Identity

How did this happen?

Wasn't there some sort of gatekeeper for death? As a tentative believer in rebirth myself, I'd been expecting to not have any memories of another life or even be aware it wasn't my first until I came across reincarnation. My second hypothesis was simply that there was no rebirth or heaven and it would simply be like going to eternal sleep or under anaesthetic and not waking up.

None of my musings could solve the perplexing mystery.

Neither could they solve the mystery of why exactly I seemed to have been reborn as a fictional character.

Luna Lovegood had been fiction - until I'd found myself in her body.

I felt bad for taking over her body but it wasn't going to bring her back.

I knew that.

It didn't stop me feeling guilty.

But how could I have expected this? How could anyone? I hadn't orchestrated Luna's death - for all I knew, I could be the original. Nah...

The fact of the matter was that through no fault of my own, I had found myself in another's body. The only thing I could do for the first Luna Lovegood was to live my life as I saw fit.

I didn't believe that.

If someone took over my body though, I liked to think I would leave them such a message and I wanted - needed, even, - to start treating myself the same way I tried to treat others.

Thankfully, my progress in this hadn't reset with this new body but I still wasn't good.

That's what I would do for Luna, for that little child.

And for myself to because at the end of the day, everyone uses each other. To be happy, to lash out at and anything else. I would use and be used for the right thing. But that was subjective so all I could promise Luna was that I would do my best.

Luna Lovegood had been a unique and formidable woman - I was so thankful I didn't have to suffer a gender change. On the other hand, it would have been an interesting learning experience. But I knew the female body and was glad for it.

I swore that I would do my best by Luna - by myself.

I was Luna Lovegood and I was going to rock it.

Luna had been unique and formidable and she was going to be unique and formidable.

Spiral

It was one of those days.

My brain was pointing out absolutely everything wrong with what was going on and my thoughts absolutely refused to settle. Baby moods were not fun.

When I realised I'd been reborn into the HP World with all my memories of the series, I wasn't sure what to do first - scream or plot. As the typical scatterbrain that I am, I ended up doing neither. I justified it by reminding myself that 'no plan survives first contact with the enemy'. Then, I wondered who my enemy would be. I still hadn't decided how to feel about Dumbledore and Snape. Or just the teachers in general. Like, seriously, where were they the whole series? Late. Always late I tell you.

I think that the premise of every plot that stars children and teenagers though generally has the adults out of the way. Actually, there are probably some exceptions... But the important thing is that teachers are virtually invisible in the HP plot. Sure there's Umbridge, Dumbledore and Snape but the second's the Headmaster and the third is a spy. There's no way in hell that Umbridge counts as a teacher. Anyway, before I start about Lockhart, the point stands. The teachers never act like adults. Harry, Hermione and Ron have to do it all by themselves. So... if I wanted to help - and I did because I was just that nice (not really) - then I would have to integrate myself with them.

But there was no way I was getting into Gryffindor. As a Harry Potter fan, I had taken several sorting quizzes. The longer - and generally more consistent - ones had always labeled me as a Ravenclaw. Besides Luna was a Ravenclaw - but no one knew Luna did they?

I was still going to go Ravenclaw.

Problem.

Well that in itself wasn't a problem - I was a content Ravenclaw but how was I going to meet Ron, Harry and Hermione and hopefully become friends?

Speaking about Hermione, I don't know why people think Hermione's a Ravenclaw. Except for intellect, she doesn't really have the right attributes.

Don't get me wrong, I like Hermione but the girl is not a Ravenclaw. She has common sense (most of the time) but that doesn't make her wise, accepting, or even odd. Let's be fair, it's lonely for those who society doesn't have a place for - and we all have different coping mechanisms. I don't know how Luna wasn't more broken after seeing her Mum die in front of her at 9 (I should do something about that, shouldn't I?) and having to live with that for the rest of her life - without anyone except Ginny who, not to bash her, was probably not the best person to talk to it about. Nine year olds generally don't discuss dead mothers.

I can't imagine Xenophilius Dad would be the best person to talk to either. He cares about Luna me in his own odd way and she - the original Luna - didn't turn into a rampaging, murderous megalomaniac because of Daddy issues or pain so he must have been doing/ be doing something right.

To be fair, Wool's orphanage was probably a terrible place to grow up but that's no excuse. The man - not the right word - has split his soul! There's no going back now.

