Harry Potter jerked his attention away from his transfiguration textbook with a silent scowl. He usually didn't mind the solid, hard-wood seats of the Defence Against the Darks Arts classroom, or the constant but low-key shuffling of his classmates: everybody got a little restless while they were stuck sitting on such uncomfortable benches. Normally, he didn't even mind Hermione's sharp glances his way, or Ron's nudges whenever something ludicrous, or funny, or boring happened. In usual class time, Harry never even noticed the stale, somewhat rusty scent of Hogwarts' stone walls as he went about his daily life.

When he was in a bad mood, however, all these things and more seemed to grate upon his nerves.

His unimpressed stare met Hermione's, who completely missed his mood.

"Did you catch that?" she nudged him with her elbow again and murmured quietly as they sat in the back row of Defence. "He's just referred to the 1972 Legislation for the Protection of Herd-Oriented Species Laws."

Harry grunted and glanced her way briefly, before trying to relocate his place in the text.

"Professor Lockhart's the first teacher I've met," Hermione continued, "who seems to refer back to Ministry reform in his own career."

"Oh." Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Hermione's quill skimming across her parchment, line after line of impeccable notes appearing as if by magic.

She hissed at him under her breath. "Harry! I know you're self-studying, but you won't have this opportunity forever."

Steadfastly ignoring her, Harry twirled his own quill, instead carefully underlining a word in his textbook. Anima. The concept was probably more important than he had previously assumed. He'd successful skimmed over all his schoolwork up to sixth-year level, but forging ahead with seventh-year work – when he hadn't actually sat through any classes – was proving frustrating on his own. Anima. It hadn't mattered at all when transfiguring inanimate objects, and barely mattered for the basic animated ones: buttons to beetles and so on. Now, however, Harry was trying to transfigure complex animals himself and was beginning to realise something was missing. Something necessary for the expression of life.

The seemingly-pointless transfigurations of the early years of Hogwarts – mirror to magpie, arrow to sparrow, even serpensortia – only brute-forced animate transfigurations, it turned out. That made an irritating amount of sense: over the years even Harry had realised that perfecting spellcasting progressed through a lack of precision and lots of wasted energy in the beginning. It was embarrassing to realise how long he'd taken before realising that first- and second-year students weren't really doing proper transfigurations. They just overpowered their spells.

Embarrassingly late though it was, Harry's deep relief at finally figuring it out now met with impatience. So much of the advanced theory now made more sense, but he'd wasted years of time! Surely his classmates had realised this simple truth when they went through Transfiguration lessons the first time!

No wonder Hermione got irritated with his lack of work ethic.

Unfortunately, now that Harry was attempting to teach himself advanced spellwork alone – N.E.W.T-level and everything – that realisation alone wasn't really helping him make the next step.

The thought brought Harry back to the concept of anima. It was somehow necessary to create living things, but couldn't actually create life, according to the fifth exemption to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. The process seemed to Harry to be rather contradictory.

It wasn't helping his mood any.

Harry raked his hands through his hair in frustration and tried to ignore Lockhart's attention-grabbing voice. It was ruining his focus.

"Harry!" Hermione whispered once more. "You're missing out!"

He shot her a dark look from over the top of his glasses. "I'm really not."

Having successfully distracted Harry from his rather difficult self-study, Hermione gave up on his attitude and settled back to take notes on Lockhart's latest display. Harry allowed himself a moment of indulgence, absently chewing the tip of his quill while the frustration swirled around him. He wasn't exactly bothering to keep track of the course content of Defence, but Lockhart seemed to be just as useless as Harry had remembered.

At the front of the room, the blond ponce was demonstrating the specific…grappling technique…he had used to subdue whatever it was in his adventure of the day. The man quirked an eyebrow roguishly while he made a few pointed remarks to his captive audience. Something about it "all being in the knees", Harry sceptically noticed.

Stiffening suddenly, Harry sat upright and slowly removed the quill feather from his mouth to fix his total attention on the so-called 'professor'. Breaking in a kelpie? Nobody rides kelpies, Harry thought with a sudden jolt of frustrated horror, ever. If they don't kill their victims, they drive them mad!

