September 8th, 1993, Fourth Floor Corridor, 5:41 PM
Harry's hand found Luna's with the easy familiarity of two years' practice—fingers interlacing as though their hands had been designed specifically for this purpose. Luna's skin was cool from walking barefoot on stone, and Harry felt an irrational surge of anger at whoever had thought taking her shoes was acceptable entertainment.
"Come on," he said, tugging her gently down the corridor. "Let's find them properly."
They walked in silence for several paces, Harry ostensibly checking alcoves and behind tapestries whilst actually trying to work up the courage to ask what he really wanted to know.
"Luna," he started carefully, "how... how are things in Ravenclaw? I mean, with your housemates. Are they—"
"Oh, look!" Luna interrupted brightly, pointing to absolutely nothing in particular. "I think I saw a Wrackspurt. They're terribly distracting this time of evening."
Harry tried again. "Right, but about your house—"
"Did you know Wrackspurts are attracted to confusion? Father says they nest in people's ears when they can't think clearly." Luna's voice carried that dreamy quality that Harry had learned meant she was deliberately avoiding something.
"Luna—"
"The castle's architecture is fascinating from this angle, don't you think? The way the late afternoon light catches the stone—"
Harry sighed, the sound carrying defeat and reluctant acceptance in equal measure. "Fine. We'll talk about Wrackspurts and architecture. For now."
Luna squeezed his hand gently—acknowledgment, perhaps, or gratitude that he wasn't pushing.
'But we will talk about it,' Harry thought with quiet determination. 'Just... not today.'
He released her hand, stepped back slightly, and raised his wand with the fluid economy of movement that summer training had instilled. "Accio Luna's shoes."
The spell was wandless-capable—Ethan had drilled the Summoning Charm into Harry until he could cast it half-asleep—but Harry used his wand anyway, pouring intent and precision into the magic. Somewhere in the castle, hidden behind armour or stuffed into a forgotten cupboard, Luna's shoes responded to the call.
They flew around the corner with gratifying speed—sensible black school shoes, slightly worn at the heels, unmistakably Luna's—and landed in Harry's outstretched hands with perfect accuracy.
Luna's face lit up with delight that seemed disproportionate to simply having shoes returned. "That was brilliant! The way you cast it—the shoes didn't even tumble, they just flew straight and true. Most people's Summoning Charms make objects spin or wobble, but yours was perfectly controlled."
"Dad's been drilling precision," Harry said, oddly pleased by her technical appreciation. "Says sloppy casting develops bad habits that are harder to break later."
Luna reached for her shoes, but Harry pulled them back slightly.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to a nearby bench beneath a window. The stone seat was built into the wall, designed centuries ago for students to rest between classes or contemplate the grounds beyond.
"Harry, I can put on my own—"
"I know you can. Sit anyway."
Luna's grey eyes studied him with that particular quality of attention that suggested she was reading layers of meaning Harry hadn't consciously intended. Then, with the smallest of smiles, she settled onto the bench.
Harry knelt before her—the cold stone uncomfortable against his knees but worth it—and Luna's eyes widened fractionally.
'What is he doing?' she thought, her usual dreamy detachment fracturing into actual present-moment awareness.
Harry lifted her right foot with careful gentleness, cradling it in his left hand whilst traced a precise pattern with his right. "Scourgify."
The spell was non-verbal, perfectly controlled, sending a gentle warm tingle across Luna's skin as it cleaned away dust and stone-cold from walking barefoot. Harry's touch was clinical—impersonal in execution if not intent—as he checked that her foot was properly clean before guiding it into her shoe with the focused attention most people reserved for important rituals.
He repeated the process with her left foot. Lift. Clean. Shoe.
Luna sat very still.
Her heart, which generally maintained its dreamlike pace regardless of circumstance, had accelerated to something approaching urgency. Heat flooded her ears—not her cheeks, never her cheeks, but her ears burned with sudden, fierce awareness of Harry Potter kneeling before her, touching her bare feet with a gentleness that seemed to belong to someone much older, much more certain of their right to such intimacy.
