Only once I’d stepped inside the Lovegoods' house did I realize just how different an ancestral wizarding home is from any regular magical house built on a place of power, like the Burrow.

I felt that difference deep down, with this magical essence inside me that I’d only recently begun to sense and understand, thanks to studying from those old books.

Everything in Luna’s home practically pulsed with magic, all of it obeying her with barely a gesture, a word, or a touch. It was as if the house’s magic was tied to her own, though I suspected it might actually be the magic of generations of her family, built up over time.

Our house had its own magical atmosphere too, a background enchantment that let us do magic without draining our own power, and there were a few magical bits around the Burrow as well.

Like the clock with nine hands, one for each of us, showing where we are. The kitchen clock with its to-do hand that divides Mum’s daily work. A magical radio, the talking mirror in the bathroom, and the enchanted holiday tablecloth that never stained, never tore, and kept food warm – Mum only brought it out on special occasions, along with a tea set that kept the tea hot no matter how long it sat.

The older brothers and Dad had wristwatches, proper magical ones, not like regular watches but with planets and stars. As for me, I had my chess set and a talking alarm clock.

And, of course, we had enchanted things scattered around the kitchen – like a self-chopping knife, a sink that did the dishes once you piled them in, and pots that cooked the food on their own if you filled them up the night before. Not to mention the cold room that served as a magical fridge.

The Lovegoods’ place, though, was enchanted from top to bottom. The whole house seemed to have a mind of its own, adapting to the needs of its owners. It was much bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside.

I went round to see my friend nearly every day, and it felt like stepping into a different place each time.

Now, as I approached, the thorns on the front door would withdraw. The eagle-head door knocker would give a friendly clack of its beak, even nudging my hand for a pat.

The rooms, except for the kitchen and the playroom, swapped places constantly. You could go into the second door on the third floor and end up in the broom cupboard by the kitchen on the first. And the next time, you’d never find that cupboard again, like it never existed in the first place. Sometimes, it felt like while we sat in one room, the house was constantly twisting and winding around us, spiraling in and out.

The lights would turn on and off with a word, and the water would flow by command – actually, it didn’t even need a command, just a thought. All you had to do was tap the tap.

You could leave a room and head down to the kitchen, only to find it took nearly an hour to get there, even though you’d seen it from the top floor. You’d keep going down the stairs, but they’d just keep going. Then, a half-open door would appear, like an invitation to play along with the house. You’d have to go back to where you started, shut the door, and try again – or take the mystery door and brace yourself for a whole new adventure.

I wondered if maybe this was a form of security to baffle any uninvited guests who somehow made it in.

As I came to understand, Luna’s house, like other enchanted homes, was charmed to be untraceable without an invitation. Even if you tried, you’d never find it and would just keep wandering around the area. It explained why I’d never seen a neighboring wizard’s house, despite exploring the countryside.

One spring day, as I waited for the door to open, I saw a snake slither onto the wall. The stonework instantly darkened, hardening to look like solid steel. The ivy, which had been gently swaying in the breeze, tightened around the intruder, and a spark shot down the wall, like a tiny lightning bolt. The snake fell, defeated, to the base of the house and disappeared into the earth as it closed up around it. It was a spine-tingling sight, especially when I thought that if I’d meant harm to the house’s owners, that might’ve been my fate too. The house could turn into a proper fortress – a solid, towering monolith with no windows and an impregnable door.

But the house never bothered me; it just toyed with me, probably to keep things entertaining for Luna. And it even listened to me if my wish didn’t go against the will of its owners.

If I wanted to wash my hands, the front door would open into the very room I needed, no need to trek around. But Luna enjoyed the ‘search,’ so we usually took the long way, unless she was in a hurry.

Once, she urgently wanted to show me a book, so we stepped out of her room and found ourselves, instead of on the staircase, right outside the library on the ground floor.

Another time, we decided to grab a snack and started down the stairs, only for them to turn into a slide, and we whizzed straight down into the basement, where we wandered around for about an hour.

Luna didn’t seem the least bit worried, though; she took it all as a grand game. Meanwhile, I was trudging through the underground maze, honestly wondering if anyone would find us. The Lovegoods used to have a house-elf, whom they could’ve called, but Mr. Lovegood often shut himself in his office for days. No guarantee he’d find us, even after a week.

