They don’t trust anyone — haven’t trusted anyone, except the man that is Dumbledore’s brother — so when there’s an unscheduled knock from Ariana Dumbledore’s portrait, the whole room stills. Neville is asleep, so Ginny stands up first, weaving through her classmates, wand held in a tight grip, at the ready.
Behind her, Lee and Chang flank her. The knocking sounds again, a rhythmical rat-a-tat-tat just like they agreed, but Ginny knows better than to be anything but as careful as possible. They all do.
She takes a deep breath. “Password?” she says lowly, and hopes they haven’t heard her.
“Gillyweed,” comes a voice, and Ginny recognises it at once and it takes all of her not to just throw open the door and let her in. If it is her. If she’s alone.
Behind her, she meets Lee and Chang’s eyes and nods minutely, and behind them, everyone else readies their wands too, from the smallest first years at the back, to Neville who’s up on his feet already, even though he’s just had his first bout of sleep for the past few days.
Slowly, shakily, cautiously, Ginny pulls the golden frame of the portrait and the door opens. And, sure enough, Luna’s face stares back at her.
Luna looks tired, she thinks. But then again, they all do.
“What article were we looking at before,” and she swallows, pushing down the emotion that comes with the memory, “before they took you?”
Luna pauses for a moment, and Ginny holds her breath.
“It was the one in the Quibbler about how thestral scales ward away dementors,” she replies, and offers up a hopeful smile. “Right?”
Ginny feels relief flooding her body, the first whole-hearted smile she’s felt on her face in weeks breaking out, grabbing Luna by the waist and practically lifting her up. And laughs, giddy.
In her ear, she feels Luna giggle back in delight, returning the hug, and Ginny holds on tight for all it’s worth and it’s worth everything. Luna is too light, and too frail, even more so than Ginny who’s been trapped here for what seems like forever, but she’s here — she’s back, she’s home. Her frame quivers against Ginny’s and her fists grip her shirt behind her back and she hides her face in the crook of Ginny’s neck.
For a few moments, Ginny just lets them breathe together.
“I missed you so much,” she says, uncaring of their audience on the other side of the frame, and holds Luna out to examine her face and the rest of her, one hand on her shoulder and the other holding her cheek. She’s not unharmed, of course, Ginny knew she wouldn’t be, she’s gaunt and there are slowly fading bruises, and a few minor cuts, but she’s really, really here.
“I missed you too,” says Luna. “How are you?” she adds, as though she wasn’t kidnapped by Deatheaters a few months back.
“We’re,” and she doesn’t want to say fine, or okay, because they aren’t. She might even be tempted to say they might never be again (but she won’t, because they have to be okay one day, if she can’t believe that then there’s nothing). “We’re managing,” she says instead. “Better now that you’re back.”
Ginny clasps Luna’s hand in her own, and vows to herself, silently, that she won’t let go.