You can't just say: Tom Riddle's soul can you please become one again. Pretty please. I'm begging you.

Ah, the mental image.

If only.

On second thought, no! That would make him an even more dangerous enemy. My headcannon is that splintering his soul, splintered his common sense because sorry, who waits until the end of the year, every year to attack the protagonist. It's not like he could see you coming is it? I wonder who could possibly predict that. Call in the Divination expert!

That was a whole other pot of tea. Was Trelawney qualified enough? To be fair she did drop crystal balls on attackers' heads but that doesn't necessarily mean-

At this point, my brain gave up. Babies were meant for more sleeping and less thinking and I had really been using my poor brain.

It was nap time!

Compensation

I came to a very important conclusion before my first birthday. I know right, why did it take me so long? I was being assimilated! Maybe I was just lazy. I was allowed to be, being a baby and all.

Magicals might get magic but Muggles - didn't really like that word, 'mug' had some negative connotations - get sense. I mean 'mugging' something is robbing them. And we call them Muggleborns.

Tada!

No one? Ok then, just going to make a stealthy retreat.

That was not graceful whatsoever.

But, I mean, you're literally calling someone a thief. I wonder where the idea of Muggleborns stealing magic could possibly fit?

Honestly, I wasn't sure if it would be better to be called a Muggleborn or a Mudblood. I mean you could always try to start a revolution with "We will rock you!" Personally my favourite band was Evanescence but that song is well... iconic and I was starting to think the Magicals fell a bit (a long way) behind in terms of the more artistic pursuits. Portraits were good but that was practically all I could think of.

What was I trying to say?

Oh yeah, absolute lack of common sense. Magicals get magic, Muggles (still searching for a replacement) get the sense.

The more I think about this, the more I am convinced it's true.

It's kind of bad - you know with great power comes great responsibility (which they don't have) and all that.

However, if you think about Magicals recovery time and what they can actually recover from, it's easier for them.

When I was a 15, I had to get my appendix out. I found it incredibly funny - don't ask me why - that it happened just before I turned 16 exactly halfway between 10 and 20 (the normal age to get appendicitis in the UK). My time in pain and in hospital added up to about a week but three month after, my scars were still tender. It was incredibly annoying. My point is, Magicals could just 'Evanesco' it. No scars, no recovery time, no medicines, cannulas or stitches.

They were a bit more lax with physical injuries simply because they could be.

Obviously, this meant they were clueless about mental health - you can't use a Potion and prolonged exposure to Cheering Charms took effort and was probably quite damaging. I hoped the Healers at least had enough knowledge. If that was what they were doing, it's no wonder Bellatrix Lestrange turned out the way they did.

Or more likely, depressingly, they didn't have any measures to help those with mental problems.

I wouldn't be surprised.

Company

When I was six, I met Ginny Weasley.

Unlike non-magicals (don't like that either, no majs? Nah.), Magicals didn't need to keep an eye on their children all the time. They had wards to do that. Lucky. Imagine how much easier parenting would be for Muggles if they could just set up a couple of wards and let their children wander off.

So, testing the waters, I wandered right up to the wards. I know there is no mention of them in the books but they did exist - at least in my world. I suppose even if they had, Harry wouldn't have known since no one seemed to think it prudent to give him or the other without magic - raised children any pertinent information about the world that had been sprung upon them.

Anyway, I had wandered right up to the edge of the wards when I caught sight of a vivid red. It wasn't the colour of blood - I had enough experience with the staining liquid. It wasn't quite like fire either - there was too much brown in it. There was only was only one possibility - it was a Weasley. Judging from the height, it was either Ronald or Ginevra.

"Hello" I called.

I might be an introvert but I made a good job of pretending not to be.

The Weasley spun around startled although she - I could see it was a she now - automatically said "Hello.

We assessed each other curiously - or at least I did - before I smiled.

Maybe I could make a friend? Even if I couldn't, it would be nice to be on friendly terms with someone before I undoubtedly headed off to a boarding school in the middle of nowhere with a truckload of teens and pre-teens. I remember my teenage years - not much going on. Although there was obviously my appendicitis and my friend stabbing me in the back. So not much really, just usual school years. I never got into any drama and made a brilliant job of concealing my eccentric personality. Or rather people didn't seem to care and I didn't care if they cared.

It worked.

But for the first time in (forever...) this life, I had the chance to make a friend. It was an exciting opportunity.