With a rush of adrenaline, Harry cracked his knuckles desperately and glanced around the room. To his dismay, although a number of his classmates – boys especially, he noticed – looked a little sceptical, none of them seems to display the appropriate level of outrage. Perhaps, Harry realised with a sudden little shiver, they didn't know how bad the advice truly was. Harry, of course, had a little more worldly knowledge, not the mention lots of experience in trying to stay alive. The practical advice that Lockhart was sharing was not only terribly misguided, but – to Harry's rising indignation - occasionally downright dangerous.

What was Dumbledore thinking, hiring this lunatic?

Harry glanced instantly at Hermione's earnestly furrowed brow and then Ron's significantly less impressed face. He shot a quick look to see Neville's expression of polite interest. Harry raked his eyes over his classmates: Lavender, Parvati, Seamus, Dean…the lot. By the time Lockhart moved on to demonstrating the – apparently – deciding factor in the confrontation, Harry felt a sick, heavy feeling of anger churning in his gut. Lockhart wasn't just inaccurate, he was inappropriately incorrect. If one of his students one day attempted to survive an attack the same way Lockhart promoted, they would die.

Harry continued to watch Lockhart's little demonstration with horrified eyes and that sick feeling in his stomach. Even the spells that did exist were modelled wrong: with unnecessary movements in the shoulders and wrist that could slow a spell down, cause it to miscast, backfire on the caster. Even if the spell worked in the first place, Lockhart's technique could kill someone.

Jaw tense, hands clenched in front of his mouth, Harry felt physically sick as the anger and frustration turned to fear and urgency. Hermione believed this rubbish! Neville didn't know any better! Ron, well, Ron didn't have any alternative to Lockhart now, did he? It might not seem important now, but in a couple of years Voldemort would return and dark creatures would be employed with enemy forces. Lockhart's teaching could kill them.

A hot, heavy pulse beat in Harry's temples and he felt his heart rate accelerate.

They were only children, he worried, gnawing on a knuckle. He scrunched his eyes up tight, brain racing. What to do?

"Hermione," Harry hissed urgently, leaning over to interrupt the rapid scratching of her quill. "Tell me: do you still cross-reference your self-study?"

"Of course." She seemed mildly insulted. "Is this relevant to class, Harry? I'm trying to listen."

"Right," Harry said. "Okay then." He smiled a thin, hard smile and took out a new piece of parchment. "I've got an idea I want to run by you. Can we talk after dinner?"

"What do you think of Lockhart?" Harry asked Luna, somewhat forcefully, as they walked down to the Kettleburn Club together after class. He tried to soften his tone, but the frustration really hadn't left him yet. It was getting a little colder in the late afternoon, and the sun was probably beginning to sink towards the horizon – although the heavily overcast skies prevented that from being obvious. To Harry's dismay, the weather wasn't helping his mood.

The small, slender girl gave him a queer kind of look before quirking her head and looking at something in the sky. "Professor Lockhart, you mean?"

"Yeah, him."

Luna floated along at his side like a skittish foal for a moment. "I think he's quite an education," she finally replied.

Harry's quick look at her caught her curious, nervous gaze, and he paused to rephrase his response. "…Is that the official Ravenclaw response?"

"Is there such a thing?" Luna skipped once before replying. Then she turned a quietly assessing gaze towards him. "…I don't really like him much."

"How come?"

"Daddy refuses to advertise his books," Luna answered vaguely. "He says his unsanctioned time-travel might cause dangerous paradoxes." She looked up at Harry's face warily.

"Time-travel," repeated Harry thoughtfully. "Right." He thought for a moment. "I also think Lockhart is quite dangerous, actually, so…I guess I agree with your dad then. Are you studying independently?"

Luna smiled brilliantly and seemed to relax. "There's a bunch of old textbooks from previous years in Ravenclaw Tower, and the senior students are selling copies of their old notes for small favours. Daddy thinks that's enough for this year."

As they reached the little buildings that housed the various creatures, their steps slowed and conversation stopped. Harry noticed that his palms had grown sweaty and some stray hairs had glued themselves to his forehead, damp with anticipation.

Rubbing his lower left forearm, Harry spared a moment to think of the challenges that the last month had brought. Professor Kettleburn had certainly lived up to his promise of giving the four students from the salamander incident a "bit of a break from fire". The scar on his arm had faded practically unnoticeable, although the phantom pain was still fresh in his memory. That first injury had come from Kettleburn's earthwyrms, burrowing creatures over six feet long that travelled underground through the enthusiastic use of gnashing teeth. That one had been okay overall: Harry had managed to knock the Ravenclaw prefect, Thorpe, out of the way before he got seriously injured. Harry's own arm had been healed up very nicely by Madam Pomfrey almost immediately.

