Harry Potter woke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, thin sheets uncomfortably twisted around his bare legs.
"Shit."
His voice was raw from the nightmares — reliving moments of death, torture, grotesque rebirth, aethereal visions of lost souls, every night for eighteen days. He woke screaming, again and again, and it didn't seem to be getting any better at all.
Hating his time with the Dursley's wasn't unusual, but he couldn't remember feeling this alone, this defeated.
And bloody hell, was it hot. While he was away, Vernon hired an air conditioning tech to reroute the air flow from his room to Dudley's. Bastard.
It wasn't the Dursley's venom that haunted him, though. He came to expect this sort of abuse. Nor was it the relentless heat, the throbbing stabs of pain emanating from his scar, or even the pervading sense of helplessness that was driving him to despair. It was the distance of his friends.
Letters were a lifeline for Harry while he was detained at Privet Drive. Every summer for three years he'd written to his best friends, Ron and Hermione, as often as they'd write back. And they did write back, more or less consistently. Sure, Ron's letters were spotty, often short, and seemed less concerned about life than quidditch. But Hermione made up for it with sincere questions, meandering musings, and asides related to her most recent research interests. As silly as it sounded, Harry depended on these notes. They anchored him to a better life that seemed thousands of miles away in the isolation of the summer months.
And he was thrilled to hear from Sirius last summer. It made sense that Sirius wasn't as accessible as he'd like — he'd marveled at Hedwig's magical sense of destination as he considered round trips to Morocco, Tunisia, or Egypt to deliver a quick note to his godfather. He didn't expect frequent communication, but the occasional update from Sirius or even the sporadic check-in from Remus began to foster in Harry a sense of family.
He needed those letters. To survive the summer, to remember his distant community.
And he'd felt that need viscerally for the last eighteen days.
It seemed a cruel joke that everyone, at once, just stopped writing. He'd received two brief, dismissive rebukes from his godfather and a quick "hope you're well" from Hermione that communicated absolutely nothing of substance. That last one was fourteen days ago. Since then, suffocating silence.
Any other summer he'd be swimming in replies, not to mention stashing Mrs. Weasley's baked goods every third note or so. He'd be scheming with Ron about trips to the Burrow, or pretending interest in the Runes textbook that Hermione had recently finished.
But this summer, nothing. When he needed his people most. As he grieved the life of his friend, as he wept for the life he could have had. His family was nowhere to be found.
Reluctantly he sat up, untangled his sheets, and pivoted to the side of the bed. The Dursley's didn't allow him a clock, but from the deep dark of the night sky, he supposed it was 2 or 3 AM. When the nightmares woke him this early, he rarely made it back to sleep.
He suspected, in a distant way, that Dumbledore might be behind the silence. It would be like him to make decisions like this unilaterally. Maybe there was a good reason to leave Harry in the dark. He sincerely hoped this was the case. The alternative — that his friends, that his godfather didn't really care that much — would have pushed him over the edge.
He threw a shoe at the faulty, hand-me-down, oscillating fan that was rattling in the corner.
Forcing himself to his feet, Harry stumbled sleepily to the open window. At this hour, Hedwig was likely hunting. To his right, Hedwig's cage was lined with the torn remains of Sirius' second letter. It was no warmer than the first, but sharper-edged, and in a fit of frustration Harry had ripped it to shreds. If he'd have known it would be the last letter of the summer, he thought to himself, he'd have kept it for rereading despite it all.
God, he needed to talk to someone. So much was swimming in his head. So much horrifying speculation, so much regret, so much fear.
It was at that moment that he remembered Luna.
Lovegood, was it?
They had met on the train, on the way back to King's Cross.
Since the graveyard he'd been harboring a sense of dread, like an itch that wouldn't go away. It kept him at wit's end, and on the return trip to London Harry wasn't finding any comfort in the typical routine with Ron and Hermione. As soon as he found a natural break in the trio's conversation, he excused himself.
He didn't have anywhere to go, particularly, he just needed to get away.
It was the sight of bare toes that arrested his attention. She was seated quietly in the last car of the Hogwarts Express, in the second to last row, reading a beaten copy of a magical newspaper upside down. In a word, she was fascinating.
She was also beautiful.
