Missed Chance

Hogwarts was quieter than usual that morning, the kind of silence that pressed heavily against the chest. The corridors smelled faintly of damp stone and old parchment, a reminder of the castle's ancient magic. But for Luna Lovegood, the stillness felt suffocating. Every step she took echoed louder than it should have, as if the walls themselves were mocking her solitude.

She clutched the crumpled letter in her hand, its edges worn from being read and reread until the ink smudged. Her father’s words—his final ones—haunted her: "Stay strong, my little moonbeam. Even when the world feels dark, remember you carry light within you."

But how could she stay strong when the person who had always believed in her was gone? Xenophilius Lovegood wasn’t just her father; he was her anchor, her protector, her only family. Now, she was utterly alone.

The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt so hollow.

Luna moved through them like a ghost, her bare feet numb against the cold stone. The castle smelled of damp wool and candle wax, the usual comforting scents now suffocating. Students brushed past her, laughing, shoving, alive in a way that felt cruel.

She needed to find Harry.

Harry, who had once sat with her by the lake when she felt invisible. Harry, who had—just once—looked at her like she mattered.

Luna wandered aimlessly through the castle, her feet carrying her to places she didn’t consciously choose. She ended up near the library, where sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, painting golden streaks across the cold floor. And then she saw him—Harry. He stood at the far end of the corridor, fiddling with his bag as Ron and Hermione bickered playfully beside him. Ginny lingered close by, her arm brushing against Harry’s, possessive and unyielding.

“Harry,” Luna called softly, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound calm.

He turned, surprised to see her. “Luna? Are you okay? You don’t look okay… Did someone hide your clothes again?”

No, she wanted to say. No, Harry, I’m not okay. My father is dead. I have no one left. Please, just—

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form the words, a shrill voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Harry!” Ginny called, striding toward them with an impatient scowl. “We’ve been waiting for ages. What are you doing over here?”

Behind her, Ron rolled his eyes dramatically. “Yeah, mate, we’ve got homework to finish. Stop chatting and let’s go.”

Harry hesitated, glancing back at Luna. She could see the conflict in his eyes—the desire to stay versus the pull of obligation. But ultimately, he nodded toward his friends. “Sorry, Luna. Can we talk later?”

And just like that, he was gone.

Luna stood there, the words my father is dead rotting on her tongue.

As they walked away, Harry glanced over his shoulder once, his brow furrowed as if something about her demeanor unsettled him. But he didn’t stop. He disappeared around the corner with his friends, leaving Luna standing alone in the empty corridor.

The tears came silently this time, slipping down her cheeks without permission. She leaned against the cold stone wall, clutching the letter tighter in her fist. The grief she’d been holding back for days surged forward now, overwhelming and raw. Her father was dead. Her home was destroyed. And the one person she thought might offer her comfort hadn’t even stayed long enough to hear her say it.

Why does it hurt so much? she wondered bitterly. Why does it feel like no one sees me unless it’s convenient for them?

A group of students passed by, laughing loudly as they headed to class. Their voices grated against her ears, sharp and intrusive. She slipped into an alcove, pressing her back against the wall and drawing her knees to her chest. Here, hidden from view, she allowed herself to cry freely, her sobs muffled by the folds of her robes.

The realization came slowly, like a shadow stretching across the castle grounds.

Harry hadn’t seen Luna in days.

At first, he barely noticed—there was always Quidditch practice, Ginny pulling him into broom closets, Ron and Hermione bickering over homework. But then, one evening, as he sat in the Great Hall, his eyes flickered automatically toward the Ravenclaw table, searching for that familiar cloud of blonde hair, those radish earrings catching the candlelight.

Her seat was empty.

Odd.

He frowned, scanning the hall. Maybe she was late? But dinner came and went, and still, no Luna.

The next morning, her absence was more noticeable. The spot where she usually sat—alone, humming softly to herself—remained untouched. No one else seemed to notice.

"You seen Luna?" Harry asked Neville at breakfast.

Neville blinked. "Oh. Uh, no, not lately."

Ginny snorted beside him, spreading jam on her toast with sharp, precise strokes. "Probably off hunting some imaginary creature. Who cares?"

Harry’s stomach twisted. "Ginny—"

"What?" She raised an eyebrow, unrepentant. "It’s not like she’s ever made sense."

Harry didn’t answer.

The Astronomy Tower was empty. The library, deserted. Even the Black Lake, where they used to talk, held no trace of her.

Where the hell is she?

It wasn’t until he was pacing outside the Ravenclaw common room, debating whether to knock, that a passing girl—a fourth-year with a sharp face—paused and gave him a strange look.

"Looking for Loony?"

Harry stiffened. "Her name is Luna."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You didn’t hear? Her dad’s dead. Death Eaters attacked their house."

The words hit like a Bludger to the chest.

Dead.

Luna’s father was dead.

And Harry—Harry had brushed her off in the corridor when she tried to talk to him.

"Sorry, Luna, I’ve got to go."

Homework, you know?

Merlin, he was a bastard.

He found her in the greenhouse, curled up on a wooden bench between rows of pulsating Mimbulus mimbletonia. The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and creeping vines, the glass panes fogged with condensation.