The following week Harry had been introduced to kamaitachi, imported sickle weasels that could cut a wizard from over three feet away. Hogwarts hadn't actually owned them, but Kettleburn had connections with contacts who were willing to loan the creatures to N.E.W.T Creature classes for a week or so. That older Hufflepuff girl, Tsubaka, had been injured by those, losing a great swarth of fringe and almost an eye due to a moment's inattention.

Kettleburn had suggested Luna not bother coming back after that week, if she wasn't interested in "getting up close and personal". Tsubaka also dropped out of the 'special sessions', apparently not wanting to risk bodily harm in Kettleburn's footsteps. Only Thorpe and Harry had faced the ensuing two weeks of challenging beasts. For all of Kettleburn's faults, he had correctly identified Harry's ability to cope with dangerous situations; Harry found himself mildly enjoying the challenges despite himself.

In anticipation for the upcoming struggle and a chance to work through some of his frustration, Harry took a deep breath and huffed out slowly, feeling as he did so the tension in his shoulders ebbing. "Are you coming?" he asked curiously. It wasn't as if Kettleburn had banned her, Harry thought. And she always had liked unusual creatures.

"Not today," Luna replied. "I thought I might try the bowtruckles instead."

Harry didn't understand why Luna would prefer bowtruckles to whatever recommendation Kettleburn would have for him today, but he thought she knew her own preferences best. Ruffling her hair in his best brotherly manner, Harry watched as Luna wandered a few steps towards off towards a distant hut, her cheerful, dancing footsteps clearly much happier than his own hurried, stomping ones.

He hoped he would get a good work out today; he had a lot of frustration to work through. Raising his head to scent the wind – environmental factors being surprisingly important when dealing with dangerous creatures, he had discovered – Harry found the wind slow and slight. A heavy moisture hung in the air, and streaks of low-lying cloud felt cool and wet against his face. The sullen weather seemed to match his mood. Huffing a little in irritation and anticipation, Harry checked his wand was within easy reach, just to prepare. The ground was damp and squelched under his shoes as Harry tramped over to Kettleburn, orchestrating his student volunteers with spells and shouts from the centre as always, and waited to retrieve his own instructions for the afternoon.

The professor was very keen to see Harry back and interested in dealing with more creatures.

"Good kid," he muttered, in between bellowing and waving his wand at the other students. "Good t'see yeh've got nerves o'steel. These young'uns these days, they've got no sense of adventure."

Harry raised his eyebrows politely.

"Yeh've shown yerself to be pretty good under pressure, kid," the man continued, "so I've got a special job fer you today. Yeh've got a good head on yer shoulders, aye? Waddya say?"

Fingers tingling and hoping for some action, Harry nodded cautiously.

That may have been a mistake. Shortly thereafter, Harry found himself clumping alongside the edge of the Great Lake alone, although Professor Kettleburn's gravelly voice was muttering in a low rumble from the huge Patronus turtle that floated just before him. One large oak goblet was clutched awkwardly in Harry's left hand.

"Keen boy," Harry heard the professor's voice mumble. "Not too shabby, are ya, Potter? Unlike some o' these kids, no sense of adventure to speak of." Harry regretted the fact that the Ravenclaw, Thorpe, must have opted out of these special sessions too, leaving Harry as the only one receiving Kettleburn's special care. He wondered what excuses Thorpe had made, to have the professor so deeply disappointed in his 'lack o' mettle'.

He stumbled along in the long, damp grass, and followed the turtle away from the castle and down towards an isolated corner of the lake. His shoes were soon damp from the dew on the grass, and his thighs were soon burning from wading through the resisting grass, and Harry still wasn't quite sure where they were heading.

Despite the exercise, Harry found his mood worsening: he had hoped for a wrestle or fight, some need for explosive power and action against some wild creature. Instead, he found himself stumbling over hidden potholes in the ground, his feet growing cold as the wet travelled through his shoe leather.

