‘Bulldog’

There was silence in the train carriage. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable silence that could easily be shared among three friends, Hermione thought, but it was definitely more comfortable than all the long gaps in conversations she’d had with her parents over the summer. She didn’t blame them for being at a loss for things to talk about - she was their only daughter, so bright, so clever, and she was going to this strange place for most of the year, dressing in robes, learning how to cast spells and brew potions, and coming home to not understand things like personal computers and all-in-one remote controls. Her parents were still her parents, and she still loved them, of course, but this year the distance between her and them had obviously grown.

Not really surprising, when Hermione considered how much she censored herself in her letters back home. It had probably started with that summer break at the end of their second year, where she had seen her parents’ eyes go wide when she relayed the story of the Basilisk - Hermione herself was just giving them second-hand information, for the most part, since she had been creeping down a corridor, mirror in hand, one moment, and then waking up before the end-of-year feast in the hospital wing the next, but it was clear what message her parents got - this Hogwarts, this magic school, was not much like the fairy-tale castle they had initially thought it to be. From then on, other details were just quietly not stressed in her letters - how Divination was a load of rubbish instead of updates about the escaped madman Sirius Black, how well her friend Harry was doing in the Tri-Wizard Tournament instead of how dangerous it was, and preparing for the big exams at the end of this very important year of school, and not the more-important student rebellion or return of any Dark Lords. She mostly wrote about very mundane things, for someone who went to a magical school, and she often wondered if the other Muggle-born children at the school had similar problems.

Maybe I’ll ask Dean about it, Hermione thought, or ask Ginny to ask him.

Ron put one of his feet on the seat, next to Hermione, stretching his rather long legs while still fiddling with a prototype of something he had gotten from his brothers - some little ball with brightly-coloured spots on it that floated about the surface. It reminded Hermione a little of a Rubik’s Cube. Fred and George had passed it on with the cryptic comment that, since Ron was so good at chess, he should appreciate it. Apparently it was a puzzle of some kind, and apparently it was quite engaging, since Ron hadn’t noticed Hermione staring at him for a full minute after he moved his foot.

"What?" he said, with a look that gave away he had some idea of what was to follow.

"Put your foot down."

"Why? Nobody’s sitting there," was his response.

"Because," Hermione started, and she then realise she was a little lost for a reason. "Because you’re a Prefect. Set a good example."

Ron grinned at this, and while still looking at Hermione, he asked, "Harry, am I setting a bad example for you?"

Harry, who had been watching rather passively out the window of the carriage, replied, "No, Ron."

"Not feeling that you need to copy me, or anything?"

"My feet are staying right where they are, thanks."

Ron nudged Hermione a little with his foot, and said with a shadow of that grin still on his face, "I’ll put my foot down if any more impressionable minds show up. Promise." She sighed as he went back to his puzzle-ball.

She didn’t really mind his foot up on the seat, Hermione thought. It was a change from when she had first arrived at the Burrow this year, where Ron was acting like she’d give him a static shock if they accidentally got a little too close. She had missed it completely, of course, at first, until there was something Ginny had said - it was something about Ron washing his hair a ridiculous amount the night before she arrived, or something, that had caused Ron to turn a rather embarrassing shade of crimson and Mrs Weasley to shift the subject of conversation to Ginny’s O.W.L. year - and it had all just fallen into place. She hadn’t said anything, and had wished occasionally from that point on that she was a little bit more like Lavender or Parvati, whose Gryffindor courage seemed to manifest in being able to tell the boys they liked that they liked them without blushing furiously or feeling like they were having difficulty breathing.

Although, this was a little different, wasn’t it? It was a little ironic that it took Viktor taking an interest in her to properly clarify how she felt, when he was so much the fantasy of many many young girls (a group which until relatively recently had included Hermione herself) - he was mature, and softly-spoken, and mysteriously foreign, and he was famous (but that’s not the reason she liked him), and he was the one who sought her out; chose her over the other girls, even. It was like he was taken straight from the pages of some Mills and Boon-lite young adult reading material (something Hermione would never admit to being familiar at all with).

