Beneath The Prophecy

The train compartment was far quieter than Harriet had expected, save for the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the track and the faint rattle of rain against the fogged-up windows. She had slipped into the nearest available seat after every other compartment had filled. It wasn’t entirely by choice. Ron had dashed off to find Hermione the moment they realized how late they were, likely losing himself in their reunion. She didn’t mind. Ron had a way of making things louder and messier, and tonight, Harri preferred the quiet.

Draco Malfoy occupied the opposite bench, slouched against the window with his jumper bunched beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. His usually pristine hair was unkempt, strands sticking out at odd angles, and there were dark smudges under his eyes that made him look years older. He looked up briefly as she entered, his silver gaze landing on her.

“Potter,” he drawled, though it lacked any real venom. He gestured vaguely toward her windswept hair. “Messy as always."

Harri raised an eyebrow, but her lips didn’t even twitch toward a retort. She was too drained for their usual sparring, and, judging by the way Malfoy sagged back against the seat, so was he.

Neither of them cared for appearances tonight. Whatever summer they’d endured, it had left them both hollowed out in ways words couldn’t fully convey.

He didn’t bother with any further commentary, simply adjusted his jumper and closed his eyes. A few moments later, his breathing deepened, and Harri realized he had drifted off, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest oddly soothing.

She pulled her legs up onto the bench, stretching them out across his side of the compartment. The most harmless Malfoy there’d ever been, she thought dryly, propping her feet near him. With a flick of her wand, she charmed her battered muggle DVD player into functioning, balancing it on her knees as she scrolled through her movies. Classy, she thought sarcastically, unwrapping a box of chocolate and settling in as the train rattled on.

The rain slid down the window in lazy rivulets, distorting the blurred shapes of trees and hills beyond. Draco didn’t stir, even as the faint sounds of her movie filled the compartment. For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

Then the door slid open.

A man stepped in, his figure silhouetted against the dim corridor lighting. Harry blinked up at him, pausing her movie. He was tall, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with sharp, dark features. His brown eyes surveyed the compartment with quiet intensity, lingering on her for a moment too long. His expression betrayed nothing save for the faintest wrinkle of his brow, a silent question she didn’t know how to answer.

Harri’s legs were still stretched across the bench. Her charmed device sat plainly on her lap, a blatant violation of the rules. But the man said nothing.

Draco stirred suddenly, as if sensing the presence of the stranger. He blinked, sat up straight, and then—much to Harri’s surprise—shoved her legs off the seat with a muttered apology.

“Excuse me,” Draco said quietly, his tone unnervingly polite as he followed the man into the corridor without hesitation.

The door slid shut with a soft click, leaving Harri alone in the silence. She stared at the empty space they’d left behind, her mind turning over the encounter. The man’s dark trousers, white button-down shirt, and polished shoes had been unremarkable save for the green accents—a hint of Slytherin, she realized belatedly. It made sense, she supposed, that Draco would be summoned by someone like him.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. Who was the man? What had Draco done to warrant such attention?

By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, the two men were nowhere to be seen. Not that Harri cared—not really. Curiosity, however, was another matter. She tucked the thought away as she disembarked, joining the flood of students streaming toward the castle.

Her dormitory, assigned as a courtesy to The Girl Who Lived, was warm and inviting, almost painfully so. High ceilings with a chandelier of flickering candles, deep red and gold embroidery adorning every surface, and two tall windows framed by velvety curtains stitched with golden stars. Luna’s touch was unmistakable; Harri smiled faintly at the delicate flowers woven into the wooden witch made fairy lights above her canopy bed.

She unpacked slowly, the room’s cozy luxury almost surreal. From the cupboard under the stairs to the Dursleys’ cramped spare bedroom, her life had been a series of small spaces and smaller allowances. And now this. It felt unearned, a gilded cage dressed up as kindness.

Miss Weasley’s blanket lay folded on the small sofa, its familiar warmth a reminder of simpler times. Harri placed her DVD player on the dark oak dresser, alongside her toothbrush, her battered hairbrush, and the soft teddy bear she’d had since she was a baby. One by one, she stowed away her few belongings, the process grounding her in its mundanity.

The fire crackled faintly in the common room below, a sound that tugged at her like a distant memory. She missed it—the hearth in the Gryffindor tower, the warmth it had offered on nights that felt colder than the winters outside.

For now, she opted to ignore the world beyond her walls. Let the castle stir with its usual chaos. Let the whispers of the new school year and the shadows of unanswered questions wait for another day. Tonight, she would simply be.

The wind howled beyond the ancient walls, its mournful roar battering the leaded glass of the castle windows. Within the Gryffindor common room, however, the tempest seemed muted, reduced to a distant murmur beneath the crackling of the hearth fire. Shadows danced on the stone walls, their flickering forms like ghosts summoned by the flames.

