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Harry Potter
The clearing Harry had found was perfect, tucked between a cluster of ancient oak trees and a formation of moss-covered boulders, just close enough to the Forbidden Forest's edge to be private but far enough away that nothing with too many teeth would wander out to investigate. The October air was cold, but Harry had cast warming charms on himself before beginning his practice session.
"Incendio," Harry murmured, watching the flames dance from his wand tip.
The spell itself was simple, second-year material. But Harry wasn't practicing the basic version. He was trying to layer it, to make the flames respond differently. The Tournament would require more than textbook magic.
His wand traced a complex figure-eight pattern, and the flames responded, splitting into two separate streams that wove around each other like ribbons.
"Woof!"
Harry spun around, wand raised, and then immediately lowered it with a laugh.
A massive black dog came bounding through the trees, all gangly limbs and tongue lolling out of its mouth. It skidded to a stop in front of Harry, tail wagging so hard its entire back half was wiggling.
"Hello, Padfoot," Harry said, grinning despite himself. "Subtle as always, I see."
The dog made an indignant sound, then shimmered and expanded. A moment later, Sirius Black stood where the dog had been, looking slightly disheveled but undeniably happy. His dark hair was windswept, his robes rumpled, and there was a leaf stuck behind his ear.
"Subtlety is overrated," Sirius declared, brushing dirt off his sleeves. "Besides, I wanted to check on you. Sue me."
"Pretty sure checking on me doesn't require transforming into a dog and running through the forest like a lunatic now that you are free," Harry pointed out, vanishing his practice flames with a flick of his wand.
"You say lunatic, I say efficient." Sirius's gray eyes were warm as they swept over Harry, clearly conducting his own assessment. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm fine." Harry shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Same as yesterday when you asked. Same as I'll be tomorrow when you inevitably ask again."
"Humor me. I'm old and anxious."
"You're thirty-four and paranoid."
"Thirty-five," Sirius corrected automatically. "My birthday was in September, remember? You sent me that card with the animated dog that kept trying to bite me."
"That was a feature, not a bug," Harry said, fighting a smile.
Sirius huffed but moved closer, his expression growing more serious. "Really though. You're handling all this?"
Harry considered lying, saying everything was fine, he had it under control, not to worry. But this was Sirius. The man who'd spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit, who'd fought tooth and nail to get custody of Harry the moment his name was cleared, who'd sat up with him during nightmares and taught him everything from advanced Charms to how to pick locks (that last one was definitely not legal, but Sirius had insisted it was "practical life skills").
"Someone poisoned my breakfast this morning," Harry said quietly. "Second sabotage attempt this week. Whoever's doing it has access to the kitchens, which means it's probably a Hufflepuff, which means it's someone from Cedric's house targeting me because they think I stole his moment." He met Sirius's eyes. "So yeah, I'm handling it. But it's not exactly fun."
Sirius's expression darkened dangerously. "Do you know who—"
"No, and I'm not going to go on a witch hunt." Harry held up a hand. "I dealt with it. I'll keep dealing with it. But I'm not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me panic, but I will find whoever did this once I have dealt with this stupid Tournament. I have it under control."
For a moment, Sirius looked like he wanted to argue. Then his shoulders sagged slightly in reluctant acceptance. "You sound just like your mother when you say things like that. She used to drive James mad with how calm she could be in the middle of chaos."
"Pretty sure Dad drove her mad with how un-calm he could be," Harry countered.
"Fair point." Sirius reached inside his robes, pulling out three books that should not have fit in any normal pocket. Magic was convenient like that. "Speaking of your parents—well, not directly, but I'm making it relevant—I brought you something from Grimmauld Place."
Harry accepted the first book, reading the spine. "Advanced Shield Charms and Variations by Phineas Black." He looked up. "Your great-great-grandfather?"