But, after the Yule Ball, the fantasy seemed kind of... well, silly. Viktor was very nice, but it just felt forced the whole time, like they were both playing out parts in a previously-mentioned teen novel - and awkwardly, to boot - and that they weren’t really being themselves, let alone feeling emotions that were like fireworks or calling down little cartoon animals to sing things while they skipped through the forest, or whatever was supposed to happen. The fantasy was apparently just that, and she’d realised she’d much rather the reality of staying at the Burrow for the end of the summer, say, or Ron teaching her the finer points of wizard’s chess.

That’s how she’d imagined the summer going, but that had been put on hold for a little while when Harry had shown up. Not because his presence would have interrupted anything - Harry was at least more perceptive than his best friend - but because this summer he hadn’t really been himself. It wasn’t like last year - which Hermione supposed, in retrospect, was a little justified, with Professor Dumbledore all but refusing to tell Harry anything other than what was absolutely necessary - but there was a change, nonetheless. His smiles faded a little faster, and he spent a little more time just gazing blankly at nothing (like he was doing now; the window outside had ceased to be interesting and Harry had moved on to the smaller window in the door to their section of the carriage). He looked like he was missing sleep, too - Hermione had asked him about it once, and he shrugged it off, saying Hedwig had kept him up pestering him for food, but later Ron had later confirmed when Harry was out of earshot that Hedwig had hardly been at the Burrow since he’d arrived.

Hermione had wanted to confront him about it. Ron had wanted to wait. Hermione had said it wasn’t good for Harry not to talk about what had happened with Sirius. Ron had countered that Harry would talk when he was ready. Hermione had said this wasn’t like last year, and Ron had said that Professor Lupin would be at the Burrow soon, and Harry should talk to him first, and she had reluctantly agreed. Remus only stayed for one night, but he had taken Harry aside after dinner; Harry was even more distracted the following day, however, so Hermione hadn’t found the nerve to ask for details about what they talked about. He could have still been thinking it over, she supposed - from how many times she saw him quickly correcting himself, Harry still thought of Remus as his teacher first and as someone who also knew Sirius second. Remus still carried himself like a teacher, so she-

The door to the carriage slid open, and Ron quickly jerked both his feet to the floor. Hermione doubted the trolley lady would have cared too much, and she smiled to herself as she said she didn’t want anything, thankyou. Ron declined anything, too, and had to nudge Harry to get him to add that he wasn’t terribly hungry. The door slid shut, and Harry resumed gazing at it.

Hermione thought for a moment, and decided now, now was the right time to be talking to Harry about Sirius, and tried to catch Ron’s eye so he’d put down the little spotted ball. Unfortunately, now was also the time it sunk to Harry that the sweets trolley was making its way up the corridor, as he stood up, said, "Actually, I think I will get something," and left without so much as a glance backwards.

"That was strange, wasn’t it?" she said after Harry had shut the door.

"That people get hungry on the train? Very."

"You know what I mean," Hermione replied, giving Ron a look.

"Hermione," he said, "You’re thinking too hard about this. It’s Harry, he’s not- he’s not an Arithmancy problem."

"It’s all these tiny things!" she burst out. "They have to add up to something."

It was Ron’s turn to give her a look.

"Well, you know what I mean. Harry’s different. It’s just... very..."

"Subtle?" Ron offered.

"Exactly. Very subtle. And-"

But she wasn’t allowed to finish her thought. Harry had come back, and he wasn’t alone.

"Hello Neville. Luna," said Ron, and Luna replied with a floaty, "Hello, Ronald," while Neville raised his hand in a meek wave, and started to ask if it was alright for them to be here.

"Of course it is," said Hermione, and was about to shuffle towards the window to make room, when Luna stepped past her and sat by the window of the train herself. Hermione noticed Luna had a rolled-up magazine that could only have been The Quibbler in one hand, and a rather dormant chocolate frog held in the other. Harry went to reclaim his seat, leaving Neville standing awkwardly for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the seat next to Ron, who promptly took this as a sign to put his feet back on the space next to Hermione.

"Harry caught Luna’s frog," offered Neville as a conversation piece. At this Ron raised his eyebrows.

"It would have gotten halfway down the train, otherwise," he followed up.

"Good catch then, mate," said Ron, and Harry just shrugged.

"Seeker, you know." It was obvious he was trying to play the event down, given how impressed Neville was.

"It seems like a shame to eat it, now," said Luna as she held the frog up level with her face. It was quite docile, the momentary burst of magic to animate it wearing off rapidly. "I wonder if they’re happy, while they’re alive?" she mused aloud.

