The castle had grown quiet by the time we returned our books. Candles burned low in their sconces, and the air held that peculiar calm that always came before curfew.
Luna paused at the corridor window, her eyes reflecting the moonlight spilling across the Forbidden Forest. "Do you ever wonder what they're doing out there?" she whispered.
"The creatures?" I asked, following her gaze.
She nodded slowly. "The centaurs. Thestrals. All of them. They live right beside us, but hardly anyone ever tries to understand them."
I hesitated. "You mean… go out there?"
Her lips curved into that dreamy, fearless smile of hers. "Only for a little while."
And so, with cloaks wrapped tight and our footsteps softened by Luna's quiet enchantment, we slipped past the castle gates and into the whispering forest. The night hummed with the sound of leaves and distant wings. Moonlight danced across the mist, painting everything silver-blue.
I could feel the forest breathing—alive, old, and watchful.
We walked deeper until a faint glow shimmered between the trees. Then came the sound of hooves against moss, steady and deliberate. From the shadows, two centaurs emerged.
One, tall and broad with pale hair cascading over his shoulders, carried a bow slung across his back. His eyes reflected starlight—ancient and unreadable.
"Students," he said sternly, voice deep as the forest floor. "You tread where you should not."
I froze, but Luna stepped forward gently, her voice calm and reverent. "We don't mean harm. We only wanted to learn. I've read that your kind can read the stars… and I wanted to see them the way you do."
The centaurs exchanged looks. The elder one snorted quietly. "Few wizards seek knowledge for its own sake. Fewer still ask without pride."
Luna tilted her head, unfazed. "Would you let me draw you?" she asked softly, holding up a small sketchbook she had tucked under her cloak. "So that I can remember tonight… and maybe show others that you are more than stories whispered in corridors."
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
The centaur studied her closely, his expression unreadable. "Lovegood…" he murmured at last. "You bear your father's curiosity. Reckless, but sincere."
Then, to my astonishment, his voice softened. "Very well. But only for a short while. The stars demand my gaze soon."
Luna's eyes lit up with pure joy. She sat on a fallen log and began sketching with quick, fluid strokes, her quill moving as if guided by moonlight itself. I stood beside her, heart pounding—not from fear, but awe.
The centaur looked skyward as she drew, his posture regal beneath the moon. "The constellations shift tonight," he murmured. "A sign of change… perhaps of balance returning."
"What kind of balance?" Luna asked quietly, not looking up from her sketch.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes traced the horizon, and for a moment, I thought I saw sadness flicker there. "That is not for me to say. Only the stars know, and they speak rarely."
When Luna finished, she rose and showed him the drawing. The centaur studied it for a long moment. "You see truly," he said finally. "Keep that gift safe, Luna Lovegood. The world often fears what it cannot name."
He turned his gaze to me next. "And you—stay close to her. Curiosity without fear is a light worth protecting."
Then, as silently as they had come, the centaurs faded back into the forest, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the hum of distant starlight.
Luna closed her sketchbook, holding it to her chest. "I think," she whispered, "this might be the most beautiful night I've ever had."
I looked up at the sky, where the stars seemed to shine brighter than before. "Yes."
The centaurs had vanished deeper into the trees, but their presence lingered — a quiet protection woven through the air. Luna and I walked a little further until we reached a clearing bathed in pale silver light.
The stars stretched endlessly above us, sharp and brilliant against the velvet dark. A thin mist curled around our feet, carrying the faint scent of moss and dew. The forest no longer felt forbidden — only vast, alive, and watching.
Luna spread her cloak on the grass and sat cross-legged, her eyes turned upward. I joined her, still feeling the echo of the centaur's words in my chest.
"They guard us," she said softly, nodding toward the shadowed edge of the clearing. Through the trees, I could just make out the silhouettes of the centaurs — tall, still, and silent, their eyes like small, distant stars.
"They're making sure we don't get lost," she added.
"Do you think they'll get in trouble for helping us?" I asked quietly.
Luna shook her head, her hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. "No. The stars approve of kindness."
We fell into silence. The kind of silence that felt alive, filled with quiet meanings that didn't need words.
Luna pulled out her sketchbook again, flipping to a blank page. But instead of drawing, she set it down beside her and leaned back to lie flat on the cool grass. "Do you see that?" she murmured, pointing. "Orion. And there… Canis Major."
I followed her hand, tracing the glittering map above us. "It's strange," I said. "I've seen them before, but… not like this."
"That's because you're not just looking tonight," she said. "You're seeing."
Her voice was so calm, so certain, it made my heart ache a little.
A breeze moved through the clearing, carrying the soft rustle of leaves and the low hum of the forest. Somewhere nearby, a centaur shifted, the sound of hooves brushing against roots.
I turned to look at Luna. Her eyes were wide open, full of stars, her expression serene — almost glowing with wonder.
She whispered, "Sometimes I think the world hides its secrets until it knows you're gentle enough to hold them."
I smiled faintly. "Then it must trust you completely."
Luna laughed softly, the sound delicate as moonlight. "Maybe it's starting to trust you, too."
We stayed like that for a long time — two Ravenclaw girls lying beneath the watchful sky, guarded by creatures older than human memory. The night wrapped around us like a soft spell.
When we finally stood to leave, the centaurs still lingered at the tree line. One of them inclined his head ever so slightly — not in farewell, but in quiet acknowledgment.
Luna mirrored the gesture, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you."
The centaur didn't speak, only raised his gaze toward the constellations once more, and in that still moment, I felt something sacred — as if the forest itself had accepted us, if only for this one, perfect night.
We turned back toward the castle, hand in hand, the moon lighting our way.