"Five greats, actually, but who's counting?" Sirius handed over the second book. "Combat Transfiguration: Practical Applications by Arcturus Black. He was a nasty piece of work, but he knew his Transfiguration. Figured with the Tournament and the Duelling Race you could use some advanced material."
"These are brilliant," Harry said, genuinely impressed as he flipped through the first book. The spells were far beyond anything he'd seen in the Hogwarts library. "Thank you."
"There's one more." Sirius's voice dropped slightly, and he pulled out a smaller volume bound in dark leather with silver clasps. "But I need you to keep this one quiet."
Harry took it carefully. The leather was old, worn smooth by countless hands, and the silver clasps were engraved with the Black family crest. "The Black Combat Grimoire: Dueling Techniques for Survival."
"Is there necromancy in here or something?" Harry asked, only half-joking.
"Nothing that dark," Sirius assured him quickly. "But it contains... let's call it less conventional magic. Techniques that the Ministry might frown upon. Not illegal," he added, seeing Harry's expression, "just aggressive. The kind of spells that would make Dumbledore give you one of those disappointed looks over his half-moon spectacles."
"So exactly what I need for a tournament designed to kill people," Harry said dryly.
"Exactly." Sirius gripped Harry's shoulder, his expression turning fierce. "Listen to me. Andromeda was there when I was pulling books from the library. She saw this one and threw an absolute fit. Said it was too dangerous, that you're too young, that I was being irresponsible." His grip tightened. "But you're bound to this Tournament, Harry. You don't have the luxury of playing it safe. So if these techniques give you even a slight edge—if they help keep you alive—then I don't give a damn what Andy thinks is appropriate."
Harry felt something warm settle in his chest. "Sirius—"
"You're going to be brilliant in both competitions," Sirius interrupted, his voice rough with emotion. "I know it. James would be so proud of you. Lily too. Hell, I'm proud of you, and I'm just the disaster godfather who keeps teaching you questionable life skills."
"Best disaster godfather I've ever had," Harry said, his own voice not entirely steady.
"Only disaster godfather," Sirius corrected, but he was smiling now. "Are you sure you don't want me staying at the castle? Dumbledore offered—"
"And you'd go insane within a week," Harry interrupted. "You need your space, Sirius. Hogsmeade is close enough. Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on the village, make sure no one suspicious is lurking around."
Sirius studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "When did you get so sensible?"
"Someone had to be, living with you."
"Brat." But Sirius was grinning as he ruffled Harry's hair. "I'll be around. You need anything—and I mean anything—you send Hedwig. Or your Patronus, you've gotten good enough at that."
"I will," Harry promised.
Sirius transformed back into Padfoot with a soft crack, gave Harry one last tail wag, then bounded off into the forest. Harry watched him go, shaking his head fondly, before turning his attention to the three books now resting in his arms.
He should probably return to the castle, get to his next class. But curiosity was a Ravenclaw trait for a reason, and that third book was practically humming with forbidden knowledge.
Just a quick look, Harry told himself, settling onto one of the flat boulders and cracking open The Black Combat Grimoire.
His eyes widened at the first spell description.
Then the second.
By the third, Harry was grinning.
Sirius was right. These were definitely not Ministry-approved.
And they were absolutely perfect.
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The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become Harry's sanctuary over the past few days. Tucked away behind a tapestry depicting wizards playing what might have been an early form of Quidditch—or possibly just hitting each other with brooms, it was hard to tell—the room was dusty, cold, and perfectly private.
Harry stood in the center, The Black Combat Grimoire open on a desk behind him, its pages marked with his increasingly frantic annotations. The spell he'd been attempting for the past hour was unlike anything he'd learned in regular classes. The theory was sound—theoretically—but the execution was proving to be significantly more complicated.
"Right," Harry muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Third time's the charm. Or possibly the disaster. Let's find out."
His wand traced a slow circle in the air, then snapped forward in a sharp thrust. The incantation died on his lips, he'd learned quickly that speaking it aloud made the spell unstable, and he focused everything on the intent, on the image of what he wanted the magic to do.