Hermione was about to say something, quote the theories about the effects of self-ambulatory spells on inanimate objects, perhaps, and then realised very quickly it would be a fruitless conversation, given Luna’s decidedly odd view of the world. As if to drive the point home, Harry then asked her something about her being in Sweden over the summer, and Hermione remembered Luna talking about looking for evidence about Crumple-Horned Somethings (and how did Harry remember that, and still have such mediocre grades in History of Magic?). She didn’t dislike Luna - she was very dedicated in the D.A., and she seemed very nice - but Hermione had to learn to keep hold of her tongue, since she’d found herself on several occasions last year arguing against something bizarre Luna was convinced was totally possible and logical. Nobody else seemed to care to debate these statements - Ron and Ginny, their family having known the Lovegoods for a long time, were able to filter out her odd ideas, and Harry had said he thought it was kind of funny - so it had been in the interest of not bogging down the D.A. meetings with arguments about things in The Quibbler that she kept quiet, but Hermione still found it a difficult skill to master. It was very frustrating, when clearly no reputable source would mention Crumple-Horned Snorkacks (that was the name!) or Heliopaths or Vermicious Knids or...

Hermione smiled to herself. She and Harry were the only two in the carriage raised by Muggles, and she doubted the Dursleys would have condoned anything as fantastic as Roald Dahl, no matter how many mean things happened to children in his stories, so the joke was hers and hers alone.

"Hermione? You look like a Wrackspurt got you," Harry said abruptly, and the rest of the carriage laughed. Hermione was about to rise to tell him Wrackspurts weren’t real, when something fell into place for her. Wrackspurts were one of Luna’s things; Harry wasn’t really making a joke, it was a little reference for Luna. She smiled along with everyone else, and glanced at Harry and Luna by the window. Their laughter had been just a little different, because of that private joke. She saw them look away from each other, and the difference was definitely there; it was just subtle.

Very subtle.

The setting sun was turning everything orange. Harry glanced up at Hedwig, who was uncharacteristically still asleep - normally if she was travelling in her cage Harry would occasionally catch her glaring at him, her message very clear: This is your fault, I do not want to be in here. He supposed it came from being in the back of the Anglia that one time, trapped for hours in the air on a bright and air conditioning-less day. For her to still be asleep this close to sunset meant she must be exhausted.

Harry himself wasn’t feeling his own fatigue any more. That morning he’d felt dead on his feet, and had actually contemplated if Ron and Hermione would let him be if he just decided to sleep - possibly curled up on the edge of the seat the same way Crookshanks was right now by Ron’s feet - but right now sleep was quite far from his mind. Watching the Chocolate Frog Luna seemed to be refusing to eat (now perched on her shoulder), Harry remembered he should also be hungry as well as tired, and he couldn’t help a smile.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville were talking - rather, Hermione and Neville were talking and Ron was half-listening, since the subject had just moved to something about cross-pollination, and Ron clearly intended to do nothing that even sounded like schoolwork until he was actually at school - leaving Harry and Luna in relative quiet on their side of the carriage. Luna had finished reading the Quibbler, and was now ripping a couple of pages from it and creasing and folding them, tucking sections into one another with a look of calm focus. Her hands however were active and alive, running fingers down lines, holding folds in place for a moment and making quick little twists, and Harry supposed he should have realised Luna was a crafts kind of person - the cork necklace and ostentatious roaring lion hat should have made it obvious. She took her wand from behind her ear and prodded a section of her project, making something spring out of it, and then took her creation and pried it open with two fingers. It was a hat (not one as complex as the lion hat, and Harry was unsure if the lines of text all over it and a blurry glossy image on the side ruined or enhanced it), and the springy something was a paper feather grown from the folded pages. She placed it experimentally on her head, looking now like a slightly dotty pirate that preferred amphibians to the standard parrot, and caught Harry’s eye and cocked her head a little, her pleased expression making the unspoken question clear: What do you think? Neat, isn’t it?

Harry’s smile, which went unnoticed by the boys (now debating Puddlemere’s chances to qualify this year), was a positive answer: I’m very impressed.

