December 19th, 1993, Great Hall, 7:47 AM
The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling showed grey winter sky—the sort of overcast morning that promised either snow or rain but couldn't quite decide which. Students filtered in for breakfast with varying degrees of consciousness, the early hour evident in slumped shoulders and half-hearted conversation.
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table between Ron and Hermione, Neville across from them, all four nursing mugs of tea whilst their bodies slowly remembered how to function before morning classes. Jasper was tucked safely in Harry's hood, a warm, feathery presence that chirped softly whenever Harry shifted position.
"So," Hermione said, pulling a neatly wrapped package from her bag, "I found the most brilliant Arithmancy text in Hogsmeade. Listen to this introduction—" She began reading aloud about numerical patterns in spell construction whilst Ron's eyes glazed over with the particular blankness of someone whose brain had refused to process advanced mathematics before eight in the morning.
"I got treacle tart," Ron interrupted once Hermione paused for breath. "Three boxes' worth. Thought I'd give one to Lavender. You know. To say thanks for the Chocolate Frogs and the visiting when I was in the Hospital Wing and—" His ears went progressively redder with each word until his face matched his hair.
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances that communicated entire paragraphs of knowing amusement.
"That's very thoughtful, Ron," Hermione said, her voice carefully neutral but her eyes dancing. "I'm sure Lavender will appreciate the gesture."
"It's just treacle tart," Ron muttered. "Not like it means anything. Just being polite. Returning the favour and all that."
"Obviously," Harry agreed, his tone suggesting anything but agreement.
Ron shot him a betrayed look. "You're one to talk. What did you get Luna, then? Must've been something special, the way you were stressing about it."
Harry's face went scarlet. His hood came up immediately—a reflexive hiding mechanism that had become instinctive over three years—and he pulled the fabric down to obscure as much of his face as physics would allow.
"T-that's different," Harry mumbled into his collar.
"How's it different?" Ron pressed, grinning now that the attention had shifted. "You spent ages looking for the perfect gift, talked to some dodgy merchant, came back looking all secretive—"
"It's j-just a Christmas present," Harry insisted, his voice muffled by fabric and embarrassment. "F-friends give each other presents."
"Mmm-hmm," Hermione said, in exactly the tone Draco had used yesterday. "Friends. Of course."
Harry shot her a glare that would have been more effective if his face hadn't been tomato-red and mostly hidden. Hermione's grin widened. Ron and Neville both looked insufferably amused.
"Speaking of gifts," Neville said, graciously redirecting conversation away from Harry's mortification, "did anyone else hear about the Quidditch match yesterday? Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw?"
"Ravenclaw won," Ron said immediately, his Quidditch knowledge overriding his teasing instincts. "Which means Gryffindor's still in the running for the Cup. If we can beat Ravenclaw in our next match and Hufflepuff in the final, we've got a real chance."
"That's brilliant!" Hermione said. "After the Dementor disaster, I thought the season was lost."
"It's not brilliant for Oliver Wood's mental state," Ron countered darkly. "The man's going to drive us into the ground with training. I can already hear him planning strategies in his sleep. He's probably designing new practice drills right now that involve flying through blizzards whilst dodging Bludgers blindfolded."
"That's... oddly specific," Neville observed.
"You haven't experienced Wood in Cup-chase mode. The man's feral. I'm genuinely concerned for everyone's safety, including his own."
Despite the dramatic delivery, Ron looked pleased—the particular satisfaction of someone whose team still had fighting chance despite astronomical odds.
Breakfast continued in comfortable companionship, the sort of easy morning conversation that made early rising bearable. Students trickled in, the Hall gradually filling with noise and warmth. Teachers appeared at the staff table, Dumbledore serene and McGonagall severe and Snape looking like he resented consciousness.
Harry finished his eggs and toast, checked that Jasper was comfortable in his hood, and stood. "I'm going to find Luna before classes. Want to give her something."
The immediate return of knowing grins made him regret speaking.
"The Christmas present?" Hermione asked innocently.
"N-no! Just—just something else. The present's for Christmas. This is different."
"What's different about it?" Ron asked.
"It's—I—shut up." Harry fled the table whilst his friends' laughter followed him out of the Great Hall.