Water materialized from the ambient moisture in the air, small droplets that hung suspended like tiny diamonds. They shivered, responding to his will, and Harry felt a surge of triumph—
The droplets exploded outward, drenching him from head to toe.
"Fantastic," Harry said flatly, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. "Really stellar work there, Potter."
He cast a quick drying charm on himself, one of the first spells any British student mastered, given the weather, and tried again. The wand movement was becoming more natural now, the circular motion flowing into the thrust like a single continuous gesture.
This time, the water responded better. Instead of scattered droplets, a sphere formed, roughly the size of a Quaffle, hovering at chest height. Wind began to spiral around it, visible as distortions in the air, and the sphere started rotating. Slowly at first, then faster, violently spinning until—
It collapsed with a wet splat, soaking him again.
"Why," Harry asked the empty room, "do I keep doing this to myself?"
But he was grinning despite the water running down his neck, despite his robes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. Because he was close. He could feel it. The spell was almost within his grasp, just one more attempt—
The circular motion. The thrust. The intent focused like a laser.
Water and air combined this time, forming a spinning vortex that rotated in place like a miniature whirlwind. It held for three seconds...Harry counted...before destabilizing and spraying water everywhere.
But it had worked. For three seconds, he'd created exactly what the Grimoire described.
Harry grabbed his wand again immediately, determined to push for four seconds, but his body had other ideas. Exhaustion hit him like a punch, his magic reserves depleted from repeated casting. The spell was apparently more draining than he'd anticipated.
"Fine," Harry conceded, vanishing the puddles with a weary flick. "Break time."
He grabbed the Grimoire, made careful notes in the margins about wand angle and the timing of the thrust, then tucked it away in his bag. His body ached, his head hurt, and he needed air that wasn't saturated with failed water spells.
The Viaduct Courtyard was one of Hogwarts' more pleasant spaces, a two-level garden area with benches scattered among carefully tended flower beds. Most students preferred the more popular courtyards, which meant Harry could usually find his spot empty.
The bench sat in a quiet corner, partially hidden by an overgrown rose bush. But it wasn't the roses Harry came to see. Next to the bench, a small patch of lily flowers grew, white and elegant and somehow thriving despite the Scottish cold.
Harry had found them his first week of first year. It had taken him until third year to realize they weren't part of the official garden, someone planted them here, and Harry made sure to always take care of them.
He drew his wand and cast a gentle watering charm, watching the droplets settle on the petals.
"Hello, Mum," Harry said quietly, settling onto the bench.
The words carved into the wood were old, worn smooth by weather and time: Lily and James enclosed in a somewhat lopsided heart. Sirius had told him the story last year, how James Potter had finally, finally convinced Lily Evans to go on a date, how they'd snuck out here after curfew in their seventh year, how James had kissed her for the first time right where Harry was sitting, and then James had carved the heart with their first letter on it.
"Bit cheesy, if you ask me," Harry continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "But Sirius says you thought it was romantic, so I suppose Dad got something right."
A cool breeze rustled through the courtyard, making the lily petals dance.
"I'm entering the Duelling Race," Harry said. "I know, I know—I'm already in the Tournament, I should focus on staying alive, everyone keeps saying it. But..." He traced the carved heart with one finger. "I need something that's mine, you know? Something I chose. The Tournament is someone else's game. The Duelling Race is mine."
The flowers swayed gently, and Harry smiled.
"Sirius gave me some books from the Black library. Aggressive magic, he called it. The kind that would make Dumbledore give me disappointed looks." Harry's smile turned wry. "I think you'd probably give me disappointed looks too. But I'm going to learn them anyway, because staying alive seems slightly more important than staying appropriate."
He sat there for several more minutes, talking about classes and Cedric and the sabotage attempts and carefully not mentioning Fleur Delacour or the way his chest tightened whenever she walked into a room.