Harry stopped, forgetting for a moment that he had recently stolen from a Hungarian Horntail and crossed wands with a Dark Lord, and stuttered.
"...um. Hi. I'm, uh... I'm Harry."
"Harry Potter. Hi Harry. My name is Luna Lovegood. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
She said all this without looking up from her paper. And something about that made Harry happy.
"Forgive me. But where are your shoes?"
"Ah. My housemates like jokes. And it seems I'm the butt of a lot of them. They're gone, I don't know where, but that's okay. There was a time when nobody had shoes, and the floor of the Hogwarts Express is really quite nice. Have you ever gone barefoot on the train?"
"I haven't. Um, perhaps next time?"
This would have been the right moment to end the conversation. But Harry was drawn to her, and felt, in a vague sort of way, that the tension he'd been carrying might resolve, right here and now, if he sat beside this girl and asked questions.
"I'm sorry, but do you mind if I sit down?"
She looked up from her paper, inquisitive.
"If you'd like this seat, I don't mind moving."
"No, it's not that. I just... we've never met and I've seen you around school and I thought if you weren't busy maybe we could be friends."
There was a long pause. She smiled.
"I'd like that. I've never had a friend. Not a person friend, anyway."
At once Harry felt a profound sense of connection with Luna Lovegood. Because, until recently, he hadn't had a friend either. And until very recently, he'd been the butt of a lot of jokes.
She put away her paper. Crossing her legs and sitting on her bare feet, she turned to face him. She didn't speak, she waited.
And at this point, Harry missed a beat, because he'd never met anyone with such piercing silver eyes.
They spoke for over an hour, cut off by the Hogwarts Express crew's final call. And it was the most fun Harry had had in a long time. Luna's world was bigger than Harry's — and much more magical, though he hadn't thought that was possible. As they traded stories about studies and magical creatures and coursework and professors, she'd interrupt the flow of conversation to highlight the influence of Wrackspurts or to signal a pack of Crumple-Horn Snorkacks on the horizon.
"A Crumple-Horn SnorPack. That's what a group of them are called."
And everything she said was uttered in humble, fascinated confidence. Her smile was unadulterated by vanity, her sincerity apparent in every word. As they gathered their belongings to exit the train, she handed him the copy of the Quibbler she'd been reading upside down.
"Thank you. It was a pleasure, Luna, really. I hope to see you in the Fall." And he meant it. His heaviness had dissipated altogether.
"You will, certainly. Goodbye Harry Potter."
Harry glanced across his room at the Quibbler Luna had given him eighteen days ago. He'd read it, cover to cover, nine times. There hadn't been much else to read.
Harry wondered whether it would violate Wizarding world etiquette to send her a note. He'd sent six to Hermione, four to Ron, eight to Sirius, and two to Lupin. But no response from that direction was coming, and he felt desperate for some sort of conversation.
Not knowing what to say, or whether he was wasting his time, Harry pulled out his quill and ink, and jotted down the following:
Hi Luna.
I'm not really sure whether it's normal in "our" world to write someone a note out of the blue. I'm not even sure that Hedwig knows how to find you. But I enjoyed our conversation on the train and I wouldn't mind corresponding on occasion, if you're up for it.
If you're too busy, or you're not interested in this sort of thing, that's okay.
Hope you're well.
Harry P.
PS - Thank you for your copy of the Quibbler. I read it nine times.
Just before penning the post-script, Hedwig arrived. She nuzzled and nipped Harry, who gave her a treat and explained the situation.
"This is for Luna Lovegood. I'm not sure how you do this, and I'm not sure if you know her, or how you'll find her, but if you can drop it by sometime soon I'd appreciate it."
At once, Hedwig was off, and Harry was left to his thoughts.
Her reply arrived just before dawn.
Hi Harry Potter.
I've never been happier to receive a letter from a friend. But I've also never had a person-friend, and I've never received a letter.
While I'm not the authority on what is or isn't normal in "our" world, I giggled when I read your letter. I'd be happy to correspond. And I hope we correspond more than occasionally.
I am well, especially since receiving your note.
Luna L.
PS - I was delighted to read that you'd enjoyed my copy of the Quibbler. I've sent a copy of next weeks with Hedwig. You'll find a fascinating article about Moon Frogs and their subtle influence on Wizengamot parliamentary procedure.