However, as he wrestled with himself to control his emotions and settle himself down, it was fascinating to Harry to realise that he was exploring a corner of the Black Lake where students almost never came. Students often spent time near the hidden boat shed, by the shallow beach areas near where the Triwizard stands had been set up for the third task, but Harry found himself following the turtle around the lake in the opposite direction. The huge trees from the forbidden forest grew closer and closer to the water, and behind the muttering of Kettleburn's voice from the turtle, forest noises whispered in Harry's ears. Heavy shadows began to loom over Harry, and soon he found himself clambering over fallen trunks, half-submerged in the lake shallows, or jumping small inlets where the lake broke its banks. Harry felts his bad mood disappear as his need for focus grew.

Nobody, probably not even Dumbledore, knew everything that lived in the Black Lake, or in the Forbidden Forest. Harry realised that he couldn't go much further along the shoreline without entering either the Forest or the lake itself. His tension rose.

Shortly thereafter, he found himself standing on some marshy ground, shoes and socks off, his bare toes sinking slightly in the cold and mossy wetland. Kettleburn's Patronus hovered supportively just to Harry's left, muttering encouragement and instructions out in Kettleburn's rough voice.

"Keep yer mind sharp, Potter!" he reminded, as Harry hiked up his robes and stepped awkwardly into the ankle-deep water. "Keep sight of the shore – don't get too caught up in yer task!"

"Yes, sir!" Harry replied, noticing as he did so that visibility was low due to the shadow of the forest and the surprisingly heavy mist that lingered in its shade.

"Don' use yer wand except in exceptional circumstances!" Kettleburn's voice continued from the bank. "They've gotta be magically inert to be useful, so don't waste them unless yer in danger yerself! Don' go deeper than knee-high in water! Don' follow the lights, you hear me, Potter? Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you follow the lights!"

Feeling the icy cold rise up through his legs and settle deep into his bones, Harry waved one arm over his head to show he had heard, and then refocused on the marshy swamp he was wading through.

The light and warmth from the bank seemed to fade, and Harry assumed that Kettleburn's Patronus had faded, or left to return to Kettleburn himself. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not, to be left so alone in a complicated task in a dangerous corner of the Black Lake. His sudden isolation left Harry feeling rather exposed to the beings in the Forest, and he loathed to turn his back on the shoreline. Slowly, cautiously, he side-stepped out into the lake inlet, passing the occasional submerged shrub or fallen log as he did so.

He felt, as he waded through the chilly water, as though he was alone in the world: as alone as he was in his cupboard under the stairs, but this time the world was large and wide and overpowering. Little noises caught his attention: some frogs of some sort croaking near the bank, the buzz of small insects from all around him – too small to be seen, the small splashes and squelches he made himself, treading slowly but surely away from the shore.

His breathing slowed; less the frustrated huffing of earlier, and more of a watchful silence as Harry sank into the landscape around him.

Deciding he had walked far enough, Harry stopped walking and looked up, distantly making out through the grey mist the indistinct shape of the shoreline, a few low shrubs leaning into the water. Sparse rushes – or reeds, he didn't know the difference – rattled in the soft wind, and Harry shuffled sideways to the nearest clump and bent low, looking for the eggs he'd been tasked to find. He stifled a curse as the hem of his robes dropped into the water, and hiked them up higher: mind alert, Seeker eyes bright despite the bone-deep chill.

A single will-o'-the-wisp popped up, just in the corner of his eye and beckoned softly, warmly, welcoming. The small warm flame flicked gently like a hearth-fire, and Harry felt a momentary impulse to wade a little further towards it. Perhaps if he was closer, he'd be warmer.

Then he stopped.

Focus, Harry, he thought. Don't let it tempt you.

He again set his eyes to search for small, dark clusters of spots around the stem of the reeds. His hands, Harry noted absently, were shaking a little in the cold, and his breath was puffing ever-so-slightly white in the chill air. He found himself thinking longingly of the Gryffindor fire, with its crackling cheerfulness, and the raucous noise of the common room.

Another small, dancing flame popped up within his sight and drifted gently towards Harry with determined cheerfulness. There was a nice reed cluster a little further away from the shoreline, close to the will-o'-the-wisp, and as Harry carefully splashed his way closer, he could swear that side of his body warmed up ever so slightly.

Absent-mindedly, as Harry bent over the dark water to search for those rare little spots, he found himself orientating his body to gather the warmth. His feet were soon freezing, his fingernails beginning to turn blue, but Harry felt that the shoulder closest to the floating light was moderately comfortable. He continued to search the reed clusters that took him towards that warmth, slowly, carefully.

