Chapter Nineteen: A Friend's Defence
Luna's explanation was delivered with her usual serene conviction, but Elian wasn't listening to the words about Thestrals. A cold, sharp anger was crystallizing in his chest. Crumple-Horned Snorkacks? A creature from her father's magazine, used to explain the theft of all her shoes? In the Ravenclaw girls' dormitory? It was absurd. It was cruel.
Someone was bullying her. Playing a mean, childish trick on the girl everyone called 'Loony,' counting on her bizarre explanations to cover their tracks. The thought of her walking barefoot on the cold stone floors, making up fantastical reasons for her own mistreatment, made his blood simmer.
"Luna…" he began, his voice tight.
He didn't finish. Instead, he moved. He knelt on the damp grass, ignoring the chill seeping through his trousers. Luna's right foot was pale and cold in his hands. He brushed off the bits of grass and dirt with quick, gentle strokes.
Luna went very still. "Oh… you don't have to… Thank you, Elian." Her voice was softer than he'd ever heard it, the usual dreamy distance replaced by a note of startled wonder.
He didn't reply, focused on his task. Her skin was like cool marble. He slipped his own large, warm school shoes onto her feet, lacing them loosely. When he reached for her other foot, she flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. But she didn't pull away. She let him tend to her, her silvery eyes wide and watching.
When he was done, she looked down at the comically oversized shoes on her feet, a faint, real smile touching her lips. It was a vulnerable, grateful expression he'd never seen on her before.
"You'll catch a cold," Elian said, standing up and brushing off his knees. His own socks were now damp and chilly. "I'll get you a proper pair later. Aren't we friends?"
He met her gaze, his anger at her unseen tormentors a fire behind his own eyes, but he kept his expression gentle for her sake.
Luna simply nodded, the smile lingering.
Elian turned and walked back towards the castle, the cold ground biting through his socks with every step. Each chill was a reminder. Ravenclaw girls' dormitory, he thought, his jaw clenched. We'll see about that.
His plan to practise was forgotten, replaced by a new mission. He was heading straight for the Gryffindor common room to get dry shoes and plot some form of justice.
He'd just entered the Entrance Hall when he found his path blocked by a crowd of students, all buzzing with excitement. On the grand staircase, two figures were engaged in a heated, silent battle of wills. One was tall and severe, her emerald robes like a flag of authority: Professor McGonagall. The other, swathed in eye-watering pink, was Professor Umbridge.
Elian pushed through the crowd, his damp socks making squelching sounds on the flagstones. He found Hermione at the front, craning her neck.
"Elian! What are you—" She broke off, her eyes dropping to his feet. "Why aren't you wearing any shoes?"
"Long story," he muttered. "What's happening?"
Hermione's face lit with malicious glee. "It's about the skiving. It's gotten epidemic. Thanks to the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, half the school has come down with 'Umbridge-itis'—spontaneous nosebleeds, boils, you name it. Attendance in her class is a disaster. McGonagall just caught a fifth-year Hufflepuff with a fake fainting spell and traced the Fainting Fancy back to Fred and George. They're having words."
(End of Chapter)
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