Precisely seven months and six hours later, 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.

Yet it wasn't the Dursley's venom that haunted him. 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 Hermoine, 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 Hermoine 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 — a life that seemed thousands of miles away in the isolation of the summer months.

And he was thrilled to hear from Sirius last summer. Of course, 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 Hermoine 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 Hermoine 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 friends were 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 — threatened what semblance of hope he desperately clung to.

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 just at that moment that he remembered Luna.

Lovegood, was it?

Harry glanced across his room at the Quibbler Luna had given him last fall. He'd read it, cover to cover, nine times since he'd left the castle. 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 Hermoine, 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 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 week's with Hedwig. You'll find a fascinating article about Moon Frogs and their subtle influence on Wizengamot parliamentary procedure.