There were a couple of stars in the sky, but it wasn’t totally dark outside yet. Harry would still have been able to see even if he weren’t near the window spilling light on the back stairs, although he couldn’t have been sure if the rustling he heard was gnomes or Crookshanks going for a spot of gnome-hunting in the thick of the garden even if it was full daylight. There were other sounds coming from inside - they sounded like one of the twins had just said something a little too inappropriate, and everyone except Mrs Weasley laughing - but right now it was the rustling bushes he focused on.

Something was flying in the sky, and Harry squinted to make it out. It turned out to just be a dull brown bird, rushing off to roost somewhere. Not even of much interest to birdwatchers, he thought, as it became a tiny speck and disappeared amongst the distant trees.

The back door opened, the sound from inside growing momentarily louder, and Harry looked up from where he was sitting to check who it was; it was Professor Lupin, and in the twilight, his face was a mystery, looking old and young at the same time, weathered and spirited, and it surprised Harry for not the first time that this man had been friends with his father.

"What are you doing out here, Harry?" Lupin asked in a conversational tone.

"Waiting for Hedwig." This was the truth, but as Harry said it, he felt like he was lying.

"She’ll know where to find you. You should come inside."

"She’ll be back any minute, I’ll-"

"Then I’ll wait with you." He sat on the back stairs with Harry. Harry’s eyes didn’t leave the skyline, but he knew Lupin was watching the sky as well: he would have felt the eyes upon him.

"Your friends are worrying about you," Lupin said after a few moments of silence, in a different, lower voice than the one he had been using before, and before Harry could think of a response, he continued. "And I have told them I would say something to you. I did not, however, tell them I thought their worry was a little unjustified. Hermione is quite prone to being concerned, and Ron is quite prone to agreeing with her. Would you agree?"

"I guess," replied Harry, unsure exactly where this conversation was going.

"We deal with loss in our own ways," Lupin said after a pause. "You are coping with your loss. And, I think, you are coping as well as anyone could be expected to. Am I wrong, Harry?" Now he was looking at Harry, eyes unreadable in the growing dark.

"No," said Harry, "no, you’re not wrong."

"Good. That’s good." The two of them sat for a few moments more, watching more stars emerge, before one of them spoke again.

"I am somewhat familiar with burdening my friends without a good reason," said Lupin as he stood and moved for the door, in a tone that suggested he was saying it as much to the gnomes (or Crookshanks) as he was to Harry, "and it took me a very long time to learn not only how not to do it, but that I shouldn’t do it in the first place. You have two very good friends inside, Harry - don’t worry them."

The light from the doorway showed Lupin’s shadow more clearly now, and Harry watched it for a second, unsure if it would disappear into the night as the door shut or wait, wait until Harry stood up to go inside too, but it actually did neither; instead, it raised an arm, pointing.

"I think that’s Hedwig. See you inside soon, Harry."

"Okay, Remus."

The hunger and fatigue were back, and they were angry, having been ignored for so long. The hunger, Harry thought, was winning. It was a furious unquiet thing, that raged at how long it had taken everyone to get seated and how long further it was taking for all the first-years to get Sorted. How many new students were there this year? It seemed like the Hat should have been finished by now, yet it was only up to K.

Neville was sitting next to him, chewing on something that smelled like it had peanuts in it (must have been what he was buying on the train, Harry thought, and berated himself again for not getting anything himself), and Harry tried looking around for something else that would keep his attention occupied until the Sorting was over. Unsurprisingly, there was very little attention-occupying variety available - most students either had their eyes forwards or were disinterested like Harry, and from where he was sitting all of the teachers seemed stoic and unanimated.

He did see Luna at the far table, spotting her newsprint piratey hat first. After a little while she saw him as well, and gave Harry a quick wave before clapping as a new student (someone Seacombe) was sorted into Ravenclaw. Harry had to catch himself, realising he was about to start clapping too, which would have been slightly awkward to explain at the Gryffindor table.

"There’ll be another meeting in three weeks," Harry said. "And watch out for Umbridge while you’re going back, she inducted two new members to her squad for patrols."

"It’s okay," said Luna in a hushed tone, as if one of Umbridge’s lackeys could have been eavesdropping, "they’re all very noisy. At this time of night they’ll disturb all the Nocturn Worms that are feeding - I’ll know if they’re coming." And with that, she closed the door, leaving Harry with the task of picking up cushions with Ron and Hermione.

