Luna Lovegood had drifted over from the Ravenclaw table. Many people were staring at her and a few were openly laughing and pointing; she had managed to procure a hat shaped like a life-size lion’s head, which was perched precariously on her head. ‘I’m supporting Gryffindor,’ said Luna, pointing unnecessarily at her hat.
“Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.”
Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with ﬁve beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same: Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be ﬁne golden chains wove around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Harry realized that the chains were actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends … friends … friends …
Harry Potter would probably be my patronus if that was possible.
Luna always insisted that her two sons would send her photos home.
Hogsmeade, taken by Lorcan Scamander.