It was forbidden; maybe that's why it seemed so appealing. Forbidden fruit, as they say. I knew it was a mistake as I went into his office, I knew it was wrong as we sat on his desk together, and I should've known better then to do what I did with the man. However, as wrong I knew it was, the better I felt about it, the more fun it was.
Earlier that week, I had been in defence against the Dark Arts, sitting next to my red-headed friend, and I had spoken out of terms, in his opinion, anyway. He'd told me to meet him in his office at nine o'clock to serve a detention, and assigned me an extra inch on our essay for the night. As I was told, I met him in his office at the exact time I was supposed to, and he stood, waiting for me. He led me inside, and, to my surprise, he kissed me, full on the mouth. His hand in my messy hair, dark eyes looking over my pale skin. Then he told me to leave and tell no one of what had happened there, and so I did.
Over the span of a week, one measly week, my professor and I went from snogging to making love. His hands on my body, my little ones on his, it just felt right. Of course, my mind told me otherwise. I usually listen to my brain, even if things are sometimes a bit foggy, but on this matter I followed the high, as I felt as if on drugs while with him.
It wasn't long before he told me that I would not be serving 'detentions' any longer, and I told him that I wanted to continue with the punishments. I pushed the things off of his giant desk without another thought, and he took me there.
I remember waking up in his bed, sheets tangled around my body, his arms as well. He looked at me through his own unruly hair and smiled at me. He buried his head into my chest and I let him, smiling at the feeling of him against me.
This went on for a while, until the last time I saw him at school. We were in the Room of Requirement, (I found this out later, at the time he just told me it was a magical place) and he had me in his arms, as we sat on a sofa by the fire.
"I'll miss you, Professor," I told him, smiling up at him.
"Please, Luna, call me Remus! I won't ask you again." He wagged his finger at me playfully and I laughed. I smiled and leaned back, thinking about how often he was busy with 'very personal matters that you'll learn eventually', and thought that he'd still found time for me.
He left that day.
Some would call Remus a cradle robber, others a molester, but I called him an amazing man. The fact that I lost my virginity at age twelve is irrelivent.
I didn't seem Remus again until my fifth year, at the Department of Mysteries. When I came to, after being knocked out, and saw him there, I nearly shouted for joy. He, however, didn't seem too happy to see me.
He wouldn't open up; it took me six months to figure out why that was. A girl, he'd meet another woman and loved her like crazy. I was devestated for a while, but didn't let it show. I continued to smile and think about finding a Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Sweden, or convicing Hermione that Nargles are real, but on the inside I was crushed. It wasn't until Dumbledore died that I woke up and realized that I should be happy for Remus and Nymphadora, as life is short and can end at any time.
Today, I am in my home, smiling up at Rolf and listening to Lorcan and Lysander play with their blocks. I do, however, still think about my poor deceased Remus. I like to imagine that together would've had great children, whether they be werewolves or not, and we'd live somewhere slightly isolated, so no one would ask questions, but close enough to see our friends. I love to imagine it's his arms that engulf me every night, and it is my child that Harry watches after.
Do not get me wrong, I love my children, my husband, my job as a naturlist, my life. But a girl has to wonder.