Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: amand_rFrom: tjs_whatnotTitle:
Luna Lovegood/Mad Eye MoodyRating:
masturbation, sexual fantasy, body part worshipOther Warnings/Content:
Coming of ageWord Count:
It was Alastor that taught Luna the importance of a powerful imagination, and it would be the image of him and his magical eye that would be there in her time of need.Author's Notes:
Recip, It was a pleasure to write this for you, and I hope it pleases you as well. Thank you so very much R for the amazing beta and for being an all-around spectacular human being. Mods, like always, your patience and hand-holdings were invaluable and treasured.
Some of Luna’s favorite childhood memories involved Alastor Moody, one of her father’s only friends, certainly the only one who ever visited the house, the only one who treated Luna like a person with thoughts of their own, opinions to be considered. She fondly remembered being in the kitchen with her mother, making tea and biscuits and delivering them to her father’s office upstairs.
Alastor and her father would be deep in conversation, one or both of them gesticulating wildly some point they were trying to convey. They would pause a moment to take the offerings and thank her, then they would continue to talk as she poured their tea. Alastor or her father would offer their knee, and she would sit happily listening to theories and debates about subjects as varied as politics, the Deathly Hallows and magical creatures.
Often when Alastor would ask her opinion of some subject they had been discussing —when most other adults would have forgetting she was there at all —she would be too mesmerized by his magical eye to respond. For while she admired and felt great affection for Alastor Moody, it was the eye that completely enthralled her. The way it studied her, focused on her like she were the only one in the room.
After her mother died and her father completely shut down in his grief and despair, it was Alastor who made sure they had food to eat, their house was inhabitable and that Luna’s education continued. He taught her how to tell the difference between plants that could heal, such as Queen Anne’s Lace, and the similar looking hemlock that could kill. He taught her how to spot a Disillusionment Charm and how to wandlessly summon light. He taught her how to stand up for herself when it was appropriate and how to disregard scorn when it was easier and more productive to do so.
Luna and her father would not have gotten through the mourning period without Alastor. Luna understood most of what he did for them was to help her father, get him through it and back to his daughter. But, again, the eye and the way it focused on her told her something else. It told her that she was special
, that she was worthy of attention and consideration, that she mattered.
She found herself trying to see things the way the eye did. To really focus on people, to see beyond them, beyond their facades and shallow outer workings, to see what was inside. Like Alastor did with her, she tried to make sure she always saw the unseen, paid attention to the ignored.
If anyone had listened to her during her third year at Hogwarts, they would have all known that the Mad-Eye Moody who came to teach was not the real Alastor. She didn’t need a magical eye to know the truth, and she marveled that no one else could see it. But then she remembered something Alastor used to always say to her.
“Any sod can do magic; wave a wand, mumble some Latin, but real
magic, the real power of magic, the real power of life itself, is imagination. The ability to imagine what the eye can’t see, what the world can’t conceive, is the most important skill you can have.” Then he bopped her on her nose with one of his gnarled fingers. “And you, darling? Well you’ve got more imagination than anyone I’ve ever met. Don’t ever lose it, don’t ever
let the dullards of the world take that from you.”
While the man wearing his clothes and using his voice was not
the man she had known and admired all her life, she was shocked to discover that the eye was the same. And that it affected her just as it always had. Only now, for the first time, she was able to detach the feelings the eye instilled from the man himself.
Her feelings for Alastor always remained the same; pure and wholehearted. She respected and trusted him in everything and would always be grateful for the respect and trust he showed her in return. But the feelings she had for him and his eye? Well, those were always changing, always expanding. As a child, the eye told her she mattered and had value. After her mother’s death and her father’s grief made her feel invisible, the eye saw her like no one else did and told her she was strong enough to get through and persevere.
After she and her friends infiltrated the Ministry of Magic at the end of her fourth year, the eye looked at her with an admiration that sizzled the blood under Luna’s skin and tickled up and down her spine. It saw what she was becoming
, and the stare it bestowed said it approved. She became more than Xenophilius’ daughter and he became more than a friend of her father’s. They shared their own bond. He knew the war was coming and that it would affect everyone, no one would be untouched by its violence and loss, and he was desperate to prepare her for any inevitability.
In the years that followed, as they spent more and more time together, training, researching and having adventures, she spent her days admiring the man, and the nights fantasizing about the eye. About it watching her, urging her to develop and grow.
Yet it wasn’t until she was alone, in the dark and cold, in the desperate and harrowing that she let her imagination take her to that final step.
She had yet to process his death, had yet to even believe it was true he was gone. It seemed inconceivable to her. Especially there in the dungeon of the Malfoys where she could hear life and death, but could touch neither, she felt him with her. And she let her imagination and the feelings that had been sprouting and blossoming for him her whole life come to the forefront.
Draco had used Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder when he had placed her in the tiny cell. She knew why, she could see it in his eyes; he was uncomfortable with the task and wished not to see his prisoner’s fear. She understood his predicament, but it didn’t make her like him any more, didn’t make her pity him in any way. He had choices. Everyone did.
Imagining the time when Alastor turned him into a ferret helped.
It, of course, was only one of the ways her imagination saved her in those days. Like Alastor had said years before, her imagination was her greatest strength, her greatest asset. Imagining him there with her, she was able--after a few failed attempts--to wandlessly conjure a light to penetrate through the powder’s magic. She didn’t need
the light. There was nothing in her surroundings worth seeing anyway, but she did need to know that she could
change her environment, that she had that control.
With his presence standing beside her, she found the strength to stand up and face Bellatrix Lestrange when she summoned Luna those first days. She wanted to know the whereabouts of Harry Potter. The little ferret must have told her Harry and Luna were friends and had been in Dumbledore’s Army together. Luna was pretty sure that the raving lunatic didn’t remember her from the attack at the Ministry, what with her having been too busy being crazy at the time.
With his training and instruction she deduced immediately that it would be useless to fight against Bellatrix’s intrusions in her mind, so instead, she opened herself up, assaulted her attacker with an overload of information. All of it useless and completely irrelevant. It helped that Luna didn’t actually know anything about where Harry was or what he was doing.
And at night, lying on her thin mattress, the light she’d conjured dim and weak with her despair, it was the image of him sitting beside her that comforted her. It was the image of the eye watching her that warmed the chilled cell, raised the hair on her arms, her blood tingling under her skin.
She smiled and the light got brighter. She reached out her hand and imagined his gnarled fingers grasping hers. She pulled the image of him to her, his nose caressing hers, his eye never leaving hers, never blinking, never stopping the search for all she couldn’t say.
She closed her eyes because she didn’t need them anymore, the image was inside her, warming her and making her yearning keen but manageable. She could have him there in her mind and no one
could take that from her. She could have his eye exploring her, and she could open herself up to him, body and soul, and she could have that, have him
, because he’d already given himself to her ages before.
She felt him there, the weight of him as he kissed and licked his way down her body, tasting her, smelling her and always looking, investigating every inch of her. She felt the breath of him between her legs and spread herself for him and his explorations. With her fingers she guided him, showed him where the mysteries lay.
Her fertile imagination had no difficulty replacing her fingers with his tongue along her clit, his lips sucking the delicate nub as she arched her back and screamed her release. And as she opened her eyes and the overpowering brightness of the light she had wandlessly and unconsciously conjured washed over her, she saw that eye, looking at her from its place still there between her thighs, and there was another sort of release altogether. A release of all the fear she’d harbored, all the doubt she’d entertained, all the feelings of being powerless and ignored she’d let seep in. It all floated away.
All that remained was an overwhelming peace. And the eye, full of pride and wonder, winked.