated. "I suppose your first questions may relate to privacy. Suffice it to say that, in those dark days, I had every reason to suppose you were in danger, and facilitating a knowledge of your whereabouts was one of the tools I employed to keep you safe. Yet it occurs to me now that keeping such a trace active without your knowledge is a trespass perhaps inexcusable."