Harri sat closest to the fire, one leg drawn tightly against her chest, her other foot tucked beneath her as if bracing against an unseen chill. Her emerald eyes, dulled by years of vigilance, stared into the blaze. The fire held her gaze, its shifting embers a chaotic mirror to the storm inside her. Here, in the heart of warmth and camaraderie, she felt most estranged. The room was sparsely populated tonight—just the low drone of distant conversation and the soft rustle of parchment breaking the stillness.

The title clung to her like a second skin: The Girl Who Lived. But Harri knew, in the marrow of her being, she had ceased to be a girl long ago. Her youth had been siphoned away in pieces—each victory exacting its toll, each loss carving away at her soul. Whatever had been left behind was something jagged, raw, and wholly unsuited for the kind of careless laughter that still lingered in the castle halls.

A half-empty glass of pumpkin juice dangled from her fingers, its chill forgotten. The amber liquid caught the firelight, casting muted gold streaks across her knuckles. No alcohol. Of course not. Hogwarts was still a fortress of rules, and she—begrudgingly or not—its unwilling paragon. She allowed herself a bitter smirk. Some habits die harder than others.

“Brooding again, are we?” Hermione’s voice broke through the quiet, gentle but edged with that particular brand of concern Harry found suffocating. She settled beside Harri with a practiced ease, folding herself into the cushions like an ancient tapestry. Hermione’s presence should have been comforting—once, it might have been—but tonight, it itched, a subtle irritation Harri couldn’t shake.

“I’m not brooding,” Harri replied flatly, the words clipped. She could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in her own voice and winced at it. It wasn’t fair, not to Hermione. “Just thinking.”

Hermione didn’t answer immediately, though her silence was loaded. She turned her attention to the fire instead, her sharp eyes reflecting the flames as if they were stoking her own unspoken thoughts.

The portrait door swung open with a groan, and Ron entered, his movements heavy, his face clouded with an unease he no longer bothered to hide. His hands trembled faintly as he reached for a biscuit from the communal plate, a motion so familiar it felt rehearsed.

“What’s the news, then?” he asked through a mouthful, his voice attempting cheery but falling far short. “More Dementors in the village, I’ll bet.”

Harri didn’t answer, not immediately. Her gaze had drifted to the window, where the night sky had deepened to a suffocating indigo. The stars were long buried beneath clouds that churned like ash. A fitting sky for their first night back at Hogwarts, she thought.

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “We’re supposed to get some rest before tomorrow,” he ventured, stretching with an exaggerated casualness. “But if you’re set on staying here all night, I’ll keep you company. Might as well.”

His clumsy attempt at camaraderie was almost endearing. Almost. Harri managed a faint smile, though the gesture felt foreign, as though her face had forgotten the mechanics of warmth. How dissapointing.

The room felt too small, the fire too hot, and their concern too heavy. Harri slipped away while Hermione feigned immersion in her book and Ron busied himself with his dwindling pile of biscuits. Neither of them noticed when she rose, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her movements as quiet as breath.

The Fat Lady muttered something about curfew as Harri slipped through the portrait hole, but the words washed over her, meaningless. She walked without direction, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone corridors. Her only companions were the drafts that whispered through the empty halls, their touch like skeletal fingers brushing her cheeks.

Her mind returned to the Gryffindors' who had burst into the common room earlier, their laughter loud, their eyes shining with drink and celebration. They had raised their glasses to her, cheering as if her survival were some triumph worthy of revelry. The weight of their joy had crushed her. To them, she was an icon, a living symbol of defiance. But to herself? She was a fracture.

By the time she reached the base of Ravenclaw Tower, her legs ached, and her chest felt hollowed out. She paused in the shadows, her fingers brushing against the stone wall as if searching for something solid to tether herself to. Across the hall, an armchair loomed in the corner of her vision, but the thought of sitting repelled her. She needed movement, the sharp pang of exhaustion to dull the storm in her mind.

If she could walk far enough, long enough, perhaps she could leave herself behind—the grief, the guilt, the bone-deep ache of being seen but never truly known. As her feet carried her deeper into the castle’s labyrinthine corridors, she realized she didn’t want to be found. Not by Hermione, with her endless concern, nor by Ron, with his misplaced bravado.

Let them stay in the warmth of the common room, eating biscuits and pretending. Pretending they could still be children, that this war had not already devoured them whole. Harry envied them that pretense, but she knew she could never share in it.

She was apart from them. Not by choice, but by design—a design she could neither understand nor escape.

Harri’s thoughts meandered as they always did, dragging her to places she didn’t wish to linger. Tonight, it was the Gryffindors' from earlier—stumbling, drunk on fleeting victories, bursting into the common room with the kind of careless joy that felt alien to her. Their raised glasses, their boisterous cheers—they meant well, of course. But the noise had suffocated her, their celebration binding her tighter to the role she could no longer bear to inhabit. The Girl Who Lived.

She could still feel the weight of their gazes, the unwelcome warmth of their attention. They weren’t malicious—she knew the distinction all too well by now—but the scrutiny burned all the same. It was the constant expectation, the suffocating myth they had woven around her. Even now, out on the bridge where the cold night air wrapped around her like armor, she couldn’t shake the sensation. Eyes were always on her. Let them watch, whoever they were. She was far too tired to care anymore.