Eventually, the afternoon chill drove him inside.
Professor Flitwick's office was warm and cluttered with books stacked in precarious towers. The tiny professor looked up from his desk as Harry knocked.
"Mr. Potter! Come in, come in!" Flitwick squeaked, gesturing to a chair. "What can I do for you?"
Harry sat, suddenly nervous despite Flitwick being his favorite professor. "I want to enter the Duelling Race, sir. Officially submit my name."
Flitwick's cheerful expression faltered. "Harry... are you certain? With the Tournament—"
"I'm certain," Harry interrupted gently. "This is something I want to do. Unlike the bloody Tournament."
The profanity made Flitwick blink, but then his expression softened. "Very well. I'll add your name to the roster." He paused. "You are my best student, Harry. I have no doubt you'll do Ravenclaw proud in both competitions."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, meaning it.
Dinner was a subdued affair. Harry sat with Luna and Cedric, picking at his shepherd's pie and trying to ignore the stares.
"I submitted my name to Flitwick," Harry said quietly. "For the Duelling Race."
Cedric looked equal parts proud and exasperated. "You're insane."
"I've been told."
Several nearby Ravenclaws had overheard, their expressions ranging from impressed to disapproving. Harry ignored them all.
Luna tilted her head, studying Harry. "You should eat more. The Nargles are drawn to empty stomachs."
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said, managing a small smile as he forced down another bite of shepherd's pie.
Dinner ended as it always did, students filing out in clusters, conversations echoing off the stone walls, Harry left sitting at the Ravenclaw table, feeling isolated despite being surrounded by people. He gathered his things, nodded to Cedric and Luna, and headed back toward his dormitory.
Tomorrow, he'd train again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
He had two competitions to prepare for, after all.
Two Weeks Later
The abandoned classroom had become Harry's second home over the past fourteen days.
Harry stood in the center of the room, wand extended, sweat beading on his forehead. His school robes were discarded in a heap by the door; he'd learned quickly that practicing in full uniform was impractical when you kept soaking yourself.
"Again," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
The wand movement had become almost automatic now: the slow circle, the sharp thrust, the precise angle of his wrist at the moment of release. Water materialized from the ambient moisture, coalescing into a sphere roughly the size of a Bludger. It hovered at chest height, trembling slightly.
Wind began to spiral around it, visible as distortions in the air. The sphere started rotating, slowly at first, then faster, the water and air combining into a miniature vortex that spun with increasing violence.
Five seconds. Six. Seven.
Harry's arm was shaking now, his magical reserves straining to maintain the construct. The spell wanted to collapse, wanted to explode outward and drench him like it had so many times before.
Eight seconds. Nine.
His vision blurred. Too much magic, too fast, his core depleting—
The vortex destabilized with a wet explosion, spraying water across half the classroom.
Harry didn't even bother with a drying charm. He just stood there, dripping, breathing hard, and grinning like a madman.
Nine seconds. That was three better than yesterday.
"You're going to kill yourself at this rate."
Harry turned his head around to find Sirius leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression somewhere between impressed and worried. He wasn't soaked, so Harry understood he had entered after his little water explosion.
"I'm fine," Harry said automatically, vanishing the water puddles with a weary flick of his wand.
"You look like death warmed over," Sirius countered, pushing off the doorframe and moving closer. "When's the last time you slept? Actually slept, not passed out from magical exhaustion."
Harry had to think about it, which probably proved Sirius's point. "Tuesday?"
"It's Friday."
"Then Tuesday."
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. "Harry—"
"I'm fine," Harry repeated, more firmly this time. "I need to master this spell. The Tournament's in two weeks, the first Duelling Race round is even sooner, and I'm still three years behind every other competitor. I don't have time to sleep."
"Your mother used to say the same thing during exams," Sirius said quietly. "She'd stay up for days, brewing Pepper-Up Potions to keep herself awake, studying until she could recite entire textbooks from memory. She was brilliant, Harry. Absolutely brilliant. But she was also stubborn as hell, and she'd push herself until she collapsed."