"Nocturn Worms," Hermione muttered, and rolled her eyes. "Ron, have you ever heard of a Nocturn Worm?"

Ron looked like he was about to answer and then thought better of it, stacking up some open books and letting Hermione continue.

"Ravenclaw’s meant to be the clever House, not the... not the tinfoil hat House!"

At the slightly blank looks from Harry and Ron, she changed tack a little. "How does it not bother you, all that nonsense?"

"Luna’s harmless," said Ron. "Everyone’s got at least one funny idea - I mean, you’ve met my dad." Mr Weasley had been a source of frustration for Hermione and much amusement for Ron during the summer - when he had no immediate business with the Order, he had taken to asking Hermione about anything she knew about plugs, wires, and electricity. His questions were so numerous that Hermione had owled her parents, asking them to send her a book on the subject so she could give him better answers. They had sent a weighty textbook on physics, with the chapter on circuits bookmarked, that had been laboriously carried by both Errol and Pigwidgeon, exhausting the pair of them, and Hermione had stayed up late to give herself a crash-course on how to explain electricity in terms of wattage, volts, ohms, and amperes - terms which were completely lost on Arthur Weasley, who kept mixing them up and couldn’t really understand how they related to the wires slung from towers over all the houses in the Muggle suburbs. Ron had found the cross-talking they were doing for hours remarkably comical; Hermione, significantly less so.

"Maybe they’re not that funny, as far as ideas go," suggested Harry. "I wouldn’t have believed in unicorns, or that I could talk to snakes or anything like that, until I did it."

"Alright, but Nocturn Worms? Heliopaths? Blithering Blazekites, or whatever else the Quibbler prints. Common sense should say none of those things are real, if nobody outside the Quibbler’s readers has ever seen one." Hermione waved one of the pillows she was holding to accentuate her points.

Harry shrugged, noncommittal. Ron had the same ghost of a smirk he had had when Hermione was talking about the resistance of a circuit to his father.

"Useless, the pair of you!" she exclaimed, and tossed the pillows into a corner.

"...Harry?"

Someone was touching his arm and everything was out of focus.

"Harry? Maybe you want to sleep in a bed tonight-"

He went to rub his eyes, disoriented.

"-Instead of in the armchair. I’m sure it’s comfortable, but it’s not exactly proper."

And he remembered where he was: he had been sitting in the corner with Ron and Hermione (surely it was their corner by now, since the three of them managed to claim it with ease whenever they were doing homework together), and they had been talking about something he hadn’t been interested in, and the fire had been very warm, the chair very comfortable, and his eyes very heavy.

"It’s not so comfortable. The Quidditch team’s meeting tomorrow - they might kick me off if I fly with a stiff neck."He was able to focus on Hermione now, and the rest of the room as well; it seemed they were the last two still awake. Hermione was smiling - a mischievous un-Hermione smile - and the smile remained as Harry stood to stretch.

"What," he asked, adjusting his glasses, "my hair a mess?"

"I saw you."

"Saw me where?"

"On the train. The carriages. In the Great Hall, not paying attention to the Sorting or Dumbledore’s speech." She listed the places off on her fingers.

"Oh." Harry considered. "I thought you didn’t really like-"

"What? No! Don’t be silly," she said, surprised, and still smiling. "Does she know?"

"I don’t know," said Harry, dropping his gaze to the floor for a second. "Does he know?" he asked, turning the question back on her. Hermione was still for a second, unprepared.

"Does anyone know?" she replied, sighing, and they laughed together, a comfortable laugh that felt to Harry like it had been out of use for a long time.

Harry lay on his bed, immobile, thinking of nothing in particular. The moonlight was coming through the window wrong, the houses outside the window in neat rows were all wrong, everything about where he was felt completely wrong, and he was furious at it all. His breathing felt too loud to his ears. He felt like punching the walls but couldn’t muster the energy.

Hedwig rattled her cage again. Harry dragged himself to sit upright, thinking he would let her out and continue to try to fall asleep. However, while crossing the floor to the desk where Hedwig’s cage sat, something better occurred to him.

"Wait, girl," he said quietly, "I want you to take something." He dropped to one knee in the dark to find a quill and some parchment in his trunk, and placed them on the desk.

