I remember once hearing someone say, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” That is why we are all sitting here, in number twelve Grimmauld Place, looking as if ghosts have us spooked. We know that we must do something.
I gaze across the room at Hermione, only to find a book entitled The Dark Arts Outsmarted propped up in her lap. In recent days, she has clung to that book, as if she truly believes it holds the key to winning this war. I watch her eyes skim it, looking pleadingly for an unrecognisable curse. I’d hate to break it to her, but there is nothing in that silly tattered book that could possibly help any of us tonight. I remember Ron having been exasperated when he first sighted her clinging to it, and proceeded to prod her for the source of it. As it turns out, she snatched it from the Room of Requirement not long before Hogwarts met its downfall. I assume that she’d found it during the D.A. meetings, but I don’t dare ask for fear of breaking the silence that hugs the room.
Why does it feel as if all present are mourners at a funeral who simply weep quietly? We are about to embark in a bloody battle. I think that cries from young children or screams of agony from the mother’s of sons going off to fight would be more comforting right about now. I need to get out of here and feel the fresh air on my face. I long for the assurance that everything will be all right, but that I can only get from the cars outside which drive past, consuming of intoxicated teenagers that feel nothing but free.
I know not of where my feet are guiding me, but I follow them without question. The uproar that echoes through the room now is encouraging, so I embrace it with open arms by continuing on my journey, or at least trying.
The chair that Ron was just sitting in is relieved of his weight as he stands up. He seizes my shoulder, giving me a solemn look. I wonder why his eyes look so empty… he was just telling me only hours ago about how everything will be okay; that we will all come out of this war unharmed. His expression confirms it to be a cock-and-bull story, as he would call it. My hand clasps over his and pries it off. He drops his arm limply to the side, looking at me, fearful and helpless. I continue on my way, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
As I approach, a frazzled Hermione looks up from that ugly old book and asks where I am going. I refuse to let myself provide her with a truthful answer; it’s nothing she would comprehend. She will never understand that books do not provide all the answers, so I shall not bother with the truth. I attempt to slur my words together, hoping it will come out to be a believable lie. “Just going to the loo,” I say.
Hermione may not understand, but I assure myself that Luna will. This thought is confirmed when she pushes through the crowded area after me, gripping my forearm. I lead her downstairs to the doorway, and we exit the house together, with our actions unknown to others.
As we step outside, I inhale the crisp air; it is incredibly refreshing. I hear loud music resounding from the neighbouring houses, and spotting the countless amount of cars surrounding the area, I conclude that tonight is a night for careless partying. It will surely last well into the morning, and only then will everyone retreat to the toilets of their own homes. I wish the only consequences I had to pay for tonight’s actions was a hangover in the morning, but that’s not the way the cookie crumbles.
I tilt my head over to Luna, and there she is, gazing up curiously at me. The wind whips at her blonde hair, tossing it in her face, and she attempts to remove it from in front of her eyes. The music thumps louder for a moment as a neighbour’s door opens, then it abruptly slams shut again. The noise startles the two of us, and we simultaneously look over. Before we know it, we’re being drenched in alcohol, and a group of teenagers runs back to the house on our right, laughing.
Luna is gazing up at me with her eyes glazed over with glee, and the corners of her mouth twitch. I pick up the beer can that clattered to the walkway and swallow the last mouthfuls of it. Luna lets out a booming laugh, and I smile in appreciation.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I say to her. She links her left arm with my right in acknowledgement, and begins to skip.
“Come on, Harry,” she delightfully exclaims, picking up her pace. I can’t seem to refuse. She’s being her own self, and that’s good enough for me. I frolic along with her, enjoying the chilly breeze that embraces us, nipping at our wet clothes.
We reach an abandoned park some blocks away, and Luna slows to a halt. Her arm unlinks from mine as she wanders over to a rusty swing set. I remain where I am, watching her attentively, until she glances over her shoulder and calls me to where she is, ordering me to sit on the swing.
“Luna, it’s old and rusty. It probably can’t even support me,” I point out.
“Come, Harry,” she insists in her airy voice. “You’ll be fine.”
Suddenly, I feel my feet guiding me again, without realising what I was doing. As I sit on the worn-down seat, she begins to push me, making me feel like a young child.
“Luna,” I protested, “this is ridiculous.” Luna kept pushing, however. To my surprise, I found myself pumping my legs only minutes later. The air whipped against my body, once again, and my feet were lifted free from the ground. I had never felt this free before in my life, and for once, I knew what it was like to be a little kid.
It feels like I’ve been in the air forever, just swinging back and forth, back and forth. The world was never this limitless before. The colours are whizzing by me, swirling into one big mass of beauty. Then there’s Luna, who looks up at me and grins. She begins to spin around in a circle, flinging her arms about freely while looking up into the starry sky. Her wet tie-die skirt no longer seems wet and lifeless; it dances up around her, forming into a magnificent rainbow.
Now I know the meaning of life.
Author’s Note:
Credit for the quote, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing,” goes to Edmund Burke.