He felt calm and peaceful, despite the cold. It was easy to ignore the ache in his back, from all the bending down and searching, and the pain in his legs soon went numb with the cold. Searching for the small eggs that clustered just below the water line against the body of the reeds was very much like hovering his broomstick above the Quidditch game while searching for the snitch.

That was what saved him, in the end. That familiarity with keeping many things in mind, and the careful calm and focus on the Occlumency trance that Harry had been working on since his return to first-year. Harry stood, thigh-deep in water, a number of dancing flames nearby luring him with their warmth, and he realised with a jolt that he could no longer see the shoreline through the mist.

Harry spared a cautious glance at the will-o'-the-wisps before carefully stepping away from them, still bending over to search the reeds. Were they creatures, in the truest sense of the word? Were they, for want of a better word, hunting him by luring him deeper into the lake? They hovered, promising warmth and light, just in the corner of the eye, Harry quickly realised, and they attempted to lull you into a sleepy kind of daze. In such a state, Harry had quickly realised, a witch or wizard would be lured into deeper water – possibly close to the grindylow hunting grounds, where they might be killed and thus nourish the ecosystem. He certainly hadn't intended to walk into the lake any deeper than calf-high.

He didn't know what kind of creature will-o'-the-wisps were, but they were obviously some kind of magical being. They had wills, they had instincts, patterns of behaviour…What were they, beyond the flame and gentle smoke? Did they have bodies? Were they elemental in nature?

He wondered what they ate.

He continued searching the reeds and filling up his goblet without changing his expression, just in case the wisps could sense his wariness. Slowly, slowly, Harry splashed his way towards the shallows. He couldn't see the shoreline or forest due to the heavy cloud or mist, but he could see where the reeds grew thicker, and a shadow that might have been a fallen tree still living while it struggled in the water.

He didn't feel cold at all now, Harry realised, as he moved gently away from the winking lights. Adrenaline will do that to you, he realised, and breathed out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when the distant silhouette of the forest came into view.

Twenty minutes later, Harry's feet were pale and splotchy with cold, the hairs on his body stood up in protest with his goosebumps, and Harry had half a gobletful of what looked like glossy, blue fish eggs. As he made his way back to shore, breath whistling through blue lips, Harry reflected that will-o'-the-wisps were more insidious than the redcap goblins of last week.

Even with his sense of danger and ability to focus, he'd lost a sense of time and place while they teased him just out of reach. Harry felt a shiver ripple down his spine as the danger hit too close to home. He'd have to keep Luna away from here, he decided. All his friends, but particular the curious little creature-lover.

As his slow, unsteady footsteps reached the edge of the water and he took those first painful steps on solid ground again – the small sticks and growing things poking at his pins and needles – the thought occurred to Harry that will-o'-the-wisps might be most dangerous to people who were already tired from hunting, or from being lost. Perhaps they worked better on wizards without Occlumency, too, he pondered, carefully setting the wooden goblet down to dry off his feet with part of his robe. They would certainly be more threatening to wizards with fewer life-threatening experiences than he had faced. As his shaky hands manoeuvred his socks onto literally numb feet, Harry wished again that the nature of his task didn't forbid him to use magic. One quick scourgify and a warming charm, and he would be good to go.

He stumbled quite miserably back to the Kettleburn club to find the crowd of students as energetic as always, and Kettleburn himself conducting the chaos with his usual vigour.

"Fine lad," the professor had complimented when Harry had passed over the cup and its precious contents. "Severus's N.E.W.T class will be quite delighted to have these. I'll pass news of your contribution on."

Harry grimaced. He bore patiently with Kettleburn's complements and off-hand comments, and eventually, the precious cup was passed to another student to take up to the castle and Harry could use magic on himself once again.

The drying charm worked fine of his clothes, but Harry still felt the bone-deep chill of the lake in his body despite the warming spell. Having put himself to rights, Harry nodded farewell to the fiercely energetic teacher and walked quickly over to the bowtruckle thicket in order to find Luna. He hoped he would feel warm again soon.

She wasn't there.

In the shade of the gentle saplings, a number of unfamiliar students were gently tending to the tiny beings with soft voices and gentle hands. Despite their care for the bowtruckles, the students themselves stared somewhat intensely at Harry as he wandered through. Some seemed curious, some welcoming and a strange number curiously unfriendly, until Harry spotted an older boy who had been in the salamander hut that day it erupted. Something Pritchard, Harry remembered his name was. Quite a memorable character. Apparently, in light of the earlier chaos, the boy was avoiding the hut for a while. His decision was completely understandable.

