Chapter Eighteen: A Chance Encounter
Elian didn't allow himself to freeze. He kept his stride steady as he left the headmaster's office, descending the spiral staircase with a mind churning faster than the moving steps.
Careless.
Dumbledore's final, musing comment echoed in his head. 'Casual defiance.' He'd focused on the act of standing up to Umbridge, but he'd forgotten the cultural weight of the name itself. 'Voldemort' wasn't just a villain's title; it was a word wrapped in terror, taboo, and tracking spells. To say it so freely, without a trace of the fear that gripped the wizarding world, marked him as an outlier. To Dumbledore, a man who saw patterns in everything, it was a data point. He wasn't suspected of being a Death Eater—his actions proved otherwise—but he was now officially interesting. A puzzle.
It was an uncomfortable realization, but not a catastrophic one. Dumbledore had bigger concerns than a strangely confident first-year. For now, Elian resolved to be more mindful. The flamboyant defiance had its place, but subtlety was a weapon too.
As the weekdays settled into a rhythm, Elian's life at Hogwarts found a new normal. His days were filled with classes, his evenings split between Hermione's rigorous tutoring sessions and their clandestine, often hilarious attempts at 'silent spell' practice—which mostly involved Hermione making breakthroughs through sheer force of will while Elian offered wildly theoretical advice. Their friendship deepened, built on shared curiosity and a mutual dislike of Umbridge.
Through Hermione, he was slowly, tentatively, introduced to the periphery of her circle. He'd join them in the Gryffindor common room, listening to Ron's Quidditch complaints and Harry's quieter, more strained contributions. His willingness to say Voldemort's name and his detention battle scars earned him a measure of wary respect from Harry and amused approval from Ron.
But a different frustration gnawed at him. The house points for his astral projection reward were stuck at 17. He needed just three more, but they seemed to be made of unobtainium. He'd been subtly—and then not-so-subtly—hinting to various professors after demonstrating perfect spells.
"Oh, my dear boy, you are a natural!" Professor Flitwick had squeaked after a flawless Alohomora demonstration. "But I simply can't award more points! I've already given you twelve! At this rate, you'll single-handedly fill the Gryffindor hourglass! Perhaps next time, eh?"
Elian had lingered after class, using a silent Levitation Charm to help the tiny professor stack chairs, hoping to nudge him. Flitwick saw right through it.
"Thank you for the assistance, Mr. Throne!" Flitwick said, his eyes twinkling. "But points are for academic excellence, not furniture arranging, however neatly done!"
Defeated, Elian left the Charms classroom. He had a free afternoon. The castle walls were starting to feel close. He needed air, and more importantly, he needed a private place to practice the Kama Taj exercises that had nothing to do with wands or words. The theoretical understandings he'd gleaned from the system demanded physical trial.
He wandered beyond the courtyard, past the greenhouses, and towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest—keeping a very respectful distance from the tree line. He found a small, sunny clearing near the shore of the Black Lake, sheltered by a rocky outcrop. It was perfect.
Or it would have been, had it not already been occupied.
Luna Lovegood stood in the centre of the clearing, dressed in a mismatched ensemble of a fluffy floral top, a bright blue cardigan, and jeans. She was holding a shiny red apple aloft, as if offering it to the empty air. As Elian watched, puzzled, a large bite suddenly vanished from the apple with a crisp crunch. Luna didn't flinch.
He was about to call out when his eyes dropped to her feet. She was barefoot, her pale toes curling in the cool, damp grass.
She'll catch a cold, he thought, concern overriding surprise. He started towards her.
Before he could take three steps, Luna spoke, still facing away from him, her voice dreamy and clear. "Oh, Elian. It's been a while. I just saw Harry, you know. Now you. The Nargles must be busy today."
Elian stopped, a smile touching his lips despite himself. "Hello, Luna. I've been… occupied. How are you?"
She finally turned, her large, silvery eyes settling on him with their usual otherworldly focus. "Quite well, thank you. The Wrackspurts have been less bothersome near the water."
"Your shoes?" Elian asked, nodding at her feet.
Luna wiggled her toes, a mischievous glint in her eye. "It is a bit chilly," she admitted. "But they've all gone missing. Every single pair. I'm quite sure it was the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. They're migratory, you see, and they have a fondness for leather. Or perhaps it was a particularly mischievous Nargle colony." She said it with the absolute certainty of someone describing the weather.
"Would you like to meet the Thestral? She's very shy, but she likes apples."
(End of Chapter)
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