“What... the... fu...ck,” he gasped.

She held him tightly until the she felt the last of his juddering. In the stillness that followed, she cautiously asked, “How is he?”

“In a coma,” Theo replied throatily, “The wounds have healed, but he lost so much blood. They don’t know how long... how long... how...fuck.”

With that, Theo shook himself free of her arms, and strode across the room. He seemed, suddenly, to become possessed by some vehement agitation; the moonlight-aura around him rippled with the intensity of it.

“What the fuck,” he roared with this renewed vigour, “was Potter thinking?”

...Until he cupped Luna’s face in his hands and kissed her.
She barely hesitated; her arms encircled his waist almost straight away, and she returned his kiss.
They were somehow contrary and harmonious all at once. Theo was the personification of urgency – he was exigent, fuelled by desperation and anguish. On the other hand, Luna was patience. She was gently coaxing calm and fortitude; tender, but potent enough to be more than a match for Theo. They were like two supplementary sinusoidal waves, weaving together and undulating fluently.

It was nothing like the clumsy, frenzied snogging on frequent display in shadowy nooks and quite corners of Hogwarts. This was fierce. It was real. It was adult.