December 19th, 1993, Fourth Floor Corridor, 8:23 AM
Harry had the Marauder's Map spread across his palm, studying the tiny labeled dots that represented Hogwarts' occupants. The enchantment was extraordinary—far more sophisticated than anything he'd seen outside of Ethan's private workroom. Every person in the castle was marked, their names floating above dots that moved in real-time through corridors and classrooms.
He'd sent Ethan a letter last night asking about the map's nature, curious whether his father would recognize the magic involved. The reply had arrived with morning post:
Harry—
The Marauder's Map is a spectacular artifact. The enchantments required to track every person in Hogwarts simultaneously, to update constantly, to distinguish individuals rather than just showing generic "student" markers—that's master-level magic. Possibly genius-level.
What makes it particularly impressive is that it only works in Hogwarts. The castle's ancient magic provides the foundation—the wards, the history, the sheer magical saturation of the place. Attempting similar enchantments elsewhere would be exponentially more difficult, if not impossible. Hogwarts is unique.
Keep it safe. Keep it secret. And use it wisely.
—Dad
Harry folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his bag. The map showed Luna's dot in a relatively empty corridor near the library—perfect for a quick conversation before classes.
He was halfway there when Luna's dot suddenly multiplied.
Four new dots appeared, converging on her position. Harry recognized one name immediately: Bryce Thornton. The others were his usual group—fifth-year Ravenclaws whose dots clustered together with suspicious frequency.
Harry's blood went cold.
Then very, very hot.
His danger sense—the awareness Ethan had trained and his Horcrux had sharpened—screamed warning. Not danger to himself. Danger to someone he cared about. Someone who mattered more than his own safety.
Harry ran.
The map guided him through corridors with perfect accuracy. Left at the tapestry. Right past the suit of armor. Straight through the shortcut behind the portrait of Gundred the Grumpy.
He rounded the final corner and saw them.
Luna stood with her back against the wall, her wand gripped in one hand but her expression carefully neutral—that dreamy mask she wore when things hurt too much to show. Bryce Thornton loomed over her, tall and sneering, whilst his three friends spread out to block escape routes.
"—just a joke, Loony," Bryce was saying, his voice carrying the particular cruelty of people who enjoyed their power. "Don't you have a sense of humor? Or did the Nargles steal that too?"
His friends laughed. One of them—a stocky boy with mean eyes—moved toward Luna with clear intent to grab her hair.
Harry didn't think.
His fist connected with the boy's jaw with a crack that echoed down the corridor. The bully stumbled backwards, hands flying to his face, shock and pain replacing cruelty in his expression.
Everyone froze.
Harry grabbed Luna's hand and pulled her behind him in one smooth motion, positioning himself between her and the bullies with the focused intensity of someone who'd spent a summer learning combat.
"Harry—" Luna started, her voice small.
"You alright?" Harry said quietly. His hood had fallen back, revealing his face—and his eyes. Emerald gone dark and cold, filled with the particular fury that came from seeing someone hurt what you loved.
Killing intent.
It wasn't conscious. Wasn't deliberate. Just the absolute certainty that he would do violence—significant violence—to anyone who touched Luna. That fury radiated from him like heat from flame, turning the corridor's atmosphere heavy and dangerous.
The bullies felt it. Harry watched their confident sneers falter, watched them take involuntary steps backwards, watched the boy he'd punched clutch his jaw and stare with growing fear.
"Potter—" Bryce started, trying to rally. "This doesn't concern you. We were just having a chat with Lovegood—"
"You were bullying her," Harry interrupted, his voice perfectly controlled and absolutely lethal. "There's a difference."
"Big words from a third-year," Bryce said, but his voice had lost some confidence. "What are you going to do, Potter? Run to the teachers? Get us detention?"
Harry pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—conjured it, actually, the spell wandless and effortless—and threw it at Bryce's feet. The white fabric landed with symbolic weight.
"Duel," Harry said. The word wasn't loud. Didn't need to be. It carried through the corridor with the pressure of absolute conviction. "You and your friends. Against me. Official duel at the Dueling Club. After Christmas."
Silence.
Students had begun gathering, drawn by the commotion. Whispers rippled through the growing crowd. And near the back, Professor Flitwick appeared, his small figure somehow commanding despite his stature.
Bryce's smile widened with arrogant confidence. "A duel? You're challenging four fifth-years to a duel? Have you lost your mind, Potter?"
"Possibly," Harry said. "Do you accept?"