“Luna, weren’t we on our way to the kitchen for tea?” I asked, casually. “Aren’t we in a bit of a hurry?”

“We could hurry,” she nodded, “but that’s just boring, Ron. The tea’s not going anywhere; it’s already there, waiting for us. And searching is always interesting. It can put you on the path and lead to a conclusion.”

“So what conclusion have you reached from our wandering through this dark, cold basement?” I asked, as we unexpectedly tumbled out of the pantry right into the kitchen.

“That after the darkness and cold, it’s especially nice to find yourself in a warm, bright kitchen,” she replied thoughtfully, with complete seriousness. “And now, I really do want tea. And it’s always nicer to do something you actually want.”

“Weren’t you the one who pulled me to the kitchen an hour ago because you fancied some tea?” I said, smiling at her reasoning, which was actually quite sensible.

"Yes," she replied without the slightest hint of embarrassment, "but back then, it would have just been ordinary tea. Now, though, it’ll be the best tea in the world because now I know I want it more than anything. And how else would I have realized that, or understood the difference?"

"Fair enough," I laughed, pushing a plate of her favorite biscuits towards her. And I must say, the tea was indeed exceptional this time around. Perhaps because I was shivering, and it was piping hot.

Every room in Luna's house that I’d been to was semi-circular, curved, and nearly all of them had two levels. The library, too, was two stories. The top floor, reserved for adults, had serious books and was sectioned off by a kind of transparent, shimmering barrier. Downstairs, there was a study area for Luna.

Seeing all that knowledge stacked up like that left me absolutely gobsmacked. But I barely got to read any of it. Luna wanted a friend and a playmate, not a bookworm. Besides, you couldn’t take books outside of the house. But even just by playing, I learned more about magic than I ever did back at home. It was strange, really.

At the Burrow, Mum was always casting spells, but somehow, I always saw magic there as a bit of a trick, a sleight of hand. But at the Lovegoods', even though they hardly did any spellcasting, I felt magic as something real — a force, a kind of energy that interacted with you. I’d been learning to feel it in myself for almost a year, with the books Matthew gave me, and I was only just beginning to sense it inside me. But Luna, well, she’d been born with that feeling and lived with it all her life. When I was with her, I felt more like a Muggle than ever. I could sense the magic within me, but I wasn’t quite ready to trust it yet; I was still sizing it up. But Luna trusted it completely, as though it were a natural part of her. And so, wonders and marvels were just everyday occurrences for her. There was nothing you could do to startle or scare her.

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For example, when we finally completed a puzzle of a dragon, it popped up in 3D, blew a blast of fire, roared, and swooped around the room, then exploded into a shower of sparks like a firework and disappeared. I was flabbergasted by the spectacle, maybe even a bit spooked — it was so lifelike, both the beast and the flames. But Luna took it all in stride, squealing with delight and chasing after the dragon, trying to grab its tail.

Afterwards, the picture lost its magic, becoming just an ordinary moving image, and the pieces detached from each other.

On the box we put the puzzle away in, it said it was some sort of “educational” toy for kids. While assembling it, you’d put a bit of your magic into each piece, which then brought the dragon to life upon completion. So, I hadn’t actually used a wand, but I could see and feel the result of my magic. All Luna’s toys were like that — designed to let you feel your own magic, see it, and learn to control it. I imagine they were either incredibly expensive or handed down through generations, since we didn’t have anything like them back at the Burrow.

Most of the time, if we weren’t playing upstairs, we’d be in the library. There were armchairs, a big table, chairs, and shelves filled with children’s books. Children’s books, but on all sorts of subjects — potions, charms, even Occlumency, all written in a way a kid could understand. I read everything I could reach. And, to my surprise, I realized that I’d already managed to complete the first level of mind protection without knowing it.

I remember Snape going on and on at Potter in the book: "Clear your mind. Did you clear your mind before bed last night?"

Anyway, the books Matthew gave me were the first step in mental defense — feeling magic and learning concentration through clearing your mind.

