The common room was empty, except for yet another sleeping body strewn about on the couch. As I stepped inside, my eyes drifted around the common room. I have looked at the decorated stone walls tens of hundreds of times, maybe thousands in these last years. A portrait of The Grey Lady focused her intelligent eyes on me, they leisurely glided along my body; up, down, to my face and then my feet. I do believe she was astonished my tiny white feet were now covered in smart black shoes, for in the common room this was not usually the case. I smiled at her, she is one of few that always smiles back. My memory flickered to a time when she helped me with my Arithmancy homework, and we quietly chatted for hours after.
"Luna my dear, you have a hole in you stocking," she verbalized. She broke me of my daydreams, and reality slowly focused back into my eyes. I replied, "Oh! Do I? Thank you for telling me, I wasn't aware,". She only smiled and nodded. I returned the act of kindness. "Goodnight Helena," I whispered. "I hope to see you in the morning, my dear," she said.
I stroked the raven's statue, which stood as the doorknocker to my dormitory. The graceful bird murmured, and slowly stepped aside, its bronze figure glowing amidst the fire. The moonlight shone through the windows walking up the stairs, exploiting itself along them. I moved slowly, one foot per step, hear the light snap of each echo through the spiral hallway.
The dormitory was dark, and it was obstinate to make out the shapes of sleepers and Hogwarts trunks, packed with physical memorials and school uniforms. The heater stood a pillar in the middle of the room. This always reminded me of the hub, making each bed a spoke and the room a giant wheel. Throughout my first year, I often had dreams of the room rolling about, a floating wheel taking me through the sky, around the school grounds, and back to its original placement.
I made my way to my bed, hearing the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping ones around my. My small cat, Adelaide, lay on the windowsill, facing the outside world. Her tiny paws shielded her face from the moonlight, which cast a glowing finish on her white fur. Cho shifted in her sleep; this was followed by a light murmur in the darkness, one of pain and sorrow, but in the same moment contentment and slumber. I stopped, not counting the moments, and watched her. Her face was erased from emotion, her long arms at her hips, her body only a motionless rod in the bed. I wondered what I looked like asleep, or if I murmured like Cho. I put the thought away, and shed my day clothes.
I stumbled around the room, trying to find the shadow of my trunk. After finally finding it, I found my nightgown and slipped it on. I scooped Adelaide off the window sill, slithered into bed and place her sleeping body next to mine. Her fur was warm, and a light purr erupted from her throat, creating a rhythmic lullaby customized for my mentality. Slowly and carefully, I slipped away into a wonderland far greater than the one I was leaving, and I inhabited the thoughts of only my dreams and wonders.
I dreamed of Neville, his long brown hair sweeping his eyes in a curtain of brunette, peeking out the bottom of this curtain, like an eager child waiting to go onstage before a school play. I never liked plays; I rather liked reading books about imaginary characters, or better yet, creating them. Why should one pretend to be another, when it is obvious they are not that person? In the dream, he and I were in the forest, watching the sun go by as the hours passed. I studied his expressions, they adjusted from the usual anxious to peaceful, and then to thoughtful.
He finally looked to me, and said, "Why do you think so much?". I stared. Nobody had asked me this before, ever in my life. Now, I was thinking inside my dream. Why do I think so much? Had I never taken the mere moments to ask myself why I do? Is it a born interest? An instinct? Are some brought into this world with an interest for everything that is just vaster than others? Or have I been living inside myself for so long, I have grown accustom to answering my own questions, and getting to know others through my thoughts?
I broke the silence by answering, "I'm not quite sure. I do not know if this is a question of thinking or not. Perhaps this is a inquiry of envisioning.". He did not reply. He only studied my face, and after a long moment looked into the deep trees and life of the forest. I wonder, is Neville secretly like myself? In a perfect world, possibly he is afraid of himself, watching how I am treated, scared to unleash his thoughts into this judgmental world, but provoked by the risk of being diverse. This is a tantalizing thought to me. But he still said nothing. Minutes passed. I finally shattered our silence. "Neville, are you afraid of yourself?" I timidly asked. He looked at me. He whispered, "Is it pathetic?".
