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The shadow descended from the darkening sky, a silent, skeletal shape against the clouds. Hermione's hand instinctively went to her wand, but she paused, her eyes narrowing in recognition, not alarm.
It was a horse, but like no horse she had ever seen. Its body was a skeletal framework of black bone covered in a thin, leathery hide. Its head was draconic, with white, pupil-less eyes, and from its back sprouted a pair of vast, tattered, bat-like wings. It landed on the soft grass before them with an eerie, weightless silence.
A Thestral.
"Hello, Wu," Luna said, her voice a soft, melodic whisper. She reached out and gently stroked the creature's reptilian snout. The Thestral let out a soft, pleased snort and nudged her hand affectionately.
Hermione watched, a quiet awe settling over her. Hogwarts was known to have a herd, but they were notoriously elusive. To see one up close was a rare privilege.
"He comes to the edge of the forest around this time every day," Luna explained, her dreamy smile never wavering. She looked at Hermione, her large, silvery eyes full of a strange, knowing light. "You can see him. I'm glad."
Hermione just nodded. She knew what it meant.
"My mother died," Luna continued, her voice losing none of its ethereal calm. It was a simple statement of fact, not a plea for sympathy. "She was a brilliant witch, always experimenting with new spells. One of them went wrong. I was nine. I've been able to see them ever since." She turned from the Thestral and looked directly at Hermione. "She was reading a book called A Study of Dangerous Magical Phenomena."
The title was unnervingly similar to the one Hermione had been reading in the library.
"My father told me what they were," Luna said, her gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive. "He said only people who have watched someone die can see Thestrals. You've seen death, haven't you, Hermione?" She tilted her head. "But my intuition tells me it's more than that. You haven't just seen it."
The air was still. The silence of the forest was absolute. This strange, dreamy girl was seeing right through her carefully constructed facade, into the dark, secret heart of her.
"You're right," Hermione said, her voice a quiet admission. "I haven't just seen it. I've caused it."
Luna didn't flinch. She didn't recoil in horror. Instead, her face broke into a bright, genuine, and deeply relieved smile. "I knew it," she whispered, as if a great, cosmic puzzle had just been solved. "I knew you were different."
In that moment, a strange, unspoken bond formed between the two of them—the girl who saw invisible creatures, and the girl who carried invisible worlds within her. Hermione smiled, a real, genuine smile, and pulled a piece of raw meat from a pocket in her robes. As she fed the grateful Thestral, she surreptitiously drew a single drop of its blood, the grimoire buzzing with the acquisition of another impossible creature.
When the Thestral finally spread its vast wings and disappeared back into the twilight, Luna handed her a strange, brightly-colored magazine. On the cover, in large, eccentric letters, was the title: The Quibbler.
"A thank you," Luna said simply. "For the shoe."
The Great Hall had been transformed. The four long house tables were gone, replaced by a single, long, golden stage running down the center of the room. The air was electric with the excited, nervous chatter of hundreds of students from the second to the seventh years.
Gilderoy Lockhart, in a set of truly hideous, plum-colored robes, was preening on the stage. Beside him, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else in the universe, was Severus Snape.
"Got some blackmail material on him, do you, Professor?" Hermione whispered, sidling up next to Snape.
Snape's mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to an emotional reaction. He just stared straight ahead, his jaw tight. "Don't ask," he finally growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble.
Hermione just smirked. She knew exactly why he was here. Lockhart, the incompetent fool, was about to host a live dueling demonstration. There was no way Snape would ever allow Harry Potter to be in a room with that preening idiot without being there to personally supervise and, if necessary, intervene. It was a pathetic, almost touching display of his secret, obsessive need to protect the boy he so openly despised.
"My dear students!" Lockhart's voice boomed, magically amplified to a deafening volume. "Gather 'round, gather 'round! In light of the dark and mysterious events that have plagued our school, I have decided, with the Headmaster's blessing, that you are in need of some real, practical training!"
Hermione spotted Luna in the crowd, a chocolate frog held out to her as an offering. She took it with a nod, her eyes still fixed on the stage.
"Therefore," Lockhart declared with a grand flourish, "before we begin our practical demonstration, I have asked my brilliant teaching assistant, Miss Hermione Granger, to provide you all with a brief, foundational lecture on the nature of the Dark Arts!"
He gestured to her with a presenter's grace, as if he were bestowing upon her a great and profound honor.
Hermione walked onto the stage. The buzzing hall fell silent. Her presence, her quiet, unshakable confidence, commanded an authority that Lockhart's booming voice never could.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," she began, her voice clear and carrying easily through the vast hall, "is not a theoretical subject. It is a practical science of survival. Before you can defend against something, you must first understand it." She swept her gaze over the hundreds of students, her eyes sharp and analytical. "So. Who can tell me: what is Dark Magic?"
The students shuffled nervously. This was not the kind of question they were used to. It was too broad, too philosophical. Finally, a Hufflepuff boy in the front row tentatively raised his hand.
"Your name?" Hermione asked, her tone that of a seasoned professor.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley, Professor… uh, Miss… Witch," he stammered.
The corner of Hermione's mouth twitched. "Proceed, Mr. Finch-Fletchley."
"Dark Magic," Justin said, his confidence growing, "is any spell that is cast with the intent to harm, control, or kill another living being. It's… it's evil magic."
"A passable, if somewhat simplistic, definition," Hermione replied. "Intent is indeed the key. But not all harmful magic is considered 'dark,' and not all dark magic is inherently 'evil.' The world is not so simple." Her gaze hardened, a cold, serious light in her eyes that made the entire hall feel a few degrees colder.
"Which brings us to the Unforgivable Curses," she said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling whisper. "The three pinnacles of the Dark Arts, so named because their use on another human being carries a mandatory, one-way ticket to Azkaban. Who can name them for me?"