Luna didn’t look up when he entered. She was staring at her hands, her hair limp, her usual radish earrings missing.

"Luna," Harry said softly.

She flinched, then turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. For a moment, she just stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe he was there.

"Oh," she whispered. "Hello, Harry."

His throat tightened. "I—I just heard. About your dad. I’m so sorry."

She blinked slowly, like she was trying to remember how words worked. "It’s all right."

No, it’s not, he wanted to say. Nothing about this is all right.

But he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know how to help.

"Do you—do you need anything?" he asked lamely.

Luna’s fingers trembled slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "No. Thank you."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The greenhouse plants rustled softly, as if whispering secrets Harry wasn’t meant to hear.

Finally, Luna stood, smoothing her wrinkled robes. "I should go."

"Wait—" Harry reached out, then dropped his hand. "You don’t have to be alone."

She gave him a small, broken smile. "I’m used to it."

And then she was gone, slipping out into the cold evening air, leaving Harry standing there, fists clenched, heart aching.

⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

The war ended, but the world did not stop hurting.

Harry Potter had killed Voldemort. The Boy Who Lived had become The Man Who Won. The wizarding world erupted in celebration—parades, medals, his face plastered across every front page. But in the quiet hours, when the cameras were gone and the crowds had dispersed, Harry sat alone in Grimmauld Place, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, wondering why he felt so hollow.

The war had ended, but its scars lingered like shadows stretched across the horizon. Hogwarts stood repaired, yet the cracks in its walls seemed to mirror the fractures within those who fought there. For Harry Potter, peace was a fragile thing—a quiet room where echoes of battle still whispered.

Too many ghosts. Fred. Remus. Tonks. Snape. Even Dumbledore, whose shadow still lingered in every unanswered question.

And then there was Ginny.

Their relationship, once fiery and passionate, had turned to ash. The war had changed her—or maybe it had just revealed who she always was. Sharp-tongued, impatient, her love conditional on his fame, his usefulness.

"You’re Harry Potter," she’d snap when he flinched at another reporter’s flash. "Act like it."

He stopped trying to explain.

He sat alone in Grimmauld Place, now stripped of its dark history and filled with sunlight streaming through newly cleaned windows. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and fresh parchment, though neither scent brought comfort. His desk was cluttered with unopened letters, invitations, requests for interviews, and condolences from strangers eager to share their grief as if it could somehow ease his own.

Among these letters were ones written in delicate, looping handwriting—letters from Luna Lovegood. At first, he read every word she sent, finding solace in her whimsical descriptions of faraway places and her gentle reminders that life continued even after loss. She wrote about searching for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in Sweden, watching stars reflect off Norwegian fjords, and meeting people who believed in magic beyond wands and spells.

"Dear Harry," one letter began, "I hope this finds you well. I saw a shooting star last night and wished for you to find peace amidst all the noise. You’ve carried so much already. Remember, sometimes the bravest thing we can do is rest."

Her words were simple, yet they carried a weight that no grand gesture or empty platitude ever could. They made him feel seen, understood, when the rest of the world only saw "The Boy Who Lived."

Thin, delicate parchment, addressed in looping silver ink that shimmered faintly in the light.

Dear Harry,

I hope you’re doing all right. I’ve been traveling—Sweden first, to study the Crumple-Horned Snorkack migration patterns (they’re much shyer than I thought). The forests here smell like pine and something faintly metallic, like starlight made solid. I think you’d like it.

Do you remember that time we sat by the lake, and you told me about Sirius? I still think about that. You’re a good listener, Harry. Even when you don’t say much.

Be safe.

Luna

Harry read it three times, his chest tight. He meant to reply. He wanted to. But every time he picked up a quill, the words stuck in his throat.

What could he say?

I’m not all right.

I can’t sleep.

I don’t know who I am without a war to fight.

So he set the letter aside, promising himself he’d answer later.

But as time passed, the weight of everything else grew heavier. Ginny accused him of pulling away, her voice sharp and accusing during their arguments. “You’re not the same person anymore,” she’d snap, slamming doors behind her. Hermione tried to help, but even she couldn’t fully grasp the guilt that gnawed at him—the faces of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dobby, and countless others haunting his dreams.

And then there were the crowds. Everywhere he went, people stared, pointed, whispered. Strangers thanked him for saving them while ignoring the cost it took to win. Fame felt like chains, binding him tighter with each passing day.

The letters kept coming.

From France, where Luna had befriended a herd of semi-transparent winged horses. From Egypt, where she’d gotten into a heated debate with a curse-breaker about the existence of sand Nargles. From Australia, where she’d sent him a seashell that whispered fragments of forgotten songs when held to the ear.

Harry collected them like sacred things, stacking them neatly in his bedside drawer, each one a weight he couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

Because what if he wrote back and she realized how broken he was?

What if she finally saw him—really saw him—and walked away like everyone else?

The rain fell harder that night, drumming against the windows of Grimmauld Place like accusing fingers. Harry sat in the dark, a bottle of firewhiskey half-empty beside him, the seashell pressed to his ear.

It didn’t whisper anymore.

Somewhere out there, Luna waited. And waited for his letter.

And then, like all things do when left untended—

She stopped.