'Oh,' Luna thought, the single syllable encompassing several revelations simultaneously. 'Oh no. This is... oh.'
She felt the blush spreading—could feel it creeping up her neck, across her ears, threatening to become visible despite her best efforts at maintaining composure. She ducked her head slightly, letting her blonde hair fall forward to curtain her face, to hide the telltale redness that would give away thoughts she wasn't ready to examine too closely.
Harry finished fastening the second shoe and sat back on his heels, satisfaction evident in his expression. "There. Much better."
Fifty feet down the corridor, partially hidden behind a suit of armour, five students watched the entire scene with varying degrees of shock and fascination.
Neville had his hands over his eyes—though his fingers were spread wide enough that he could clearly see through them—his face bright red with secondhand embarrassment and something that might have been vicarious romance.
Hermione stood frozen, her mouth slightly open, her usual articulate nature completely abandoned in the face of what she'd just witnessed.
Lavender had both hands pressed to her mouth, physically restraining the squeal that wanted to escape. Her eyes were huge, shining with the particular delight teenage girls bring to witnessing romantic moments.
Ron had opened his mouth to exclaim—"Bloody hell" already forming on his lips—when Hermione's hand shot out and clamped over his mouth with surprising force.
"Shh!" she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Don't ruin it!"
And Colin Creevey, who'd been passing by on his way to the library and spotted the group watching something interesting, had his camera raised. The soft click of the shutter was nearly inaudible, but Colin's grin suggested he knew exactly what kind of photograph he'd just captured.
'Hermione will pay good money for this,' he thought with entrepreneurial glee. 'Maybe a whole Galleon. Maybe more if I get it properly developed with colour enhancement charms.'
Back at the bench, Harry stood and offered Luna his hand. "Come on. Let's head back before it gets too late."
Luna took his hand, rising with her usual fluid grace. Her ears were still red—Harry didn't notice, too busy scanning the corridor with that newly developed awareness for potential threats—and she kept her hair positioned carefully to hide the evidence of her reaction.
They walked back toward their friends, Luna's fingers still interlaced with Harry's, both of them seemingly oblivious to the small audience that had witnessed their moment.
Harry's mind was elsewhere—already planning how to investigate Luna's situation in Ravenclaw without making her uncomfortable, already calculating who he could ask, already feeling the protective anger that came with knowing someone he cared about was being hurt.
Luna's mind was... less elsewhere. Definitely present. Hyperaware, actually, of the warm pressure of Harry's hand in hers, of the gentleness he'd shown, of the way her heart was only now beginning to slow back to its normal pace.
'The Nargles,' she thought with internal amusement and something like resignation, 'are going to be absolutely insufferable about this.'
When they reached the others, Harry finally registered their presence and the peculiar way they were all staring.
"What?" he asked, genuinely confused.
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words emerged.
Ron had removed Hermione's hand from his mouth but seemed equally incapable of speech.
Lavender was vibrating slightly, still physically restraining her reaction.
Neville had given up pretending not to look but had gone very red and seemed to have forgotten how to make eye contact.
"We were just..." Hermione finally managed, "...looking for you. For dinner. It's almost time."
"Right," Harry said, accepting this explanation despite its obvious inadequacy. "We should head down then."
He started walking, still holding Luna's hand, completely missing the way his friends exchanged meaningful glances behind his back.
Luna, for her part, had regained her composure. Her ears were still slightly pink, but her expression had returned to its usual dreamy serenity as she allowed Harry to lead her toward the Great Hall.
Only her fingers, gripping Harry's hand just a fraction tighter than usual, suggested anything had changed.