I said nothing. I only lunged forward and grabbed him. This was the most aggressive I believe I have been in my life. I gripped his warm body, taking in his scent. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and cradled my face into his left shoulder. He seemed taken aback, I almost felt guilty. He clutched me back. I snuggled my head into his shoulder, and he said, "Thank you.".
Dreams like these have always confused me. Are they teasing me, telling me something, or merely animating what I want? I decided to ignore it, and start another day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
The Great Hall was filled this morning; perfect, I can observe many more than usual. I watched the ravenous fingers of different color plucking the cooked food off the many trays, and onto their soon packed plates. Mouths chewed, some in a circular motion, others up and down. The clicking of shoes on the floor collided with each other, forming an out of synch society of snaps and ticks.
Albus Dumbeldore was perched happily at his high chair, cheerfully munching at his rosemary toast, a type of bread I know he enjoys eating. He eyed his pumpkin juice – then the jug of pomagranate juice; and a curious look captured his aged features. He smiled, and I counted; one, two, three, four; he quickly but carefully grabbed the pomagranate jug, and poured a spot (I guessed perhaps a few ounces, but I cannot be sure enough) of the burgundy puree into his pumpkin juice goblet. The claret extract of pomagranate invaded the orange, creating a cloud of deep red in the once ginger pigmented drink. He watched, intrigued by his simple yet uncommon creation. He smiled to himself, pleased with his choice of imagination and creativity, and took a cautious sip. His eyes traveled around the room for a moment. This action was followed by a satisfied smile, and an expression that seemed as if he "hmpf"ed to himself. I could not be sure, for the man was a least 60 feet away from me.
I was broken from my musing by a cold snap of attempted humor. A voice whipped into my ears, "Aw, does Loony Lovegood have a crush on Long-botty, now? Its alright, freak, I won't tell a soul.". I slowly focused my eyesight to the person above me. It was Michael Corner, and I could not help but stare at him bemused. He chuckled, and said, "Oh no no no, don't tell me your stupid too!". I did not understand what he was talking about. I simply replied, "Well, erm, Michael, I do not know why I would tell you something like that. I barely know you. Don't you think that seems like something that would be a bit obvious, but not announced to strangers?". "Don't be smart," he sneered.
This is one of many sayings fellow students have at Hogwarts that I never quite understood.
Now that I think of it, was I really staring at Neville? That is odd, I could have sworn I was looking at Professor Dumbledore. People do confuse me, perhaps this is why I don't talk to them quite as much as I read. I have noticed fictional people are not as baffling as real ones.
I decided to let it go and forget about stray Michaels and petty Rochelles. I made my way to Defense Against The Dark Arts alone, as usual. I watched the first years cheerfully skipping down the halls, in talk of other students, difficult homework, or simple a funny story. It sometimes upsets me that I have no memories of this type to hold of my own, but I do not mind in the same moment. I have always told myself funny stories, read to myself before bed, and skipped and strolled by myself. It has always been this way, and I do not recall a moment where I felt unhappy about it. Some people's ways of life are just different than others, quietly veering off onto their own paths, learning lessons customized for their mistakes.
The castle had a jovial flush to itself, with illuminated stained glass windows, majestic architecture, and a slew of curious students pervading the walls. I slowly walked, taking the beauty in like a slow, clean breath of air. I recorded my step pattern; one, two-two, three, four-four. Playing this innocent game with myself passed the walking time to my class rather quickly, for the dark wood door to the DADA classroom presented itself in a feeling of seconds.
Its odor remained the same, a sullen smell of musk and mothballs, dust, and textbook paper. The sunlight shined through the right side of the room, and a number of twenty-five desks lined themselves in rows in the center of the room. Sometimes these desks were arranged in a half circle, reminding me of a Grecian amphitheater. Empty cages lay unoccupied on the shelves, with many tiny teeth marks and claw scratches decorating the tough steel bars of each cage. I watched the dust particles float inside the sunlit air, cascading from the many windows. A single spiral staircase at the front of the long rectangular room led to another dark wood door, where Professor Lupin emerged every morning, inspired by a new topic to inform us of. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of the inside room, a stray bookcase, a globe sometimes. What always stuck out to me were a detailed painting of the werewolf anatomy, as well as a painting of the full moon hanging on the wall.
