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★☆☆★
Care of Magical Creatures is always a little chaotic.
Hagrid means well— he always does— but his booming voice rattles across the paddock like thunder, and his lesson plans rarely survive first contact with thirty restless students. Today, he's leading a discussion about water-dwelling creatures, though it's hard to tell whether the main subject is kelpies or grindylows. A few Slytherins whisper loudly in the back, feigning fear whenever Hagrid mentions "drownin' victims." A Ravenclaw scribbles notes with frantic precision, as if exams are right after this class. Someone else snickers when a hippogriff on the far edge of the field lets out an indignant cry.
It's messy, noisy, and ordinary.
And then there's Luna.
You catch sight of her near the edge of the group, her posture open and unbothered as always. She holds her wand tucked behind her ear as though she simply forgot it doesn't belong there, and her eyes aren't fixed Hagrid or the illustrated page of the textbook open in her hands. They're turned upwards, following the drifting path of a cloud shaped like nothing particular. A strand of pale hair escapes her braid, glowing white-gold where the sunlight catches it.
You shouldn't notice her as much as you do, but she draws your attention the way light draws moths— gently but irresistibly.
Hagrid clears his throat, preparing to launch into another long-winded anecdote about kelpies in Scotland, and the class groans in unison. You glance back at Luna, only to find she's no longer looking at the clouds.
Her gaze has shifted to the tree line.
It's subtle at first: the faintest tilt of her head, a small stillness in her shoulders, as though she's heard something beyond the clamor of voices and stomping shoes. Then, without fuss, she steps back from the group. Another, quieter step follows, her skirt brushing the grass. And then she turns, walking in the direction of the forest as if she has every right to.
No one else notices.
You do.
A jolt of surprise and something else that feels suspiciously like worry sparks in your chest. The Forbidden Forest isn't exactly known for its safety. Plenty of Hagrid's warnings replay in your head: stay together, don't wander, don't provoke anything.
You tell yourself she probably won't go far. Maybe she's chasing a thought, or maybe she's simply bored. That should be the end of it. But you can't shake the image of her pale hair disappearing into the shadows, and before you realize, your feet are moving, too.
You wait for lull in Hagrid's booming story, then slip sideways out of the cluster of students. No one spares you a glance. The difference is immediate: one moment, you're pressed in by chatter, the next you're sliding into a hush so complete it feels like stepping underwater.