Harry felt his heart warm up like a fire with wood. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Sirius's expression softened. "James used to carry her to bed sometimes. She'd hex him for it later, but at least she'd sleep." He moved closer, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're too much like her for your own good sometimes. You always get like this when you want to study, even during summer, Tonks told you about that spell she learned, a spell that is usually taught to Aurors, what you did? Right, you spend a whole week learning that spell, despite not needing it, but right now, you are pushing yourself even more. Too much like Lily."
"Good," Harry said, managing a tired smile. "Better than being too much like Dad's reckless side."
"You've got plenty of that too, don't worry." Sirius squeezed his shoulder. "But seriously, Harry. You need rest. Your magic needs time to recover. Pushing this hard, you're going to burn out before either competition even starts."
"I can't afford to burn out later either," Harry countered. "So I might as well push now while I still can."
Sirius studied him for a long moment, gray eyes searching Harry's face. Whatever he saw there made him sigh heavily.
"At least tell me you're making progress."
Harry's grin returned, tired but genuine. "Nine seconds on the vortex. Up from six seconds yesterday."
"That's..." Sirius blinked. "That's actually impressive. The water-wind combination is notoriously unstable. Most adults can't hold it past four seconds."
"Most adults aren't training like maniacs," Harry pointed out.
"Most adults have sense," Sirius retorted. "But fine. Show me what else you've been working on."
For the next hour, Harry demonstrated his progress: the improved shield variants from Phineas Black's book, the combat transfiguration techniques that let him turn loose stones into temporary barriers, the aggressive hexes from the Grimoire that made Sirius wince despite having given him the book in the first place.
"You're going to give Andromeda a heart attack if she sees you using that cutting curse," Sirius commented as Harry demonstrated a spell that could slice through solid wood.
"Then I won't use it where Lady Andromeda can see," Harry replied pragmatically.
By the time they finished, the sun had set completely, and Harry's legs were shaking from exhaustion. Sirius made him sit, conjured a chocolate bar from somewhere, and forced him to eat it.
"You know what Lily would say if she could see you now?" Sirius asked as Harry mechanically chewed chocolate.
"That I'm being an idiot?"
"That too." Sirius smiled. "But also that she was proud of you. That you got more than just her green eyes, you got her determination, her brilliance, her refusal to give up even when the odds are impossible."
Harry felt the fire in his heart again. "Really?"
"Really." Sirius ruffled his hair affectionately. "Though she'd also hex me for letting you train this hard without proper supervision. So maybe don't mention this to Andromeda. Or Ted. Or anyone with common sense."
"Your secret's safe with me," Harry promised, managing a weak laugh.
Sirius helped him back to Ravenclaw Tower, made him promise to actually sleep tonight, and disappeared into the shadows with a final worried look that Harry pretended not to see.
Harry fell into bed fully clothed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
The Hogwarts Library - Saturday Morning
The table in the far corner of the library had become Harry's fortress over the past two weeks. Books surrounded him in precarious towers: Advanced Defensive Magic, Combat Strategies Through the Ages, The Theory and Practice of Dueling, Elemental Magic: Water and Wind Applications, Historical Tournament Techniques, and approximately twenty-five others whose titles blurred together after hours of continuous reading.
Harry had his head down on an open copy of Magical Theory: Energy Conservation and Spell Efficiency, using it as a pillow while his hand still clutched his quill. Ink had smudged across his cheek at some point. His other arm was draped across three books simultaneously, as if protecting them from thieves even in sleep.
The dark circles under his eyes had become permanent fixtures over the past fortnight. His uniform was wrinkled, his hair even more chaotic than usual, and he'd lost enough weight that his robes hung slightly loose on his frame.
"Has anyone seen Harry Potter?"