One of Bryce's friends—the shortest one, with quick eyes that suggested more intelligence than his companions—looked nervous. "Bryce, maybe we should—I've heard things about Potter. About what he did second year with the basilisk, about his training—"
"Training?" Bryce laughed. "He's thirteen. How much training could he possibly have?"
"Enough," Harry said flatly. "Do. You. Accept."
The challenge hung in the air. Bryce looked at the crowd, at the witnesses, at Professor Flitwick watching with sharp attention. Backing down now would be humiliation. Accepting meant fighting someone two years younger in front of the entire school.
Pride won over wisdom.
"Fine," Bryce said. "First week back after Christmas. Dueling Club. Four on one. We'll see how brave you are when you're actually facing experienced duelists, Potter."
"Looking forward to it," Harry said. His voice was polite. His eyes promised pain.
Professor Flitwick stepped forward. "This duel will be properly supervised and regulated. Standard Dueling Club rules apply. No dark magic, no curses intended to cause permanent harm. Do all parties agree to these terms?"
"Agreed," Harry said immediately.
Bryce hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed."
"Excellent. Now, all of you, off to classes. The spectacle is over."
The crowd dispersed with reluctant obedience, students whispering excitedly about what they'd witnessed. Bryce and his friends left with attempted dignity, though Harry noticed the boy he'd punched was still clutching his jaw.
Professor Flitwick approached Harry and Luna with concern in his sharp eyes. "Mr Potter. Miss Lovegood. Are you both alright?"
"Fine, Professor," Harry said.
"Luna?" Flitwick's gaze was gentle.
"I'm well, Professor Flitwick. Thank you for asking." Luna's voice carried its usual dreamy quality, but underneath ran something fragile.
Flitwick studied them both, then nodded. "Very well. Mr Potter, I expect you to take this duel seriously. Proper preparation, proper conduct. No theatrics."
"Yes, sir."
Once the professor had departed, Harry turned to Luna properly. "Did they hurt you? Before I got here?"
"Just words," Luna said. Her mask was perfect—serene smile, distant eyes, absolute calm. Perfect to everyone except Harry, who'd spent years learning to read her. Who saw the slight tremor in her hands. The too-careful breathing. The way she held herself like glass that might shatter.
She was terrified. Had been terrified. Was hiding it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
Harry didn't call her on it. Not here. Not with students still passing, with curious eyes still watching.
"Come on," he said gently, taking her hand. "I'll walk you to class."
They moved through corridors hand-in-hand, Harry hyperaware of the stares and whispers that followed them. Adoring looks from some students. Amused glances from others. Speculation about Harry Potter publicly defending Luna Lovegood, challenging fifth-years to a duel, being so obviously protective.
Harry couldn't care less about the attention.
Luna's hand tightened around his—just slightly, just enough—and her smile became genuine. Small, but real.
'Later,' Harry thought. 'I'll give her the present later. After I've made sure these bastards never touch her again.'
December 19th, 1993, Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory, 11:47 PM
The day had passed in a blur.
Classes Harry barely remembered attending. Lunch where Ron and Hermione asked careful questions about the confrontation. Afternoon study sessions where he'd stared at parchment without actually reading words. Dinner that tasted like ash.
His mind kept circling back to Luna. To the fear she'd hidden so well. To the bullying that had been happening for two years whilst he'd been oblivious. To his failure to notice, to protect, to be there when she'd needed him.
Jasper chirped softly from his perch, sensing Harry's distress and offering what comfort a Golden Snidget could provide.
"I know," Harry murmured, stroking golden feathers. "I'm being dramatic. She's safe now. It's handled."
Except it wasn't handled. Not really. A duel would humiliate the bullies, yes, but it wouldn't address the underlying isolation. Wouldn't fix whatever had made Luna a target in the first place. Wouldn't erase two years of cruelty.
Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map, desperate for distraction.
The castle spread across parchment in intricate detail. Students sleeping in dormitories. Teachers in their quarters. Filch prowling corridors with Mrs. Norris. Peeves causing chaos in the Transfiguration classroom.
And in a small corridor near Ravenclaw Tower, one dot walked back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Luna Lovegood.
Harry's heart clenched.
He was dressed and under the Invisibility Cloak in less than two minutes.
December 20th, 1993, Fourth Floor Corridor, 12:04 AM
The castle at midnight held different character than during daylight—shadows deeper, silence heavier, magic more present. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, turning stone silver and creating stark contrasts between light and dark.
