It had been around noon when Harry, finally finished with the trickiest phase of the latest batch of invisibility potions he'd been crafting, washed his hands at the ceramic basin in the southwest corner of the potions lab, feeling pleased with his work. The purple aura emanating from the copper cauldrons smelled precisely of ripe lemons, just a hint of rosemary; he'd even felt overcome by a vague sense of confusion as he inhaled the vapors. In a word, the recipe was coming together nicely. He noted the time. He wasn't hungry at all, a full breakfast mere hours behind him, and he felt his eyes might bleed if he dove into his typical routine in the library.
The subtle movement of a black tabby, prowling about in the garden just outside the potion lab's windows, caught his attention. Despite his best interests, he was overcome by a sudden desire to see Luna.
Twelve minutes later, he was holding a rusted tin can, heart racing in anticipation.
Since Luna had returned to Hogwarts, nearly six weeks ago, Harry's occasional visits became a much more complicated matter.
It wasn't the transportation, as he discovered inadvertently that the rusty tin can simply delivered him to Hogwarts, if Luna happened to be there. Panic had shot through him that day, as soon as he found himself on the southeastern borders of the Forbidden Forest, rather than at the foot of an ancient ash. It had taken nearly two minutes of stunned reflection before he remembered that it was September 2, and she would have arrived on the grounds of Hogwarts the prior evening.
The trick of it, he quickly realized, was sifting through stale memories to recall when he himself had been referencing the Marauder's Map. He'd discovered in third year that transfigured humans, like animagi, would appear on the map as themselves — this revelation happily led to Peter Pettigrew's discovery and Sirius Black's rescue. He was certain, then, that he'd appear (as himself) on the Marauder's Map whenever he wandered the grounds, despite his feline disguise. He was also certain that past Harry wouldn't think twice about investigating his presence. So he spent several evenings at Ravenswood Hall practicing some of the meditations that Luna had demonstrated, merely to recall with some certainty what he was doing, and when he was doing it, for the entirety of his fourth year.
He felt fairly confident that he hadn't been doing anything today, as it happens. It was a week on the heels of being chosen to represent Hogwarts as champion. A bit of lonely flying in mid-afternoon, followed by an uneventful dinner and an evening spent in the library, alone, cast off by all but Hermione.
With a shudder, Harry wondered whether Draco had managed to produce the "Potter Stinks" buttons that, for nearly a month, peppered the bags and robes of students across campus.
This reflection, unexpectedly, stirred a warmth in his chest. He needn't be concerned about social ostracism any longer. He had Luna, an anchor, and she loved him despite his failures and frailty.
The thought had occurred to him just as Luna came into view, legs folded beneath her. Sunlight cast into a broad clearing in the midst of the forest gave her nearly waist-length blonde hair an almost magical aura. She was wearing a navy cardigan over her uniform, tie casually loosened and top button undone. He paused for a moment to capture the vision of her, purring contentedly.
She stirred at his approach. "Harry!" She leaned toward him with a happy smile. "How are you, my handsome boy?" She scratched his chin and ears, as he leaned into her hands. "This is twice now you've visited me, so far from home. Either you've a profound sense of direction, or there's something magical about you."
He fell into her lap, flipping on his back and pawing her hands.
"I think it's the latter." She mused, her tone gaining an ethereal distance. "It's remarkable, the timing of your visits. My first pair of shoes went missing this morning, and one of my housemates has discovered a quite clever means to restrict my entrance to the Great Hall. It was lots of fun for them, of course, but by the time Professor Flitwick discovered the enchantment, there was hardly time for toast." She paused, her gaze distant. "It isn't that I'm sad, Harry. It's just that I'm not quite ready to let go of the solitude that typically accompanies the first months of the semester."
A thought suddenly pulled her from her reflection, and she returned her gaze to Harry's feline eyes. "I adore your visits, of course, Harry. You're my friend." At this she pulled him to her chest, pressing her forehead into hers. "People, though, haven't quite decided that they appreciate my presence. There's some comfort when they don't notice you at all."
The weight Harry felt, against the backdrop of her words, could hardly be contained within the frame of a lean tabby cat. He curled into her, pawing her thighs affectionately.
They sat quietly for nearly an hour, enjoying the crisp Autumn breeze and the yellows and reds of turning leaves.
"Oh! I can't believe I hadn't mentioned it, Harry. Daddy received a letter from a prospective investor, nearly two months ago. We've discussed the proposal at length, and have agreed to at least consider shifting the scope of the paper. It would be a return, really, to matters of common consequence. He wrote to me this morning, actually. He'll be replying this afternoon."
Harry's heart leapt as she spoke.
Her brow furrowed. "I'm quite excited by the notion. Yet who will cover the nefarious influence of moonfrogs — a story that's been developing for nearly a year? I'd hate for matters of such significance to be forgotten."
Her gaze returned to the distance, and he twisted his lean form around her forearm, his tail twisting playfully around her elbow.
"You're right, of course. I'll write the article." She sighed contentedly. "The people must know."
Harry returned to Ravenswood Hall a few hours before dusk, suddenly and unaccountably interested in observing the river fairy community residing in the brook just beyond the gardens. He settled among the roots of a willow, and as he shifted his weight he discovered parchment in his right pocket.
It was a letter from Xenophilius.
Mr. Orion Grey,
You must forgive the nature of my reply. Some time has passed since your letter arrived. Yet I have not been idle. I am, you're likely aware, a journalist chiefly.
I had never encountered the surname "Grey," in my not insignificant years. Silence, I've found, is often a signal. So I followed that signal. I've since discovered no evidence of an "Orion Grey" in any practicing legal or financial firm in Britain, Scotland, Ireland, or (for at this point you truly piqued my interest) any nation in Europe or North America. Indeed, I can find no record of an "Orion Grey" whatsoever. You, I'm afraid, don't exist.
So I can only assume I'm corresponding with the interested party directly, by way of a pseudonym. Fair enough. Anonymity often fosters an environment of honesty.
I, too, share your concerns. The Daily Prophet was once a bastion for justice and truth in dark nights and deep valleys; she has become a tool for political propaganda on her best days, and an instrument of darkness on her worst. How the mighty have fallen. Magical Britain is worse for her wear.
As to whether The Quibbler might reclaim its place?
The Quibbler was born to push back the darkness. She alone stood against the pureblood propaganda that nearly overtook the wizarding world in the midst of the Grindelwald crisis. Generations, indeed. Ironically, it was directly on the heels of the mysterious demise of Voldemort that her readership fell dramatically. Weary and afraid, the masses were too ready to forget the darkness, too eager to dismiss its existence altogether.
The editorial team dwindled to one, and (as I mourned the departure of my bride, I count this among my greatest failures) I allowed the staff and scope of our fair publication to narrow to my distant and most speculative interests.
Might she regain her former voice? Perhaps. Funding, I admit, would be imperative. I refuse to allow The Quibbler to be sold. The truth should never be sold.
I have two additional conditions.
First, I refuse to surrender editorial control. Money corrupts. Our darkest days are dictated by the whims of wealthy men behind press and politics. And so the press must never surrender her independence.
Second, we must lift the veil of anonymity. There are many good reasons why you might prefer to remain "Orion Grey." Yet I cannot trust a man I cannot look in the eye.
When you're ready, I am.
For the Light,
Xenophilius Lovegood