They traded notes like this for weeks. Every morning, waking from a fitful sleep at dawn, Harry pivoted off his bed, stretched, and made his way to the far corner of his room to reread a short pile of Luna's letters. Every morning, as he took up his quill, as his heart raced and a thrill shot through his spine, he asked himself what this was, and whether he was dreaming. Hedwig would depart, or Asher would arrive, and they'd trade at least four letters a day.

On the morning of July 6, Asher perched on his shoulder as Harry read and reread Luna's last letter. He couldn't remember feeling this happy.

Initially, their notes were playful and light — they explored interests, traded happy memories. They discussed magical creatures and magical theory and the magical community. The distant hint of something more profound resonated behind each letter. Yet this morning, as he set quill to parchment, Harry hesitated.

This morning's letter was different. Luna was pushing for more. She wanted to know why he was hurting. She wanted to understand his nightmares. And that felt like undressing. Luna wanted to know him — truly wanted to know his past, and his thoughts, and his fears. That invitation was like a breath of fresh air. He was suffocating, and she was oxygen. Yet he was terrified that she'd see, immediately, that he was a disaster. That she'd see through him, see his cowardice and frailty — see that there was nothing truly special about him at all.

Would he lose her, then? Would he lose this?

He was desperate to be seen, and desperately afraid of being laid bare.

But nobody had ever cared like this. Not Ron or Hermione, not Sirius, not Dumbledore. Luna had asked what nobody else asked. Luna drew near when everyone else faded away. And he was beginning to believe that, whatever this was, it was real.

So he took a breath, set aside her letter, and set to writing.

Dear Luna,

Your friendship, your questions, your genuine concern. Thank you, Luna, for all of it.

I wish you were here, honestly. I've never spoken like this to anyone, and I'd give anything to see your face as you read these words, and to hear your voice as you respond.

I don't quite know where to start, except to say that it all seems to revolve around my mom.

Dumbledore tells me it was her love that saved me. And I thought at first he was speaking metaphorically. But she was a clever witch, and she found a way to wrap her love for me, her sacrifice, in some complex and powerful magic. It's what killed Voldemort. (Killed doesn't seem to be the right word.) And it's why he's been obsessed with me since.

I have nightmares about that night at the graveyard.

Actually, it occurs to me now that you may not know any details about that night.

Cedric and I were dropped in a graveyard when we grabbed that cup — the graveyard of Tom's father. (Did you know that was his name? God, there's so much I have to tell you.) It's where Cedric died. It's where a part of me died, too.

Tom needed me there, apparently, to undo what my mother did. And now he's back. And now whatever protection my mother died to give me is gone.

That was what was special about me, Luna. It was my mom's power, my mom's brilliance, my mom's sacrifice. And all this nonsense about "the boy who lived" doesn't seem to matter anymore, because I'm just Harry now, and Voldemort's living and breathing and walking and murdering.

And all of that makes me feel insignificant and afraid and helpless. But deeper than all that, I think I just miss her. I didn't even know her, but I owe her everything. And on my dark days I wish she hadn't made that sacrifice. That way she'd be here.

You mentioned that you lost your mother. Does it haunt you like this?

Harry P.

PS - If I told you I'd read every issue twice, would you fill my days with letters? If it meant more of you, I'd finish every book I own.

After a late lunch and a bit of tidying up, Luna spent the afternoon rereading the various appendices to the first edition of Newt Scamander's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. That was her intention, anyway. But shortly after she'd settled into the wingback beside her window, her eyes strayed to the pile of letter on the side table.

She picked up and read the first. Then the second. Then the third.

"Your words move me." A sharp intake of breath.

"I'm terrified I'll push you away." She bit her lower lip.

"If you're okay with this mess, I'd love to share it with you." She looked away, blushed.

"When I read those words, my heart raced." A sound escaped her. A soft, longing sigh.

Whatever this was, she didn't want it to stop.

She looked up, not knowing whom exactly, or what, she was addressing. "Oh, thank you! Thank you for quills and ink and parchment and ravens and owls and words. And thank you for Harry."

Harry Potter. Her first friend. She must be dreaming.

At that moment, Asher flew into the open window and settled gracefully beside Hedwig, a folded letter tied gently to his left leg.

She leapt out of the chair, delighted.

"Oh, thank you, Asher!"

Dear Harry,

I'm so sorry you lost your mother. She sounds like a brilliant witch.

My mother was an exceptional witch, too. I lost her nearly six years ago. She was the light of our home — the bright, shining light.

Does it haunt me? I do think about her every day. And in that way she's never left me. I think something would be wrong with the world if it felt right without her. Love leaves impressions — deep, lasting impressions. The beauty of this world is in the cracks that love leaves behind. Like kintsugi — broken pieces of pottery, stitched together with threads of gold. So I suppose I'm glad that my mother's death still haunts me. She made me who I am, in death as much as in life.

And I think that's true for you, Harry. You are a gift that your Mother chose to give to the world. Her life, her love, her brilliance — they were hers to give. And she gave them to you. And in that way she gave you to the world. You can't take that away from her.

So much of what we are is what we do. And that act of sacrifice is as much a part of her as every smile captured in a photo, as every charm cast, as every kiss exchanged, as every letter written. Wishing that she hadn't laid down her life for yours is like wishing she were different.

Don't regret that beautiful act, Harry. Cherish it. Cherish the gift she's given you. Cherish the gift she's given the world.

I do.

Luna L.

PS - If you'll have me, I'll be yours, 'till Britain is bereft of ink and parchment.

She sent Hedwig, fully rested and eager to return home, with the freshly sealed letter.

Every word she'd written felt like an extension of herself. She'd never been this open with anyone. But at every turn she suppressed her instincts to mask, to distract, to run full speed away from pain. Because she loved this. She loved this summer, she loved this feeling, she loved this conversation, she loved every ounce of potential she saw in this friendship.

But she hated waiting. She hated not knowing how Harry would feel about her words of comfort, her vulnerability, her flirtation.

God, it would be amazing to be with him. To see him and speak to him. To feel him.

At that moment, an idea occurred to Luna Lovegood that had her pacing to and fro, with furrowed brow and determined expression, for nearly two hours.

That's when Hedwig returned, announcing herself with melodic trill. Luna ran to the perch and nuzzled the snowy owl fondly.

"Hello, my dear Hedwig. Thank you so much for this."

She untied the note, broke the seal without sitting, and began reading immediately.

Dear Luna,

You're right. To take from her what she gave to me would be wrong. I just can't help but feel that all of the hope that the world has invested in me was due her. And that feels like yet another way I've hurt everyone who loves me.

Thank you.

Luna, no one has ever cared like this. I'm honestly terrified that this is all just a dream.

I'm so sorry you lost your mother. Tell me more about her.

I think sometimes that it's easier not to remember mine. But that's all shit, really, because it's built on the notion that pain of loss is worse than the joy of having. And I don't believe that.

Tell be about your mother, and about your father, and about your home and your most sacred memories. Introduce yourself to me, Luna Lovegood.

I wish you were here, Luna.

Harry P.

PS - This. Whatever this is, I don't want it to stop.