And there, walking slowly along the corridor's length, was Luna.
She wore her nightgown—white, simple, reaching to her ankles—with her school robes thrown over it for warmth. Her feet were bare again. Her hair hung loose, catching moonlight and seeming to glow pale gold. She moved with her characteristic dreamlike grace, but something in her posture spoke of sorrow.
She walked from one end of the corridor to the other. Turned. Walked back. Turned again. A patrol route or meditation or simply movement for movement's sake.
Beautiful and heartbreaking in equal measure.
Harry moved closer, his Cloak muffling footsteps, his presence invisible.
Luna stopped mid-stride.
Her head tilted slightly, grey eyes scanning the empty corridor with that particular awareness she brought to things most people missed.
"Nargles are different tonight," she said to the air. "Quieter. Sadder."
Harry's heart twisted. She knew. Of course she knew. Luna always knew.
He pulled off the Cloak.
Luna turned, and for just a moment—just a heartbeat—her mask slipped. Her eyes widened with genuine surprise and something that might have been relief. Then the dreamy smile returned, carefully constructed, protecting her from having to show how much she hurt.
"Hello, Harry," she said. "Did you come to check on the Nargles?"
"I came to check on you," Harry said quietly. He crossed the distance between them, his hands reaching for hers with deliberate gentleness. Her skin was cold from walking barefoot on stone. "Luna. What's going on?"
"Just walking," Luna said. "Couldn't sleep. Sometimes walking helps."
Harry looked down at her bare feet—pale against dark floor, vulnerable in ways that made protective fury surge again—and sighed. Long and weary and filled with concern he couldn't hide.
"Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
"They were hidden again. I looked, but..." Luna shrugged, the gesture too casual. "It's alright. The stone isn't that cold."
"Luna." Harry's voice cracked slightly. "Please. What's been going on? Really. Since you were sorted into Ravenclaw. All of it."
Luna's smile wavered. "It's nothing important—"
"Don't," Harry interrupted gently. "Don't pretend it's nothing... Not with me... Please."
Something in his tone—the raw concern, the desperate need to understand, the absolute refusal to accept deflection—made Luna's carefully constructed composure fracture.
"I tried," she whispered. "First year. I really tried to make friends. I thought... Ravenclaw values wisdom and creativity and seeing things differently. I thought they'd understand. That being myself would be enough."
Harry waited, his hands holding hers, letting her take time she needed.
"But being different meant being strange. Talking about creatures most people think are made up. Seeing connections they couldn't see. Understanding things in ways that didn't fit their logic." Luna's voice remained soft, but pain bled through. "At first, they just ignored me. Acted like I wasn't there. Like I was furniture. Background noise."
"And then?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer hurt.
"Then I kept being myself. Kept speaking up in class. Kept making observations that professors found insightful. And some students..." Luna's grey eyes met his, vulnerability finally showing, "...they got angry. Jealous, maybe. Or they just didn't like that someone they'd dismissed as 'Loony' could be right about things they were wrong about."
"So they started bullying you."
"Just pranks," Luna said automatically, the dismissal so practiced it came out reflexive. "Hiding my things. Whispering. Excluding me from study groups. Nothing serious. Nothing worth complaining about. I've gotten used to it—"
He pulled Luna into his arms before she could finish the sentence, wrapping her in warmth and safety and absolute refusal to let her minimize her pain. "Stop saying it's nothing. Stop saying you're used to it. Stop pretending it doesn't hurt."
Luna went rigid in his embrace. "Harry—"
"I was bullied," Harry said quietly, his mouth near her ear. "By my cousin and his friends. For years. I stayed quiet because I thought that's what I was supposed to do. That if I just endured it, eventually they'd stop. They never stopped, Luna. They just got more creative."
He felt her trembling start as her carefully held composure beginning to crack.
"You could tell the professors," Harry continued. "Tell the prefects. They'd help. Tell Hermione, Ron, Draco, Neville, Astoria. Tell anyone. Tell me. You don't have to carry this alone."
"I didn't want to bother anyone—"
"You're not a bother." Harry's voice was fierce with conviction. "You're Luna. You're brilliant and kind and see things nobody else sees. You're important. To your father. To Astoria. To our friends." He pulled back slightly to meet her eyes. "To me. You're important to me."
Luna's breath hitched. Her eyes had gone bright with unshed tears.
"I'm here." Harry said gently.