Harry sat and picked up the quill, and stopped. Who was he writing to? Neither Ron nor Hermione seemed right - he could imagine their responses (so what was the point in writing, then?), and they would be wrong like everything here; it wasn’t their godfather who died. He briefly considered Professor Lupin and decided he didn’t want to be lying in bed not sleeping and thinking of Sirius’ old friend and feeling nothing but terrible guilt. He considered Dumbledore for an even shorter time; Harry could still see the hurt in the great man’s eyes from when they spoke last, and the image was not pleasant.

Harry rapped his fist on the desk, not loud enough to make much noise, but hard enough to make Hedwig glare at Harry, as if to ask why she wasn’t out hunting field mice right now. What he really wanted was to write to someone who didn’t know Sirius, someone who wouldn’t use all the kinds of words he had kept hearing - sad and noble words that were all in past tense. But there wasn’t anyone like that!

Except, there was.

Harry began to write, quill darting across the page: Dear Luna...

The morning - the early morning - was the best time for flying, when the wind was brisk and the sun was lurking among the hills. Harry held his Firebolt in one hand and ran the other through his hair, a little disappointed to be back on the ground, but anticipating - like the rest remaining of the team, he imagined - breakfast. There were try-outs for the team to think about, but that was a distant second compared to thoughts of sausages and pumpkin juice.

A figure was coming toward Harry, someone who wasn’t in Quidditch robes. It was Luna, and she was making her way down from one of the lower levels of the stands. To combat the chill of early morning she wore a scarf, a technicolour monster that looked like it had been looped around her neck more than once and yet still managed to hang near to the ground. To Harry it seemed very briefly like a scarf Luna had not just made but had somehow imagined into being.

"Have you been here long?" Harry asked, momentarily feeling guilty he hadn’t noticed her while flying. Luna shook her head.

"Will there be any DA meetings this year?" she asked.

"Um." Harry was taken aback; that hadn’t been something he’d given any thought to after seeing Umbridge in the hospital wing. "I don’t know. I’ll use the coins if there will be."

"Okay." Luna seemed satisfied with that answer, and she moved on to her next order of business in the same way Harry thought she might if she had another question for a professor about that night’s homework. "Would you like to go to Hogsmeade next weekend? The notice was just posted."

Harry found himself smiling. "Sure. Yes. I would."

"Good." Luna was smiling also. "I’ll see you then, Harry."

Harry watched her walk back to the castle, the rising sun making both their shadows long on the neat grass, her scarf cheerful and happy.

‘Largo’

The afternoon is bright, and only a few clouds can be seen on the horizon from the Hogwarts grounds. It is a calm Sunday afternoon, barely a week since all the students returned to school. This early in the year there are no pressing homework assignments to be completed or exams looming - there is just the pleasant sun and hours yet before everyone is back in their classrooms.

The Gryffindor common room is one of many relaxed enclaves today. Two third-year girls talk rapidly to each other and occasionally burst into fits of giggles, but they are bothering nobody. Ginny Weasley sits on her own, a dog-eared textbook on her lap and a length of parchment held to one side, checking her assignment for mistakes. Dean Thomas is in a corner of the room with one foot propped on a table to support the piece of parchment he is sketching on; he thinks he is being secretive, but his subject noticed a long time ago, and occasionally her glance stops on him while travelling between textbook and parchment, and she smiles.

Harry and Hermione are engaged in a game of chess. It is Hermione’s move, and she drums her fingers on the side of the board as she thinks. Harry is sat back in his chair; Hermione sits forward on a footstool, and from behind her on another chair Ron is watching. He leans down to say something in a mixture of a whisper and a murmur in Hermione’s ear, and then sits back. The concentration flares in Hermione’s face, and then she moves her knight to a spot off to the side of the board. Several games have progressed in this manner today - earlier Ron had been trying to describe moves in round-about ways which had ended up giving more information to Harry than Hermione, but now Ron is just suggesting moves when it looks like she is stuck.

Harry contemplates his move. The game is at a stage where only pawns have been taken, but soon the capital pieces will be captured. He moves his rook along the back row, shoring up his defences. Hermione then takes action; her knight leaps to the centre of the board, threatening two of his pieces (one the queen) while safely under the protection of her bishop.

Harry laughs, and says, "This isn’t fair, you know. I can’t beat the both of you."

Ron puffs his chest out a little. "You knew what you were getting into, mate, going up against a champion like me and all."