Pritchard was staring at Harry confrontationally, but after years of Malfoy and Voldemort, the threat didn't really register with Harry's conscious mind. He went straight up to the boy unhesitatingly. "Did Luna come this way?"

"Looney?" Pritchard rolled his eyes and tisked. "Not for long, and good riddance to her, too."

Harry's eyebrows rose sceptically. "That was a bit rude." He found himself falling back on his experience as quidditch captain, when he'd mentored the younger players. "I don't need you to like her, but I know that you're capable of being polite about it. There's no need for unnecessary insults." He relaxed his shoulders and tried to seem non-confrontational. "Did you see where she went?"

The boy stared at Harry blankly for a moment, before he scowled and turned away. "The further away from here, the better."

Harry huffed, exasperatedly, and gazed at Pritchard's back in disappointment. He must be at least O.W.L level, at his height, and really should know better. Hermione would have known what to say.

Then Harry realised that Hermione might not be very compassionate to bullies, and wondered what Percy would say instead.

At that moment, another student spoke up, defensively but sure. "We don't need her sort around here."

Harry spun around to face the Slytherin, who looked awkward at being singled out. Then he rallied and stood firm, gesturing to a few of his friends, who walked over to stand with him in agreement.

Harry didn't get it. "What do you mean?"

The boy shrugged. "Granted the thing with the salamanders may have been an accident, maybe some kind of spontaneous combustion, but you have to admit that her presence there was suspicious."

Harry's mouth dropped open.

"She's cracked, of course," the student continued. "You can't trust the crazies." To Harry's astonishment, a couple of the boy's friends – some even in Ravenclaw colours – were nodding. One of them had a bowtruckle sitting on his shoulder, which made Harry feel strangely betrayed on Luna's behalf.

"What –"

"My advice to you would be to keep your distance."

A kind-looking Slytherin girl shouldered forward and smiled awkwardly. "Look, kid. You know her father runs that awful paper, you know? They ran a very detailed article about the salamander thing the day after it happened."

Harry was startled, and she looked at him kindly and pityingly.

"It was, 'Boy-Who-Lived Reborn from Fire,' I think," she shared. "Sold suspiciously well, my uncle told me."

The first boy nodded rapidly and shrugged once more. "There's a reason why she has no friends, Potter."

"She's got a friend!" Harry retorted angrily. "I'm her friend, and if you can't tell why, well then, that's your own loss." That familiar fire began churning in his gut. It seemed a long time ago that he'd been feeling cold.

He stalked out of the thicket furiously and marched into the next closest building without really considering where he was going.

"Uh, sorry," Harry stuttered to a stop when all the students froze to look up at him, his angry steps easily gaining everyone's attention. "Is Luna around?" He paused to look at the building he had walked into.

"Look, Potter," one of the older students began awkwardly. "Loo-Lovegood…she's not really welcome around here." He gestured around the brightly lit room, and Harry realised that he had disturbed the whole fairy enclosure with his dramatic entrance. "It's nothing very personal," the boy began when Harry was about to protest. "She gets a bit absent-minded and the fairies play tricks on her."

Still fuming, Harry settled down enough to glance around the room. No one else said anything, but their unspeaking silence spoke volumes.

"Do you know where she might be?" Harry finally spoke up, hiding his resentfulness as best he could.

The same student shrugged. "You might try the unicorn herd. They don't accept just anyone, but Loony's just different enough they quite like her, for some odd reason."

"Thanks," Harry spoke shortly, and left without looking back.

Having had no luck with the unicorn herd, Harry then bumped into Tsubaka, the friendly Hufflepuff girl from the salamander incident. She was flatteringly friendly when she spotted Harry and took him to one side to make sure life was going well before realising he was on a mission.

"Lovegood?" the girl asked thoughtfully, after Harry had explained his quest. "She's usually alone around here," she explained, and Harry wondered how he had missed that. "Have you tried the unicorns?"

Harry told her he had.

"Perhaps the Abraxans or thestrals then?" Tsubaka suggested. "No one really spends too much time around them, and Lovegood seems to like the quiet."

The Abraxans were a failure, but in the middle of an isolated little clearing near the forest Harry found Luna with the thestrals, and an empty bucket streaked with blood.