And so... I had to be awkward as possible.

Or at least I thought I was.

"Hello, my name's Luna Lovegood. You're a Weasley right? Your hair is beautiful by the way. It's not quite the colour of blood or fire - I suppose it's kind of like carrot."

When I noticed the slight shift of her expressions, I hastily added in "I like carrots though. They're ... very crunchy."

Ginny Weasley - it had to be Ginny - looked like she wasn't sure how to take this.

Finally, manners seemed to kick in.

"Ginevra Weasley" she introduced with an uneasy smile.

Maybe I shouldn't have worn my butterbeer cork earrings but I liked the reassuring weight - I was extremely used to wearing earrings and they matched the dress I was wearing almost perfectly.

Expected

I shouldn't be surprised. I really shouldn't.

This is why you keep to yourself Luna. This is why you don't go making friends with people and become friendly acquaintances instead. This is why you embrace the stereotype of introvert and stay in your room, writing passable poetry and listening to sad rock music. This is why you only come to your parents father for any comfort you can't quite manage to give to yourself.

If someone could read my thoughts, they'd probably be going: stop being so dramatic and emotional...

Well, I didn't care what they said!

This was me! (Another round of bullets...)

Besides, thoughts are private. They shouldn't be walking around my head anyway!

But even more important than my thoughts was my feelings.

If I found anything sacred - I still hadn't decided on my religion or lack of - it was my feelings.

And Ginn-Ginevra Weasley had trampled all over them.

I had never managed to extract revenge without feeling bad about it and it was only that that kept me from storming over to the Burrow and yelling at the girl. Then proceeding to thoroughly destroy her by using her Harry Potter obsession.

I had been slowly trying to get the girl over her obsession but now I wished I hadn't bothered. Deep down, I knew I would have probably helped her anyway - damn my helping people thing. For some reason, I liked torturing myself by being the doormat. If I had ever found it in me, I could have destroyed most of the people that had ever hurt me. Yet I couldn't do it.

I had spent my entire lives trying to understand people's motivations and I did.

And I could hazard a guess at what had happened.

Ginevra had presumably - and justifiably - been ill-equipped to deal with my moods after my mother's death. I still hadn't quite decided how to feel about that last part. The woman had raised me for nine years. I was surprised I wasn't in pieces. I suppose the determination to care for my father must have kept me together.

I had been quite unkind to Ginevra - ghosting was a real problem. Or rather trying not to ghost someone. I just wasn't there. I tried and so did she but it wasn't enough.

I had been going to thank her when I overheard her conversation with her brother.

"Why are you going off to meet that Loony anyway?"

Ginevra spun around and I could see the emotions warring on her face. In the end they settled on derision and my heart sank.

"You know, you're right. She's just a loony!"

I am normally quite proud of the fact I'm mad but when your only friend calls you mad in a derogatory way, I dare you not to be upset.

I would have forgiven her for that, quicker than I should have.

But then she crossed one of my lines.

She brought in my mother.

My recently deceased mother.

I know enough about my personality to confidently (how rare) say that I was quite a tolerable person until someone tried to cross the lines in the sand. Maybe Ginevra would get another chance but it would take years, even for my overly forgiving self to let go of the fact she had just insulted my dead mother.

She's just a child, she doesn't know better.

She should.

As I turned to leave, that was the war going on in my head.

If only I was stronger, I could have ruined her.

Or maybe that would be if I was weaker.

Either way, I was actually saving myself from an eon of guilt by not lashing out at her. Make no mistake, I would be guilty. I believed in punishments equal to the crime and I just knew if I had let myself go, I would have gone too far.

The next day, like a fool or rather myself, I went to our meeting place.

There was a redhead there but it wasn't the one I was looking for. Ronald Weasley sneered at me. I could almost sense the wards creating any imaginary barrier between us. The bridge was broken. I should have left first but as I have already established, I am a fool.

Ronald drove the final screw in "What are you looking for Looney? Don't you understand? Ginny never wants to talk to you again."

He stalked off with "Just as crazy as her bloody mother."

I made sure there was no one there to see as I raised my hand up as if probing the Weasley's wards before collapsing into a heap. It was cold, damp and lonely. Best of all, there was only myself to blame.