September 8th, 1993, Great Hall, 6:47 PM
Dinner had appeared with its usual abundance—roast chicken, potatoes done three different ways, vegetables in quantities that suggested Hogwarts' house-elves believed in aggressive nutritional fortification. The Great Hall buzzed with conversation, students relaxing into the rhythms of term whilst teachers presided over their respective tables with varying degrees of attention.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, his plate barely touched whilst his mind worked through the problem of Luna's situation with the methodical focus Ethan had trained into him.
"Hermione," he said quietly, leaning closer so his voice wouldn't carry, "do you have friends in Ravenclaw? People you could ask about... about how things are for Luna?"
Hermione's expression shifted immediately to concern. "You noticed something?"
"Her shoes were hidden. She was searching barefoot." Harry's voice was carefully controlled, but something underneath suggested tightly leashed anger. "She won't talk about it. Keeps changing the subject."
Ron set down his fork. "That's not right. Taking someone's shoes? That's cruel, not a prank."
"I know people in Ravenclaw," Hermione said. "Sue Li and I study together sometimes. Padma Patil's in my Arithmancy class. I can ask."
"Do you know anyone?" Harry turned to Ron. "Ravenclaw blokes who might talk honestly?"
Ron considered. "Anthony Goldstein, maybe? We're friendly enough. Play chess sometimes. I could ask him."
"Please," Harry said. The word came out more intense than he'd intended. "I need to know what's happening. If someone's deliberately targeting her—" He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Twenty minutes later, Anthony Goldstein joined them at the Gryffindor table, drawn over by Ron's casual invitation to discuss chess strategy. He was a pleasant-looking boy—dark curly hair, intelligent eyes, the easy confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin.
"So," Ron said once Anthony had settled with a goblet of pumpkin juice, "random question. Luna Lovegood. What's the deal with her in Ravenclaw?"
Anthony's expression flickered—sympathy, discomfort, something like guilt. "Ah. You're asking because you're her friends?"
"Yeah," Harry said flatly. "We are."
Anthony sighed. "Look, Luna's... brilliant, actually. Genuinely brilliant. Sees connections other people miss, understands magical theory in ways that make professors pause. But she's also..." he paused, searching for diplomatic phrasing, "...very herself. Doesn't conform. Doesn't pretend. Talks about creatures most people think are nonsense, makes observations that sound strange until you realize they're actually quite insightful."
"That's Luna," Hermione said fondly. "That's not a problem, that's just who she is."
"Right. Except in Ravenclaw, where everyone's competitive and image-conscious and desperate to prove they're the cleverest..." Anthony's mouth twisted. "Luna tried to make friends first year. Really tried. But her quirkiness set her apart. At first, people just ignored her. Then she'd make these 'witty remarks' and some students took it as showing off or deliberate weirdness."
"Jealousy," Hermione said quietly. "They were jealous of her intelligence and disguised it as mockery of her differences."
"Basically, yeah. It's escalated into bullying. Nothing too physical—Ravenclaw tends toward psychological rather than violent, but... hiding her things, whispering about her, excluding her deliberately." Anthony looked uncomfortable. "Most of the house just... doesn't intervene. We tell ourselves it's not our business, that Luna doesn't seem bothered, that she'd speak up if it really hurt."
"Who?" Harry's voice had gone very quiet. Very controlled. "Who's leading it?"
"A fifth-year. Bryce Thornton. He's got a group... maybe four or five others... who think tormenting the 'weird girl' is entertaining." Anthony met Harry's eyes. "For what it's worth, most of us feel terrible about it. We just... don't know how to make it stop without making things worse for her."
Harry's hands had clenched beneath the table. His old phantom scar—the one on he got from the time with the Dursley, barely visible now but never quite forgotten—itched with phantom pain. Memories surfaced: Dudley's gang, being hunted through school grounds, Aunt Petunia's casual cruelty disguised as discipline.
The fury that rose wasn't just for Luna. It was for every lonely child who'd ever been targeted by bullies whilst bystanders looked away and told themselves it wasn't their problem.
