Yours, Luna Lovegood

Gifts

"I love you, Harry Potter. And I refuse to let you go."

He pushed aside the remaining gifts, cleared the distance between them, and wrapped his arms gently around her lean form.

"I love you, Luna Lovegood. And I'd truly love to stay."

***

She tugged herself into him, wrapping her arms under his and pulling her form tight into his chest. And they stayed there for a moment, breathing together.

Harry was taken with her, entirely, and he was blissfully happy. And as he held her near, he swore to himself that he'd do everything in his power to protect this. He'd push himself, challenge his magical knowledge, his strength. Because every ounce of his efforts were worth—

"Um, Harry?" Luna's voice interrupted his train of thought.

He inhaled deeply, drunk with the scent of lavender.

"Yes, darling?"

"Um, so..." He couldn't see her just then, but he was certain she was biting her lip. "What are you going to do about the rest of those presents?"

Sitting atop of the pile of remaining presents was an envelope. It was the bland colour of recycled parchment, upon which was written the word "Harry" scratched untidily and off-centre.

He broke the seal, pulled out a single sheet of parchment, roughly folded, upon which was written one sentence.

***

I can't give you your gift, but I can show you. — Ron

***

Harry's brow furrowed, entirely confused. He handed the parchment to Luna, whose eyebrow raised in an expression of bewildered speculation.

Harry grabbed the next gift on the pile.

It was a flatish rectangle, three inches tall, nearly eighteen inches long, around a foot wide. Meticulously wrapped in charcoal grey paper, with a pitch black ribbon, bowed at the centre with a black wax seal upon which was stamped, with flourish, the letters S and B.

Tucked into the ribbon was a note. Harry opened the folded parchment and read it aloud.

***

Pup, I find myself genuinely overwhelmed with the privilege of knowing you, of watching you grow up. You're a better man than I am already — a conviction I've heard Lupin whisper at least a dozen times, and I dare say James would join the chorus. I am convinced, against the backdrop of your courage, your hope, your strength and conviction, that my days are best spent in your service and support. To that end, you'll find underneath this note a hooded cloak typically passed to the Heir of the House of Black on their eighteenth birthday. You're getting it early, because of course no one has so clearly earned it or so desperately needed it.

A box not unlike this one arrived at the threshold of your grandfather's manor on the morning of my eighteenth birthday. No explanation was given aside from a clip of parchment upon which were written the words, "Careful. It's temperamental." I'll try to give a better explanation than my grandfather's.

The cloak within this box has been passed from grandfather to grandson for at least six hundred years. It is enchanted with lost arts and it has no equal. No spell will pierce its fabric. It is, indeed, a perfect shield. Yet its less discernible features are perhaps more valuable. I swear I'm not lying — on no less than nine occasions, this cloak stole me from Death's grasp. It has life, Harry. A personality of its own, a will of its own, and a prescient awareness of danger I cannot even begin to understand. Trust its movements, its suggestions, its insistence. You'll not regret it.