I really wished that someone was there to give me or hug or some shred of comfort but I knew, had always known that at the end of the day my own arms would have to be the ones to comfort me. I liked, loved other people but I was fiercely independent and no one was going to be my Prince Charming - except for myself.

I knew I had to get up soon but I just wanted to stay there a little longer where there were no witnesses.

What felt like minutes later (because it was), I adored watches, I peeled myself off the ground. Hastily, I wiped the tears away. My father would just think I'd been playing - the grass stains weren't hard to explain away.

My mood was so bad, that I started to think about how pathetic I was becoming. Dead mother, grieving father that couldn't be trusted to look after dinner (I made my own anyway because I didn't feel like giving up Vegetarianism) and now a backstabbing friend. Add to that another lifetime's worth of memories and it was a wonder I hadn't broken down yet.

At least I only had two years left to go to Hogwarts. Maybe I could - I was being too optimistic again, wasn't I?

Holding

My father still hadn't noticed anything was wrong, which was weird because when I'd been a baby, he'd always known what I was feeling. I suppose the death of my mother, Pandora, had destroyed him more than I'd ever know.

Pandora was a fitting name for my mother. Like me, she was so eager to explore but she opened Pandora's box.

I wanted to hate her for it. For leaving me, for breaking my father. (And me.)

I did. For a while - not very long.

I couldn't let her go if I was going to hate her for the rest of my life. And I needed to. Maybe I was a wet blanket but I was going to be an intact one. It hurt, of course but it hurt my father more. Our comforting silences had grown more stifled.

He didn't even try to hide his brokenness.

On some days, I was pleased because it showed me he was trying to look after me (I would never utter it out loud, hated myself for even thinking it - though it was the truth - but either I was doing a terrific job of concealing my feelings, extremely unlikely, or my father was doing a terrible one.)

On other days, I hated him for never pretending, for never allowing us to be 'normal'. And then I hated myself for being a hypocrite. I just didn't know what to do.

I supposed I just had to keep holding myself together.

I didn't want to but I rarely wanted to do anything that required real effort.

In the end, I steeled myself, successfully got up after five minutes and continued with life. I would have more friends (hopefully) and I was hungry!

One advantage of making dinner was as I was the one doing the work, it was what I wanted to eat. Whether I would have drag my father down for dinner or not was a toss-up.

"Father!" I yelled. I wasn't ready to call him 'Dad' yet. Maybe I would be one day - but for now I was holding together and I couldn't ask any more of myself.

He hadn't come down yet so I assumed he was working on the Quibbler. It seemed I would have to go fetch him myself. Loudly, but not aggressively, I climbed the stairs. Both my father and I were easy to startle so I didn't want to shock him - particularly if he was under something. We'd both hit our heads on things too many times to count and it is rather painful.

It turned out my father was neither writing for the Quibbler or being distracted by another endeavour. He was morosely staring at the picture of my mother and his eyes were fluttering as if he was about to fall asleep.

I absolutely refused to entertain the notion about clothes he'd worn outside being what he sleep in and I didn't even want to think about his shoes in the bed.

With a bit of prompting, he changed and fell asleep before he could pull his duvet on properly. I crushed the resentment I felt at the fact I had to look after him sometimes. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Why did I, as a child, have to look after the man who was meant to be my father?

I yanked his duvet over him properly - admittedly a bit harder than I needed to and left the room.

I didn't like having emotional breakdowns (one was most certainly approaching) at all and especially not in front of other people. My emotion were mine. They were private. They were sacred.

Unbalanced

The time until my Hogwarts letter continued much in the same fashion.

I knew my father could fend for himself but I was getting seriously concerned about how he'd manage without me. We had settled into a sort of balance and it was definitely going to be messed up by my inevitable departure to Hogwarts.

Although my father had improved, I was still worried.

He was honestly better in recent days - even taking me on the odd expedition. I didn't know if the creatures we talked about existed but I couldn't prove they didn't so why not enjoy the occasion? I very much liked sneaking around wild countryside in places we were probably certainly not meant to be in. In the rare event that we spotted a creature, it was a matter of identifying it which often proved to be difficult because we only caught a glimpse.

The camera wasn't the quickest either but it got good quality photos so sometimes we actually found something which was good for both of us because it was exciting and it gave my father something to write about and therefore an income.

We could technically have lived off inheritance but I enjoyed my important work - actually writing the article under my father's careful supervision.

It was a good dynamic and it worked, until my Hogwarts letter arrived.