Harry's emerald eyes had gone dark—not with sadness but with something colder, more dangerous. The hood of his robes cast shadows across his face, and for a moment, Anthony Goldstein felt something primordial shiver down his spine: the distinct impression that he was being assessed by a predator deciding whether he counted as prey or potential ally.
"Thank you for telling me," Harry said. His voice was perfectly polite. Perfectly calm. Terrifying in its control.
Anthony nodded, suddenly very aware that Harry Potter was not, perhaps, the friendly boy-hero the Prophet made him out to be. There was something underneath—something with edges and teeth and absolutely no tolerance for people who hurt his friends.
Across the table, Hermione had found Padma and Sue Li. The three girls spoke in urgent whispers, and when they returned, Hermione's expression confirmed everything Anthony had said.
"It's true," she told Harry quietly. "Padma says it's been ongoing since first year. Sue says most of Ravenclaw feels guilty but doesn't know how to intervene. The ringleader is definitely this Bryce person."
"I see," Harry said.
Hermione looked at him closely, her sharp eyes reading the tension in his posture. "Harry. Whatever you're planning—"
"I'm not planning anything," Harry interrupted. "Yet."
"Harry—"
"Bullying is despicable," Hermione said firmly. "It's cowardly and cruel and I hate it. If there's something we can do to help Luna—"
"There is," Harry said. "We make it clear that she's not alone. That she has friends who will stand with her. That anyone who wants to target her will have to go through us first."
Ron nodded slowly. "I'm in. Luna's brilliant. Nobody should be making her feel like being herself is wrong."
"Agreed," Hermione said. "Though we should be strategic about this. Direct confrontation might make things worse—"
Whatever strategic approach Hermione was about to suggest was cut off by the sound of screaming.
Not student screaming—something else. Something with a quality that made every head in the Great Hall turn toward the entrance simultaneously.
Peeves burst through the doors in a state that suggested genuine distress rather than performance. The poltergeist was cackling, yes, but underneath the laughter was something manic, something almost frightened.
"Headmaster!" Peeves shrieked. "Headmaster! The Fat Lady! Someone's got at the Fat Lady!"
Dumbledore rose immediately, his usual calm cracking into sharp focus. "Show me."
The Great Hall erupted into controlled chaos—students standing, teachers moving, Prefects attempting to maintain order whilst everyone tried to see what was happening.
September 8th, 1993, Seventh Floor Corridor, 7:03 PM
The Fat Lady's portrait was destroyed.
Not removed—destroyed. Great slashing cuts across the canvas, through the painted silk of her dress, across the background of her wine cellar setting. The frame hung intact, but the portrait itself had been torn to ribbons with what must have been extraordinary force.
The Fat Lady herself had fled into a neighbouring painting—a landscape with galloping horses—where she cowered behind a painted tree, sobbing with fear and shock.
Dumbledore's face was grave as he examined the damage. The other teachers clustered around—McGonagall white-faced, Snape studying the slashes with professional interest, Flitwick looking horrified.
"Who did this?" Dumbledore asked gently, addressing the Fat Lady. "Can you tell us who attacked you?"
"He—he came out of nowhere!" the Fat Lady wailed. "Tall man, dark hair, a terrible scar across his face! His eyes—his eyes were so cold—he demanded entrance to Gryffindor Tower and when I refused he just—he just—" She dissolved into fresh sobs.
"Mordred Slythra," Snape said flatly. "The description matches."
"But how?" McGonagall's voice shook. "How did he get into the castle? Our wards should have detected him, the Dementors should have sensed him—"
"Questions for later," Dumbledore said. "Right now, we need to ensure student safety. Minerva, gather all students in the Great Hall. We'll arrange sleeping accommodations there whilst we search the castle. No one is to be alone."
In the shadows two floors below, a large dog with unusually yellow fur that made him look more Golden Retriever than mongrel watched the commotion with intelligent focus.
Sirius had been patrolling in Animagus form when he'd caught Mordred's scent. Fresh. Recent. Magical signature that reeked of Azkaban and dark intentions.
