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Summary
Sometimes your spells will go bad. She knew that.
Luna mounted the thestral to the Department of Mysteries. She put her name down for Dumbledore's Army. When they called her brave she smiled like she knew things that they didn't.
She knew what she was getting into. She knew what she was doing. She drifted because she'd decided to drift, because she thought the best way to live on this earth was to tread softly. No matter how much she liked wrapping herself in whimsy, this was not a whim. It was a choice.
When Harry was grieving Sirius, she took his hand. "Things have a way of coming back to you," she said, with no blankets to hide under, with no skipping rocks to hold in cold hands, to hurl away when they felt like they were holding her down.
Luna had loss living in the pit of her stomach, yes and always, but she was the only one who got to decide what to do with that. She went out to visit the thestrals with strips of steak in her bag and loved the way their sloping wings looked against the sky.
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