Luville Lovebottom

DISCLAIMER: I am not Just Kidding when I say that I'm not J.K. (R.)

Luville Lovebottom on Mondays

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Wrackspurts

Neville entered the kitchen one morning--he was so much In and Out of the Lovegood household that there was no need to floo ahead or anything--to find Luna sitting at the table, reading an upside-down book.

"Hello, Neville" she said, complacently turning a page without bothering looking at him, "I just am making tea. The kettle will be whistling in a moment. Could you bring it here?"

She was infallibly right, of course. She could hear the bubbling of the water, for she liked to wear the audible sensitivity charms that she and her father used when hunting for strange animals and plants.

Neville felt awkward today; he had discovered whilst dressing that he had outgrown yet another size of trousers. As a result of the self-deprecation that followed, he had not the courage to embrace her with fervor, so he merely kissed her cheekbone.

"Of course," he said with a gray smile.

The whistle started to blow on the teapot, so he carefully wrapped a pot-holder around the handle and carried it to the table.

While his attention had been thusly diverted, Luna had whipped out a pair of Spectrespecs and was regarding him avidly.

"Get some the tin of Wiggle Biscuits from the cupboard. You've got the Wrackspurts again," she noted with the clinical objectivity of a healer.

He wondered whether she remembered that he was an absolute sucker for Wiggle Biscuits. Without a comment, he went to the cupboard, removed the tin, and placed it on the table.

"Oh, no, I oughtn't have any," he said when she opened it, took one, and nudged it towards him. "I just realized today, I've put on near two stone since the war ended."

She did not withdraw them, instead going back to reading the book, which Neville noticed was called Stephen Foster: Folk-Song Writer, Fraud, or Avant-Garde Freud? He smiled, wistfully appreciative of Luna's eclectic taste. He was the first to acknowledge that he probably would not understand a single bloody word of the book.

Indeed, he realized as he watched her read, she really was so very intelligent, so very beautiful, so very graceful. How come she let such a very dull, such a very unattractive, such a very clumsy oaf as he into her life? It was a very humbling thing, he thought, to look at her and know that she had accepted him.

He felt her eyes on him, and he looked at her, and he saw that she was shaking her head, a prim smile gracing her lips.

"What?" he asked, sensing that she was somehow particularly amused.

Looking back at her book, she placidly suggested, "I should think that the little insects are making you very silly. Didn't you ever hear about that colony of Buddhist monks in India who were so affected by Wrackspurts that they didn't eat anything until they starved to death?"

Neville huffed, interpreting that this was her strange way of convincing him that his new diet was unnecessary.

"I'm far from starving to death, Luna. Please, don't interfere."

She studied him again.

"There is another way to disappear the Wrackspurts, besides eating something with a significant amount of sugar," she said softly, "But I don't know if you'll like it."

"Oh?" Neville asked, surprised. She had never volunteered such information.

"Yes, do pay attention."

She stood and walked over to him, placing her delicate hand on his broad shoulder.

"Close your eyes. It shan't work if you don't."

He complied.

"You might feel something strange, but don't be afraid."

He waited, and then he did feel something strange: a kiss at the tip of his ear, as gentle as a butterfly landing on his favorite morning-glory vine. Then he felt another one, gracing his cheekbone. This was followed by another, along with a little sigh at his left temple.

Incredibly nervy, he felt her body move in front of him, and he appreciated the next kiss that landed on the tip of his nose.

"I do believe they're going away," Luna assessed in her dreamy manner, and before he could anticipate her next action, she muttered, "Oh, there's a particularly stubborn one. Get along, little Wrackspurt, stop bothering my Neville," and she leaped into his lap, drawing her arms around his neck and pressing her warm lips into his.

Somewhat stunned by her boldness, his eyes blinked open. She was expecting that; her eyes met his immediately, and were large and knowing.

"Are you cured, do you suppose?" she asked in her most polite manner. For a moment he did not understand, and thus he almost said the wrong thing, but he had come to learn her language, and therefore he carefully replied, after a brief moment:

"No. I think you've uncovered an entire nest of Wrackspurts, actually."

Her eyes lit up. "You're quite right. My initial screening was wrong. You'll need much more of a cure than I originally thought."

So saying, she leaned close to him again, and gave him such a cure that Neville was certain she got rid of every Wrackspurt in that kitchen.

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