"I'm fine," Luna whispered, but her voice broke on the second word.
"You don't have to be fine. You don't have to be strong. Not right now. Not with me."
And that—that permission, that absolute safety, that certainty that Harry wouldn't judge or diminish or dismiss—shattered Luna's remaining composure.
She buried her face in Harry's shoulder and cried.
Not delicate tears. Not quiet sniffles. Full sobbing—the kind that came from two years of holding everything inside, of pretending she was unaffected, of smiling through cruelty and acting like loneliness didn't hurt.
"I don't understand," Luna gasped between sobs. "Why they have to be so mean. I never—I never did anything to them. I just wanted friends. I just wanted to belong."
Harry said nothing just gently stroking her hair.
"Sometimes I hate them," Luna confessed, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "I hate them for making me feel wrong. For making me question if being myself is okay. And then I hate myself for hating them, because that makes me just as bad, doesn't it? And I hate that I care. I hate that their opinions matter when I know—I know—they're wrong about me, but it still hurts—"
"You're allowed to hate them," Harry said firmly. "They've been cruel. You're allowed to be angry about that. And you're allowed to care about their opinions even when they're wrong. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."
Luna's crying intensified—great shuddering sobs that shook her entire frame. Harry held her through it, his arms steady, his presence unwavering, letting her purge two years' worth of hurt.
Gradually, slowly, the sobs quieted. Luna's breathing evened. Her grip on Harry's robes loosened from desperate to merely tired.
"Better?" Harry asked softly.
"Exhausted," Luna admitted. Her voice was raw, her face still pressed to his shoulder. "But... yes. Better."
"Good. Come on. Let's get you back to your dormitory before you freeze."
Luna made a sound that might have been protest, but her body had gone boneless with exhaustion. Harry turned, crouched slightly, and felt her climb onto his back with sleepy compliance.
Her arms looped around his neck. Her head rested against his shoulder. Within moments, her breathing had evened into the rhythm of sleep.
Harry pulled out the Marauder's Map with one hand, studying patrol routes. Filch was three floors down. Mrs. Norris prowling the second floor. Teachers in their quarters. The path to Ravenclaw Tower was clear.
He walked through midnight corridors with Luna's warm weight on his back, hyper-aware of her presence, her trust, the vulnerability she'd finally shown him.
Ravenclaw Tower's entrance came into view—the bronze eagle knocker gleaming in moonlight. But before Harry could approach, a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Sue Li.
The Ravenclaw third-year looked nervous, guilty, and relieved in rapid succession. In her hands, she held Luna's shoes.
"Potter," Sue whispered. "Is she—is Luna alright?"
Harry studied her carefully. Sue's concern seemed genuine. Her guilt suggested she knew more than she'd acted on.
"She's asleep," Harry said quietly. "Exhausted. Been a rough day."
"I know." Sue's voice was very small. "I've known. For months. Maybe longer. We all knew, but we..." She swallowed hard. "We didn't do anything. We told ourselves it wasn't our business. That Luna didn't seem bothered. That speaking up would just make things worse for her."
"Cowardice," Harry said flatly.
"Yes," Sue agreed, not trying to defend herself. "Yes, it was. I'm sorry. I should have—we all should have—" She held out the shoes. "I found these earlier. In the library, hidden behind books. I was going to give them back tomorrow, but when I saw Luna leave the dormitory upset, I thought..."
Harry shifted Luna's weight carefully and took the shoes. "Thank you. For caring now, even if you didn't before."
"I'll do better," Sue promised. "I'll speak up. I'll tell the prefects, tell Professor Flitwick. What Bryce and his friends are doing—it's not okay. It's never been okay."
"Good." Harry's expression softened slightly.
He transferred Luna from his back into Sue's arms with gentle care. Luna murmured something incoherent but didn't wake, simply nestling into Sue's hold with sleepy trust.
Harry watched them disappear into Ravenclaw Tower—Sue carrying Luna, Luna's blonde hair spilling over Sue's shoulder, both of them small and vulnerable in the moonlight.
Then he turned and walked back through Hogwarts' midnight corridors, the Marauder's Map guiding him, Luna's vulnerability replaying in his mind, and his determination burning hotter than any spell he'd ever cast.
The duel after Christmas would be satisfying.
But more importantly, Luna would never face her bullies alone again.
Outside, winter stars wheeled across Scottish sky. In dormitories, students slept and dreamed.