"Luna!" Harry called, a jogged over the glade to be nearer. "Glad I found you! How did the bowtruckles treat you?"

Luna looked up at Harry, for some reason looking rather startled, before she smiled her familiar slow and gentle smile. "Harry Potter." She turned back to scratch the closest thestral behind the ears and spoke gently. Unfortunately, Harry couldn't hear what she said.

"What was that?"

Luna looked up at him. "The bowtruckles were lovely." Luna blinked. "What brings you here, Harry Potter?"

"Well," Harry cocked his head. "I was looking for you."

Luna smiled as she fed the last piece of raw steak to a tall thestral, probably a stallion. "Oh? Is that so." She scratched the thestral's boney forehead and then turned to look at Harry. "Why?"

"…Because we're friends?"

For some reason, Luna seemed to relax at that.

"Are you done here?" Harry asked after a moment, and then bent to pick up the bucket for Luna when she nodded yes. "Shall we walk back to the castle together?"

Harry cast another Warming Spell on himself as they strode back towards Kettleburn's chaos, and they walked in silence together up the hill towards the castle.

"Luna," Harry began, awkwardly. "Luna, are you happy in the Kettleburn Club?" He scratched the back on his neck awkwardly. "Are…are people nice to you here?"

"You're here, Harry." Luna shrugged. "The animals are lovely."

Harry stopped walking, even though he was really desperate to get back to the castle and have a warm bath. He caught Luna by the elbow and turned her to face him. "Luna," Harry said seriously. "We can find you another club, if you want."

She looked down at the ground and fiddled with her wand. "The animals truly are lovely, Harry Potter."

"Hey," Harry gentled. "You don't have to be part of the club to spend time with the unicorns or thestrals, you know. We can find you something better."

"Professor Kettleburn has been very kind to me."

"I'll come with you," Harry promised. "There's no point me staying in a club that you're not enjoying."

Luna looked at him with wide eyes, startled.

"We're friends, right?" Harry tried a small grin. "Just call me Harry, okay?"

"Friends," Luna repeated quietly. "Harry. Okay then, if you're sure."

Harry was still pondering about Luna's strange attitude when he was seated in the Gryffindor common room later that evening, Hermione, Ron and Neville looking at him curiously.

"I thought we could do some independent research," Harry started cheerfully, "and compare Professor Lockhart's incredible achievements with the historical record of spell development across disciplines."

Ron didn't look very impressed, but Hermione seemed intrigued.

"You mean to compare Professor Lockhart's spell developments with their originals?" Hermione leaned forward, eyes bright.

"…sure," Harry said. "I know you've taken extensive notes on his spell techniques," he nodded at Hermione, "and Ron and Neville could do with cross-referencing his own books with the theory in others." He raised an eyebrow significantly in Ron's direction.

"Lockhart?" Ron's eyebrows rose sceptically. "Really?"

Harry shuffled forward in his seat and nodded enthusiastically. This would clear up the Lockhart problem without relying on the so-called 'curse', and he really assumed that Ron would be very excited about it once he twigged.

"I thought we could start this as a…group project," Harry sat back. "Surprise Lo- the professor at the end of the school year with a compendium of all his successes in some kind of master index. Perhaps we could present it for publishing," Harry added, in a moment of inspiration.

Hermione practically rubbed her hands with glee. "That sounds fantastic, Harry," she smiled.

Neville eyed Harry curiously, before cautiously nodding. "I'm in, I guess, if you need me."

The three of them looked cheerfully at Ron, who glowered a little under the pressure. "Look, that's not really my thing," he protested. "I mean, how much time will this take us, exactly?"

Harry pursed his lips. "Quite a lot, I should think. But," he spared a glance at Hermione, positively vibrating with enthusiasm, "I think you'll find it quite satisfying."

Ron looked at him sceptically.

"Really," Harry emphasised.

His friend rolled his eyes. "Look, you already keep yourself so busy the quidditch practice and your weird club thing, and all that study you do. I just don't see this little project has anything in it for me."

"At least think about it?" Harry asked hopefully, and that was the best he could manage that night. Hermione and Neville, meanwhile, had already planned to meet in the library every evening after dinner.

"I hope you know what you're doing, mate," Neville muttered as the informal meeting broke up. Harry hoped he did too. He supposed he was off to a good start.