The voice was dreamy, drifting through the library like smoke. Several students looked up from their studying, glancing around with mild curiosity.
"I heard there was a book avalanche," Luna Lovegood continued as she peered around a bookshelf. "Quite tragic. The Nargles have been very active lately—they love causing mischief with heavy objects."
A Hufflepuff third-year pointed wordlessly toward the back corner, where Harry's book fortress was clearly visible.
Luna drifted closer, her radish earrings swinging gently as she tilted her head to study the scene. "Fascinating. The books have completely consumed him. I wonder if this is how librarians are born."
From beneath Magical Theory, a muffled voice emerged: "Don't threaten me with a good time."
Luna's face lit up. "Oh good, you're alive! I was starting to worry the books had digested you."
Harry finally lifted his head, blinking slowly like an owl emerging from its hollow. The book he'd been using as a pillow had left an impressive imprint on his cheek, and his hair was standing up at angles that defied several laws of physics.
"Luna." His voice was rough from disuse. "How long have I been here?"
"According to Madam Pince's increasingly alarmed expressions, approximately fourteen hours." Luna pulled out the chair beside him and settled in, arranging her robes carefully. "She keeps walking past and counting the books. I think she's planning an intervention."
Harry groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. "What time is it?"
"Nearly noon." Luna picked up one of the books, examining the title with interest. "You missed breakfast entirely. The Wrackspurts must have been quite thick around your head, they feed on consciousness, you know. Make people forget basic things like eating and sleeping."
"I was studying," Harry protested weakly.
"Studying is reading for four hours," Luna said matter-of-factly, setting the book down. "Not using advanced magical theory as a pillow. Though I must admit, Magical Theory: Energy Conservation does seem like it would provide interesting dreams."
Harry couldn't help it; he laughed. It came out more like a wheeze, but it was genuine. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"The books are quite comfortable, I imagine." Luna gestured to his fortress. "Are you trying to build a house made of books? Because that would be quite impressive. You'd need better structural support for the walls, though. Perhaps some transfigured stone for the foundation—"
"That would be quite a house," Harry agreed, his lips twitching. "But no, I'm just studying. For the Tournament. And the Duelling Race. And life in general, apparently."
Luna was quiet for a moment, her protuberant eyes studying him with uncomfortable insight. "Harry, can I tell you something?"
"Always."
"There's a Hogsmeade visit tomorrow," Luna began, her voice losing some of its dreaminess and becoming almost painfully earnest. "The second one of the year. Everyone's very excited about it. Even the Nargles are planning to visit, they enjoy the chaos of crowded streets."
"Luna, I can't—"
"The thing about books," Luna continued as if he hadn't spoken, "is that they'll always be here. Tomorrow, next week, next year. They're very patient, books. They don't mind waiting." She picked up another volume, turning it over in her hands. "But people aren't like that. Moments aren't like that. If you spend all your time preparing for life, you might forget to actually live it."
Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Luna wasn't finished.
"My mum used to do this." Her voice had gone soft now, distant. "She was brilliant, you know. Always experimenting, always trying to push magic further. She'd work for days without stopping, so focused on discovering new things that she'd forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget that Daddy and I were waiting for her to come say goodnight."
Harry's chest tightened. He knew this story, Luna had told him once, late at night in the common room when neither of them could sleep.
"And then one day, her experiment went wrong," Luna continued quietly. "And she was gone. And all those moments we could have had, all those nights she could have stopped working just long enough to tuck me in, we never got them back." She looked up, meeting Harry's eyes directly. "The books didn't matter anymore after that. Only the moments we'd missed. I never got to say goodnight again."
"Luna—"
"I'm not saying you're going to die," Luna said quickly. "Though the Tournament is rather dangerous, I know you will beat it, you are the best student of Hogwarts, despite being in Fourth Year. I'm just saying that you're so busy preparing to survive that you're not actually living. And that seems rather backwards, don't you think?"
