Tuesday, September 28, 1993
I woke to familiar warmth.
Not the abstract, comforting sort, but the very real, very tangible kind; bodies pressed close, sheets tangled, the faint scent of lavender, smoke from last night's hearth, and Rosmerta's familiar spiced soap lingering in the air. For a few disoriented seconds, I lay still, blinking up at the low wooden ceiling of the room above the Three Broomsticks, listening to the quiet rhythm of breathing that surrounded me.
Then it registered.
Aurora was also there.
Curled against my side, one arm draped possessively across my chest, her dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink, lips parted slightly in sleep. Her expression was peaceful, softened in a way that made it hard to reconcile with the glacial farewell she'd given me the night before.
I frowned inwardly.
When I'd gone to sleep, Aurora had still been at Hogwarts. Her classes usually ran late, well into the night, and given her mood when she left, I had been fully prepared to wake up to an empty space and a lingering sense of doom.
Instead, here she was.
Apparently, time had dulled her anger. Or perhaps redirected it into a temporary ceasefire. Either way, I was not foolish enough to test the limits of that by tickling the metaphorical sleeping dragon before breakfast.
Rosmerta lay on my other side, warm and solid, her back to me, one leg thrown casually over my thigh. She murmured something unintelligible and shifted slightly, the mattress creaking softly beneath us.
Yes.
Definitely not the moment to say or do anything stupid.
Carefully, painfully aware of every inch of skin in contact with mine, I lifted my hand to cast a brief, wandless sensory deprivation charm; light, delicate, lasting only a few seconds. Just enough to dull awareness, to let their bodies relax without waking, without noticing the slow extraction of limbs and warmth.
I cast it silently on both of them.
Aurora's grip loosened first. Rosmerta sighed softly and rolled onto her stomach, stealing the pillow from me in the process. I held my breath, inch by inch easing myself free, sheets whispering quietly, floorboards mercifully silent beneath my feet.
Success.
I dressed quickly but neatly; habits ingrained by years of being watched, admired, and occasionally hexed.
I paused once, glancing back at the bed.
Aurora stirred, brow creasing for a brief moment, then relaxed again. Crisis postponed.
Good.
Downstairs, the inn was still quiet, early-morning quiet, when even Hogsmeade seemed to be holding its breath. A faint clatter came from the kitchen; Dobby, no doubt, already at work, humming cheerfully to himself. The scent of fresh bread and something frying drifted up the stairs, tempting, but I resisted.
Breakfast would be at Hogwarts.
I stepped outside into the crisp morning air, pulling my coat tighter as the chill bit pleasantly at my skin. The sky was pale and clear, the sun just beginning to crest the hills, painting the rooftops gold. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, wings slicing softly through the dawn.
As I walked, my thoughts turned, inevitably, to the day ahead.
First: Luna Lovegood.
That little drawing of the diary gnawed at the back of my mind. T. M. Riddle. Too specific. Too deliberate. Luna didn't do coincidences, not in the way most people understood them. Whether she realised it or not, she might have stumbled onto something important.
I intended to ask. Gently. Preferably before she wandered off to feed something invisible.
Second: Dumbledore.
Or, more accurately, old Dumbles.
Once I had whatever information Luna could provide, I would relay it directly to him and wash my hands of the matter. Not out of disinterest; far from it. But I was painfully aware of my own limits. Dumbledore was far better suited to untangling dark artifacts and missing soul fragments than I was.
And besides…
He had help.
The thought made my lips twitch.
Grindelwald.
Former Dark Lord. Legendary menace. Current… consultant, of sorts. Still strange to think about, but boredom, it seemed, was a powerful motivator. From what I'd gathered, Grindelwald leapt at anything remotely interesting these days, if only to stave off the crushing tedium of having absolutely nothing to do.
Let them handle it.
I would assist, of course. Offer insight. Charm. Moral support.
But preferably from a safe distance.
Hogwarts loomed ahead, ancient and familiar, stone walls catching the early light. The smell of damp grass, parchment, and magic itself greeted me as I crossed the grounds.
Breakfast. Luna. Dumbledore.
And, if I was very lucky, minimal emotional explosions before noon.
With my luck?
That was optimistic.
Still.
I squared my shoulders, adjusted my collar, and stepped inside, ready to face whatever Tuesday decided to throw at me.
…
Breakfast in the Great Hall was, mercifully, calm.
Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling in pale gold bands, illuminating drifting motes of dust and the steady rise of steam from porridge bowls and teapots. The smell of toast, honey, and strong coffee mingled pleasantly, grounding me after the… delicate politics of the previous night.
I sat with Flitwick and Lupin, enjoying a surprisingly pleasant conversation. Flitwick was animated, as always, his feet hanging from the bench as he gestured enthusiastically about a new seventh-year charm progression. Lupin listened with his usual quiet attentiveness, sipping tea and offering the occasional thoughtful comment, eyes a little tired but warm.
