The initial, heady excitement of the Lunar Project gave way to a summer of frustrating, exhilarating, and deeply complex work. The grand vision of their spaceship, so elegant on parchment, was a nightmare of practical difficulties. Every solution they devised seemed to create three new problems.
"The pressure differential is the main issue," Hermione announced one afternoon, pushing a stack of Arithmantic calculations across the table in Ariana's flat. "A standard Shield Charm, even a reinforced one, is designed to deflect kinetic and magical energy. It's not built to withstand a constant, absolute pressure of zero on its exterior. It would be like trying to hold back the entire ocean with a pane of glass. The magical energy required to maintain the ward would be catastrophic."
Daphne encountered similar problems with the materials. "We need a metal for the superstructure that is light, strong, and magically receptive," she reported, after a week of correspondence with goblin metalsmiths. "Goblin-wrought silver is strong but too dense. Mithril is light but notoriously difficult to enchant with atmospheric wards. Every alloy has a fatal flaw."
Their progress was slow, a painstaking process of trial and error. They would design a power core, only to realize its magical output would interfere with the navigation charms. They would perfect a life-support rune, only to find it was incompatible with the specific type of shielding they needed. It was a monumental, three-dimensional chess game against the laws of physics and magic, and for every step forward, they seemed to take two steps back.
"We are approaching this with insufficient data," Ariana finally concluded one evening, after a particularly frustrating day where a prototype containment field had imploded, turning a teacup into a singularity for a terrifying three seconds. "Our ambition has outpaced our foundational knowledge. We are trying to write a symphony when we have not yet fully mastered the scales."
She looked at her two friends, who were looking tired but still determined. "We will not abandon the project," she said, her voice firm. "But we will re-classify it as a long-term research initiative. We will continue to solve these problems one by one, but we must be patient. For now, we focus on what is achievable."
It was a logical, strategic retreat, a recognition that some problems required not just brilliance, but time. The dream of the moon was not dead, but it was now a distant star to navigate by, not an immediate destination.
It was into this atmosphere of studious recalibration that the real world came crashing back in.
An urgent owl arrived from Ron one sweltering August afternoon. Hermione read the letter, her face growing paler with every line.
"What is it?" Ariana asked, seeing her friend's distress.
"It's Harry," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling. "He's been attacked. Near the Burrow house. Dementors."
Ariana's calm demeanor sharpened into one of icy focus. "Is he alright?"
"He's safe," Hermione confirmed, reading from the frantic scrawl. "He cast a Patronus to save himself and the Weasleys. But… oh no. The Ministry. They've detected the underage use of magic. He's been expelled from Hogwarts, and there's going to be a disciplinary hearing."
The news was a jolt of cold, hard reality. While they had been dreaming of space, their enemies had been moving pieces on the terrestrial board. An attack on Harry, in broad daylight, just before the start of term—it was a deliberate, provocative act. And the Ministry's knee-jerk, bureaucratic response was playing right into their hands.
"They cannot expel him," Ariana stated, her mind already analyzing the legal and political angles. "The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has a clear exception for life-threatening situations. He was defending himself against Dementors, creatures the Ministry itself has failed to contain. A hearing will exonerate him."
"But it's a full hearing, Ari!" Hermione cried. "In front of the entire Wizengamot! He'll be terrified!
And Fudge will be looking for any excuse to discredit him after last year!"
Ariana's eyes narrowed. Fudge. The weak, denial-driven Minister who would prioritize political convenience over justice. He would try to make an example of Harry, to further his narrative that there was no returning threat. This was not just a hearing; it was a political show trial. And Harry was walking into it alone.
"No," Ariana said, her voice quiet but absolute. "He will not."
She immediately penned a letter to Dumbledore, not asking, but informing him of her intentions. Then, she Floo-called Grimmauld Place, getting a full report from a frantic, furious Sirius.
The night before the hearing, Dumbledore himself arrived at her flat. He looked grave and weary.
"Ariana," he said. "I have managed to get the hearing moved to a full court session, which gives us a better chance. I will be there to speak on Harry's behalf."
"That will not be sufficient, Professor," Ariana replied, her tone respectful but firm. "You are a powerful voice, but you are also seen as Harry's biased protector. The Wizengamot, led by Fudge, will be looking for any way to dismiss your testimony. Harry needs more than a character witness.
He needs a legal advocate."
Dumbledore looked at her, already knowing what was coming.
"I have spent the past forty-eight hours in the Ministry's legal archives," she continued, gesturing to a neat stack of annotated law books on her table. "I have reviewed every precedent related to the Underage Sorcery Decree and the statutes on Dementor jurisdiction. The case for his defense is legally unassailable, but it must be presented with precision and logic, free from emotional appeals."
She met his gaze, her own clear and determined. "I request that you formally grant me leave to act as Counsel for the Defence at Harry's hearing tomorrow."
Dumbledore was taken aback. "Ariana, you are a fifteen-year-old student. They will never allow it."
"They will if you insist on it," she countered smoothly. "You are Albus Dumbledore. Your political capital, while strained, is still immense. And I am Ariana Dumbledore, holder of the Order of Merlin for services to magical law and justice. A title they awarded me themselves. It would be politically disastrous for them to be seen denying counsel from someone the Ministry itself has decorated for her legal acumen. They will bluster, but Fudge will not risk the public perception of silencing a decorated heroine in order to persecute a boy who was attacked by Ministry-controlled creatures."
Her logic was, as always, a perfectly constructed, inescapable trap. She was using their own awards and their own political weaknesses against them.
A slow smile spread across Dumbledore's face. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated delight at her audacity. "You are proposing to defend Harry Potter in front of the entire Wizengamot yourself."
"I am," she confirmed. "He is my friend. He is my responsibility. And I will not allow his future to be destroyed by the political cowardice of Cornelius Fudge."
Dumbledore looked at the young woman before him, at her unshakeable confidence and her brilliant, strategic mind. He had once thought of her as a secret weapon. He now realized he was looking at the future.
"Very well, Miss Dumbledore," he said, his eyes twinkling with a renewed fire. "Get your robes. We have a trial to win."