He'd followed the trail as far as the Fat Lady's portrait, where it simply... ended. Vanished, as though Mordred had Disapparated from inside the castle, which should have been impossible through Hogwarts' wards.
'Clever bastard,' Sirius thought. 'Must have some method the wards don't detect. Which means he could come and go as he pleases.'
But at least Sirius now knew what he was tracking. Mordred's Animagus form had been visible for just a moment before the transformation—something sleek and dark, possibly feline. A cat, perhaps. Something that could move through the castle unnoticed.
Sirius made his way back toward Gryffindor common room, checking surreptitiously that the Weasley boy's rat was still visible on his shoulder. Scabbers sat there, looking old and tired and utterly unremarkable.
'Still there,' Sirius noted. 'Whatever Mordred wants, it's not Peter. Not yet, anyway.'
September 8th, 1993, Great Hall, 10:47 PM
The Great Hall had been transformed.
Sleeping bags covered the floor in neat rows—purple, the colour produced by some mass-conjuration charm—providing minimal comfort but maximum coverage. Hundreds of students settled in with varying degrees of complaint, excitement, or nervousness.
Teachers patrolled the perimeter, wands drawn, whilst Dumbledore and Snape discussed something in low, urgent voices near the staff table.
Harry had secured a sleeping spot near the Ravenclaw section—not difficult, given that most students naturally clustered by house. Luna was already there, her sleeping bag positioned with deliberate distance from her housemates, and she looked up with genuine pleasure when Harry settled beside her.
"Hello," she said. "This is exciting, isn't it? Sleeping under the enchanted ceiling. We don't often get to see the stars from this angle."
Above them, the ceiling displayed the September night sky in perfect detail. Constellations wheeled across the dome in slow, majestic rotation. The Milky Way spread like spilled cream, individual stars sharp enough to seem touchable.
"Yeah," Harry agreed, lying back to look up properly. "It is rather beautiful."
Around them, other students whispered excitedly about the Fat Lady's attack, about Mordred Slythra, about whether they were in genuine danger or if this was all precautionary theatre. Some speculated that Mordred had come for Harry—the famous Boy Who Lived, obvious target for a Death Eater—which made several people edge subtly away from Harry's sleeping area.
Harry noticed but didn't particularly care. His mind was on other things.
Concern about Mordred, yes. The man had broken into Hogwarts, had slashed a portrait with violence that suggested genuine threat. That was worrying on multiple levels.
But underneath that concern was trust. Trust in Hogwarts' protections, in the teachers, in Uncle Remus's competence, in whatever plans Ethan had undoubtedly set in motion the moment news reached him.
And beneath even that was awareness of Luna beside him—close enough that he could hear her quiet breathing, far enough that they weren't actually touching.
"Harry?" Luna's voice was very soft. "Thank you. For earlier. With my shoes."
"Of course," Harry said, equally quiet. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I do, though. Because you cared that someone had taken them. You didn't tell me to just go barefoot, or that it wasn't important, or that I should toughen up." Luna turned her head to look at him, her profile silver in the enchanted starlight. "You cared that I was uncomfortable. That matters."
Harry wanted to say something about how of course he cared, about how anyone who hurt her would have to answer to him, about how she deserved better than housemates who thought cruelty was entertainment.
But the words felt too big, too intense for a moment that should be peaceful.
So instead, he just reached over and found her hand in the darkness between their sleeping bags.
Luna's fingers curled around his immediately.
They lay like that, hands clasped, watching the stars wheel overhead through Hogwarts' enchanted ceiling. Around them, the Great Hall gradually quieted as students settled into sleep. Teachers' footsteps echoed softly as they maintained their patrol.
Luna's breathing had evened into the rhythm of sleep, but her hand remained in Harry's, her fingers relaxed but still holding on.
Harry watched the stars a moment longer, then closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would bring questions and concerns and probably lectures from teachers about safety.
Tonight, they were safe.
Tonight, that was enough.