Harry says, "I think I’m done with chess for today."

"No, finish this game at least," Hermione protests, "and then we can do something else."

Harry suggests, "You can keep playing, Ron can take over for me. Maybe he can dig himself out of the mess I’m in now."

"Fat chance," Ron tells Harry, but there is good humour in his voice.

Hermione considers this for a moment, and then agrees. While Ron switches seats, she asks Harry, "So what will you do now?"

Harry says, "I’m not sure. Go for a walk or something," and the expression that blooms on Hermione’s face could seem to an outsider like it belongs with a more exciting reaction. To Harry, her knowing smile is like a key, a secret handshake that he only has the faintest recognition of consciously.

Ron, having studied the board position Harry has left him long enough, says, "You know why this happens all the time? It’s because you only focus on one part of the board. You need to broaden your view." He delivers this last part imitating Professor Trelawney, complete with a flourish of hands.

Harry says, "I’ll try to keep that in mind for next time," and has to fight a little to quash the smirk that wants to appear on his face.

"Enjoy your walk, Harry," says Hermione.

"Enjoy the rest of your game," he replies.

Before leaving through the back of the Fat Lady’s portrait, Harry asks Dean if he can borrow some parchment.

------------------

Harry does go for a walk - it is just very short, and takes him directly to the library. Ginny may be able to concentrate on her schoolwork (and other things) with distractions around, but she grew up with six older brothers; Harry, on the other hand, is used to living invisibly. He is not a solitary person by nature, but neither is he uncomfortable with being on his own. Sometimes being alone is preferable, however - like now.

The library is practically deserted - even the most studious of students have found other places to be this afternoon. Harry sits alone at a large desk, writing. He has been here a while - long enough to have covered both sides of one length of parchment with his handwriting and moved on to a second piece. When he writes an essay for a teacher, he has to consider each sentence - even if only for a second - and the fact it is about to contain. Not so now - now he is almost letting his thoughts flow right off the tip of his quill. Harry would have not considered himself a letter-writer by nature, either, but he has had practise over the summer.

He signs his name at the bottom of the page, and digs in his pocket to retrieve his wand. There are a couple of left-over pieces of parchment; one becomes transfigured into an envelope. Harry hasn’t managed one complete with a wax seal yet, but at least now he can get them to fold shut. The ink has dried on his letter, and he folds it in thirds and slips it in the envelope.

------------------

It is later than he thought it would be - the sun has dipped low, the pleasant Sunday afternoon almost completely gone. As Harry enters the owlery, he is thinking about Hedwig: if she would be out flying yet, and if so, would she be huffy later if he had one of the school owls drop his letter off instead? It comes as quite a surprise to him, then, to hear his name while he looks around for his snowy white owl. It is Luna; she has been sitting in one of the owlery’s large stone windows. A brightly-coloured quill sits behind her ear where her wand normally would, and she too has in her hand some parchment. She hops down from the window, and Harry meets her about halfway on the owlery floor. There is a slightly awkward silence between them, but it is pleasant and comfortable too, like the afternoon has been.

"I was writing a letter," Luna confesses, "but you came to it instead of it coming to you. Normally that’s not how letters work."

Harry says, "It mustn’t have wanted to trouble some poor owl."

Luna nods solemnly. "That must be it."

He hands her his envelope, and Luna places it carefully in her pocket. She then is about to reciprocate, but looks momentarily crestfallen. "Oh. I don’t have an envelope for mine."

Harry feels the words It doesn’t matter rise up to his mouth, but he stills them in favour of something better. He takes one of his spare pieces of parchment and his wand from his pocket, and without hesitation transfigures the parchment into an envelope, and hands this too to Luna. She smiles, and stands up on her toes to kiss Harry on the cheek.

"Thank you," she says.

"S’okay," he replies, and he watches her address the envelope to Harry Potter, The Owlery, Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry before she hands it to him.

------------------

Back in the common room, Ron and Hermione are still playing chess. Harry can tell it is a new game now, as Hermione has switched to white. She catches his eye as he approaches them, and her smile looks almost as broad as his own while he was walking back to Gryffindor Tower.

Ron moves one of his pieces, and lifts his eyes from the board to turn to Harry. "Good walk?" he asks.

Harry replies, "Yeah. Yeah, it was."