Though one may scoff and question the importance of a silly painting of a moon, this intrigues me by its details. On the bottom of the hill, a black shadow stands and watches the moon. This shadow looks like a dog taught to walk, but looks pained by the sight of the moon. Shredded clothes lay lifeless at the shadow's feet, torn by force. The initials, "LP" are painted in the right hand bottom corner, with a smiley face next to it. I wonder to myself often who "LP" could be, but they must have been artistic in their youth. Perhaps they still are. The painting is old I noticed, so this must have been done at least twenty years ago.
Nobody has ventured to the high office of Remus Lupin, nor has anybody been invited. I sometimes wonder if Professor Lupin is perhaps hiding something in his office, a secret above the cold stone stairs. He hesitantly steps out of his office, and greets at the top of his stairs, "Good morning, class. Eager to learn about the dangerous components of being young witches and wizards, I see?". The class responded agreeably, with nods and hums of positivity. He motioned like he wanted something from us. "Well, give me a suggestion?" he verbally prodded.
The room echoed silence. All but few tired yawns and scratching of quills separated the class of young adults and the silence. Hermione peacefully but eagerly raised her hand, shaking the brunette locks of long hair out of her face. "Ms. Granger, always the first to inquire. Yes?" he said. "Professor Lupin," she began, almost hesitant to ask her readied question. She seemed to mentally assure herself, and continued, "I'd like us to learn about werewolves.". He seemed taken aback by this question. His eyes widened for a brief second, but shrank back to their normal size. He tensed; this seemed to almost be a tender topic for him. "Well, Ms. Granger," he stammered. "Absolutely, if you please." He carefully finished.
"Since the very beginning of magic," he started. Hermione readied her quill. "There have been mysterious furry creatures lurking about the world, muggle and wizarding. These 'creatures' I speak of, can vary from your beloved Crookshanks to…larger furry creatures. These, my dear pupils, are werewolves." Said he.
Hermione nodded, perhaps to herself, as if she had only just proven something to herself. Professor Lupin shot her an inquisitive look, an expression almost reminding himself to watch his words with this young and intelligent woman. "Werewolves comprise an unexplainable connection with the full moon, and undergo a painful transformation into wolf form whenever it approaches. I don't advise one to take a walk with a werewolf on a full moon, unless they hope to perish a bloody end to their lives." He lightly chuckled. He watched the unison of quills racing across the many shades of tan parchment, some pieces shifting under the eager hands of note takers. Without raising his hand, Draco Malfoy rudely interrupted, "So some people just turn into violent beasts every full moon? What a shame!" he sniggered.
Professor Lupin however did not laugh in return. He only calmly ambled down his balcony-of-a-staircase to the beaten brown-red wooden flooring that lined the ground. He itched his face, an expression of unclassifiable emotion lying on it. "Not exactly, Mr. Malfoy," he finally responded. "The human being is turned into a werewolf due to an infection named Lycanthropy. As one may imagine, this infection usually comes into the body by means of a transformed werewolf bite, and then travels through the bloodstream until every drop-" he snapped his fingers at the word, "is consumed by the infection. And yes, Mr. Malfoy, there is no cure." He replied. Malfoy only snorted, ignorance fueling the dismissive sound.
After questions of claws and comments of moons, the tired clock in the front of the room moaned a somber tone, signaling the end of class. Draco thrust his books into his arms, and left the classroom first. His footsteps punched the floorboards rougher than the others, making his violent strides unique against the calm ones of everyone else. The others filed away, and off to their next classes. Professor Lupin watched his students leave, a blank expression shielding his face from his feelings. His eyes moved about, every few seconds traveling to the window, painting a beautiful view of the lake. The water was now a captivating shade of emerald, with a pearlescent layer of clear on top, giving it a sparkling sheen, unlike any other body of water I have seen.
Professor Lupin broke the silence, "Beautiful, isn't it? It would be all right if you stayed to absorb my favorite part of this school on a free day, but you should head to you next class Luna.". I glanced at the aged clock, and collected by belongings to leave. "Yes, I probably should. Thank you for reminding me Professor Lupin, I tend to forget certain things. Such as time limits…" I drifted off. "No, Luna, that's quite alright," he chuckled. "It is always a good thing when a Professor must remind a student to leave their classroom." He said, an injection of humor in his voice. I smiled and left the classroom.