“The stars are hiding tonight,” came a soft voice from the shadows, light as moonbeams breaking through storm clouds.

Harri turned, startled but not displeased, to see Luna Lovegood stepping onto the bridge. The moonlight caught the silver sheen of her ash-blonde hair, giving her an ethereal glow that felt otherworldly. Her pale blue eyes, wide and untroubled, seemed to drink in the night as if it were a secret she might decipher.

“Luna,” Harri said, her voice quieter than she’d intended, as though the name itself demanded reverence in the stillness.

Luna tilted her head, offering a small, knowing smile. “You seemed like you needed company,” she said simply. There was no pity in her tone, no probing questions. Just Luna, unflinching in her kindness, her presence as soft and steady as the night itself.

Harri sighed, her shoulders easing fractionally. “I suppose I did,” she admitted.

Luna drifted closer, her steps soundless against the stone. She leaned lightly against the railing, gazing out over the lake where the dark waters rippled faintly beneath the wind. “It’s a good night for walking,” she mused, her voice lilting like a melody. “The castle feels quieter when everyone else is asleep. Quieter in a way that matters.”

“Quieter,” Harri repeated, testing the word. She glanced at Luna, a faint curiosity stirring amidst the fog of her thoughts. “I assume your common room is as quiet as always.”

“Always,” Luna agreed. “I’ve made it especially comfortable tonight. Would you like to come in?”

Harri hesitated. It wasn’t as though she had someplace else to go. Her existence had become that of a symbol, a figurehead for the wizarding world’s desperate hope. And if the world was sleeping, who was there left to perform for? Even the paintings were likely uninterested in her endless brooding.

“Yes,” she said finally, the word slipping from her lips like a truce.

The Ravenclaw common room was just as Luna had promised—tranquil, an oasis of quiet thoughtfulness amidst the storm that was Hogwarts. Its soaring ceilings and wide, arched windows allowed moonlight to spill across the room, pooling on the deep blue carpets and glinting off the spines of books that lined every wall. The air smelled faintly of parchment and lavender, a soothing combination that seemed to wrap around Harri like a lullaby.

Luna led her to a pair of oversized couches near the fire. The flames burned low, their warmth subtle and inviting. Harry sank into the cushions with little ceremony, exhaustion loosening her limbs.

“I’ll get a brush,” Luna said suddenly, rising with her usual fluid grace. “My hand’s been bothering me—I can’t quite manage it myself tonight.”

Harri arched an eyebrow, yet she said nothing.

Left alone, her gaze wandered. The common room was a world apart from Gryffindor’s lively chaos—vast, cathedral-like, yet intimate in its quiet nooks and alcoves. She could see the appeal of the Ravenclaws’ retreat, the sanctuary they had carved for themselves.

Her eyes drifted to a corner near a smaller fireplace, tucked behind a towering bookshelf. There, on a cushioned lounge chair, lay Draco Malfoy. He was asleep, his pale face softened in the firelight. The sharp edges of his features—so often twisted by disdain or tension—seemed smoothed by an unguarded peace. Draped over him was a shimmering silver blanket that could only belong to Luna.

Harri tilted her head, an unbidden smile tugging at her lips. She’d heard whispers of his fractured world—Hermione had mentioned the violent encounters at Malfoy Manor and how the Slytherin hierarchy had turned against him. None of it was Harri’s business. They had never been friends, never truly understood each other. And yet, seeing him now, she couldn’t bring herself to feel the bitterness she once had. He was just another casualty of this endless war, seeking shelter where he could.

When Luna returned, she didn’t comment on Draco’s presence, and neither did Harri. It wasn’t necessary.

Luna handed Harri the brush without explanation and settled on the floor before her, her hair falling in a cascade of pale silk. Harry took the brush, her fingers closing over its smooth wooden handle, and began working through the strands with slow, deliberate strokes.

The motion was soothing, almost meditative. Memories flickered unbidden—of younger years when she had helped Luna rid her hair of cruel, mocking tokens thrown by thoughtless students. It had been a quiet act of solidarity, one of the few things Harri could offer.

“You’ve had a long day,” Luna murmured, her voice gentle, like the brush of leaves against a windowpane. “But you don’t have to carry all of it.”

Harri didn’t answer immediately. The rhythmic glide of the brush grounded her, allowed her thoughts to flow like the tide. “Maybe not,” she said finally. “But it’s hard to let go.”

Luna turned her head slightly, her smile faint but warm. “Even the stars let go of the sky when morning comes,” she said. “They don’t disappear—they just rest.”

Harri paused, the brush still in her hand. She wished, fleetingly, that she could borrow Luna’s mind, her ability to find lightness amidst so much darkness.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth cocooning them. Harri set the brush down, leaning back into the couch. Luna shifted, resting her head lightly on Harri’s shoulder, and they sat in companionable silence.

“Stay here tonight,” Luna whispered, her words almost swallowed by the quiet. “The stars will still be there tomorrow.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Harri let herself believe it.