For a few blessed minutes, I almost forgot about diaries, Dark Lords, jealous lovers, and emotionally volatile Aurors.
Almost.
Then I saw her.
Luna Lovegood rose from the Ravenclaw table, smoothing her robes absently, a dreamy look on her face as though she'd already wandered halfway into another world. She tucked a book under her arm; upside down, I noticed, and drifted toward the exit.
"That reminds me," I said smoothly, pushing back my chair. "I have something I need to attend to."
Lupin smiled knowingly. Flitwick barely looked up from buttering a crumpet.
"Do try not to start another fan meeting before lunch," Flitwick said cheerfully.
"No promises," I replied, already moving.
I caught up with Luna just outside the massive oak doors. The noise of the Great Hall dulled behind us, replaced by the echo of footsteps in the stone corridor and the distant calls of students hurrying to class.
"Miss Lovegood," I called gently.
She turned immediately, as if she'd been expecting me all along.
"Oh, hello Professor Lockhart," she said serenely. "Good morning. You smell like toast."
"…Thank you," I said, deciding not to question it. "Would you mind if we spoke privately for a moment?"
She considered this gravely, head tilting slightly to one side.
"That's alright," she said at last. "As long as it doesn't involve Wrackspurts. They get upset when ignored."
"I'll keep that in mind."
I led her through a side passage and into a small inner courtyard I knew rarely saw traffic at this hour. Ivy crept along the stone walls, and a narrow fountain trickled softly in the centre, its sound soothing and discreet. A few fallen leaves crunched underfoot as we stopped.
For caution's sake, I tapped my staff lightly against the stones.
"Muffliato."
The familiar faint buzzing filled the air, sealing us into a pocket of privacy.
Luna watched with mild interest, hands folded behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels.
"Right," I said, turning to face her. "Miss Lovegood, I wanted to ask you about the diary you mentioned in the Quibbler."
Her eyes brightened immediately.
"Oh, Tom?"
"Yes," I said carefully. "Tom. How exactly did that diary come into your possession?"
She smiled faintly, gaze drifting to the fountain as if replaying the memory.
"I found it in my bag after Potions," she said. "I thought I'd put my books in wrong again. That happens a lot."
"And when did you realise it was… unusual?"
"Oh, when it wrote back."
I blinked once. "You didn't find that suspicious?"
She hummed, considering. "I did. But he was polite. A bit sketchy, really. But I could feel he was also lonely."
Something in her tone; matter-of-fact, not dramatic, made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
"I don't have many people to talk to," she continued calmly. "So I talked to him instead. I was careful, of course. I didn't tell him important things. And I knew he wasn't a good diary."
She looked at me then, eyes clear and unguarded.
"But he was company."
I nodded slowly, resisting the urge to sigh.
Lonely children had a remarkable talent for finding the worst possible companions.
"And this didn't trouble you?" I asked gently.
"He was quick to anger," she admitted. "But I thought that was because he'd been stuck in a diary for so long. That would make anyone cross."
I had no rebuttal to that.
"And how did you lose him?" I asked instead.
Her expression softened into something almost fond.
"One afternoon we were hunting Nargles," she said. "As usual. Then Tom suggested we play hide and seek."
Of course he did.
"He told me to leave him in the second-floor girls' bathroom," she went on, "then go up to the third floor and count to one hundred."
My jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"When I came back," she finished, "he was gone."
"And you never found him again?"
She shook her head, pink-blonde hair swaying gently. "He must be very good at hide and seek. It's been months."
She frowned slightly, then added, "Though it's also possible the Nargles kidnapped him in retaliation."
I bit the inside of my cheek so as not to burst out laughing.
"I see," I said carefully. "Thank you for telling me, Miss Lovegood. This has been… very helpful."
She smiled, evidently pleased.
"If you need help," I added, "you can always come to me. And as for your friend Tom…" I paused, choosing my words with care. "I'll see what I can do."
Her face lit up.
"Thank you, Professor."
She glanced toward the corridor, eyes widening slightly.
"Oh dear, I'm running late for Charms."
"Go on," I said, dispelling the Muffliato with a flick of my staff. "Don't let Flitwick think I'm stealing students."
She skipped away, unhurried despite her words, humming softly to herself.
I watched her go thoughtfully.
There was something about Luna Lovegood; something fragile, quietly resilient, and far too alone for a place like Hogwarts.
I made a silent note to keep an eye on her.
Not as a mystery.
Not as a problem.
But as a child who deserved better company than a fragment of Tom Riddle.
And then, with a slow exhale, I turned toward my next appointment.
Albus Dumbledore.
Some messes, after all, were best handed to professionals.
I didn't know if this information was going to be of any use, but maybe he'd see something I didn't.
…