Harry stared at her, this strange, wonderful girl who saw the world through a lens no one else possessed, and felt something crack in his chest.
"Tomorrow in Hogsmeade," Luna said, her tone brightening again, "we could go to Honeydukes. You haven't been eating properly, I've noticed at meals. The house-elves make excellent food, but you keep pushing it around your plate like you're conducting some kind of culinary experiment. Honeydukes has chocolate that doesn't require experimentation. It just requires eating."
"Luna—"
"And there's the Three Broomsticks," she continued, warming to her subject. "Proper butterbeer that doesn't come from the school kitchens. And Zonko's, though I suspect you've been there before. And we could just... walk. Look at things. Talk to people. Remember what it's like to exist outside of training and studying and preparing for competitions designed to kill you."
Harry looked down at his fortress of books, at the notes scattered across the table in his increasingly illegible handwriting, at the ink stains on his fingers that never quite washed clean anymore.
"I have so much to learn," he said quietly. "Everyone else has had more time, more training—"
"Everyone else," Luna interrupted gently, "also knows how to take a day off. Even Fleur Delacour goes into the village sometimes. I've seen her at Gladrags, looking at dress robes. Though she always looks like she's judging the merchandise and finding it lacking."
Harry could almost see that happening.
Luna reached out and carefully closed the book Harry had been using as a pillow, setting it aside. "One day, Harry. Just one day where you remember that you're fourteen years old and you're allowed to do fourteen-year-old things. Like eating too much chocolate and complaining about homework and not thinking about tournaments or duels or people trying to poison your breakfast."
Harry slumped back in his chair, exhaustion making his bones feel like lead. "I can't afford to take a day off. The first task is in two weeks, Luna. Two weeks. And I still haven't mastered the water vortex spell, and my shield charms are only working sixty percent of the time, and—"
"And you're going to collapse before you ever reach the first task if you keep this up," Luna said firmly, with more conviction than he'd ever heard from her. "You're brilliant, Harry. Everyone knows it. Professor Flitwick talks about you constantly—'Mr. Potter grasped that concept in minutes,' 'Mr. Potter's spell work is remarkable for his age.' But brilliance doesn't mean much if you're too exhausted to use it."
Harry closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the past two weeks pressing down on him like a troll. She was right. Of course, she was right. Luna was strange and dreamy, and she believed in creatures that probably didn't exist, but she was also wise in ways that had nothing to do with books or magic.
"One day," Harry finally said, opening his eyes to meet her earnest gaze. "Just tomorrow. Then I go back to training."
Luna's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Excellent! I'll meet you at the entrance at ten. Don't bring any books."
"What if I just bring one—"
"No books," Luna said firmly. "Not even a small one. This is a book-free excursion. The books will survive without you for a day, I promise."
Harry found himself laughing again. "Alright. No books. Just... Hogsmeade."
"And chocolate," Luna added. "Lots of chocolate. It's medicinal, you know. For shock and exhaustion and general existence in a world that doesn't always make sense."
"That last one covers a lot of ground," Harry observed.
"Exactly." Luna stood, her radish earrings swinging cheerfully. "Now come on. You need to eat lunch, actual lunch, not whatever you've been surviving on. And maybe take a nap that doesn't involve using priceless library books as pillows. Madam Pince is giving you very concerning looks."
Harry glanced toward the librarian's desk and found that Luna was, as usual, completely correct. Madam Pince was indeed staring at him with an expression that suggested she was debating whether to rescue the books or rescue Harry from the books.
"Fine," Harry conceded, beginning to stack the books into neater piles. "But I'm coming back tomorrow night to return these properly."
"That's the spirit," Luna said approvingly. "Delayed responsibility is still responsibility. Sort of."
As they left the library together.
"Thank you, Luna," Harry said quietly as they walked.
"You're welcome," Luna replied serenely. "Though you should probably thank the books too. They worked very hard at being a pillow for you."
Harry laughed out loud.
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