After concentrating on breathing, the second step is a sort of out-of-body experience. It’s as if you’re standing outside yourself, with everything you want to hide, while someone else is rummaging around in your head but can’t find anything. This technique is also helpful if, say, someone’s torturing you with the Cruciatus Curse. You wouldn’t feel it, and you’d retain all your memories since your body and mind are temporarily separated. It’s like watching from the outside. This way, you don’t lose your senses from pain or fall into shock.

You can learn this slowly, like I’m doing, or the hard way, where someone forces their way into your mind, and you have an involuntary out-of-body experience. When your consciousness snaps back a second later, it kicks the intruder out with a mental punch. Guess Potter was on a time crunch and had to be taught that way. Wouldn’t envy him; it sounds pretty painful.

At first, you slip out of your body briefly and involuntarily, but with practice, you can do it whenever you want and for longer. No more of those imaginary walls I used to think of as mental defenses.

This is why, in the wizarding world, memories aren’t considered solid proof to clear someone’s name — they can be faked. That’s probably why Black didn’t bother trying for a pardon when he escaped.

Also, as it turns out, a Legilimens doesn’t read thoughts but rather thought-images. So if you’re only thinking about wanting to kill Voldemort, they won’t see that unless you visualize exactly how you’d do it.

We also got into artifact-making for kids.

Now, that was fascinating. We started simple.

First, Luna spun a few threads from fine wool. The result wasn’t perfect, but not bad. Then we split the yarn into two parts and dyed it with blood. Just a drop on the end of the thread, and as it wound into a ball, the whole thing turned red. The book said magical artifacts don’t use other dyes — they wouldn’t hold magic.

Then Luna wrapped some of her thread around my wrist, tied a special knot, and added a couple of beads. She said it was a protective charm, and now it would protect me, and she’d know if I was in danger — the bead would darken and turn black if I was in trouble.

With her help, I made one for her too. Looking at my first piece of magical handiwork was a thrill. It had a steady, calm energy that was reassuring.

Really, being friends with Luna has made me more open and less afraid of the unknown. When you know you’ll always end up where you need to be, that jumping down a gap from the fourth floor won’t kill you but will let you glide softly, and that the dragon that looks almost real is just an illusion — well, you stop worrying so much.

Luna was quietly teaching me to be a real wizard, someone who felt magic, not just a Muggle with a wand. And I have to say, it felt bloody fantastic to think of myself as an actual wizard.

Then, we started studying runes together. Admittedly, rune studies were rather complex, but the children’s book offered simple rune chains for little crafts—animating stuffed toys, making a butterfly take flight, creating an everlasting torch, or crafting a fishing rod. I was more drawn to practical things for older students—lightening the weight of a bag, doubling its capacity, or linking two notebooks with something akin to Protean Charms.

As it turned out, nearly every spell in the wizarding world had a rune-based counterpart. But for wizards, using spells was quicker and easier. Runes were meticulous work, often used by weaker wizards and first-generation Squibs in the magical world. It let them settle in comfortably and enjoy the perks of magic without casting spells. Ritualists and enchanters used them too, for crafting serious items like enchanted tents.

What I especially liked about the book was that it didn’t go off on tangents about the runes themselves, just practical examples. Want to enchant a cloak to ward off the cold? Stitch runes into the lining or onto a tag and sew it onto the item. Slip rune-embroidered insoles into your shoes to keep your feet warm and blister-free. Burn runes inside the leather of a school satchel—nothing would ever get lost, and only you could retrieve things.

Luna, by the way, had a special set for burning runes. Each rune was like a stamp on a handle, heated on a special stand. Very handy, and most importantly—precise and error-free. Later, I bought a similar set for myself made of wood—it was three times cheaper and used special ink instead of heating. Just add a drop of your own blood, as Luna suggested.

By the time school started, I already had endless notebooks for notes, a feather sharpener, a non-spill inkpot, and a notebook for communicating with Luna. Plus a few odds and ends, like a torch and a skeleton key for any lock.

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Interestingly, the Quibbler didn’t exist yet. Xenophilius was still working on some sort of clever contraption and was already drafting articles for the first issue. Now Luna could chat with him normally enough. He’d tell her about various mythical creatures that popped up in his wild imagination as if they were real. He could go on about them for hours. But I was glad that he at least occasionally surfaced from his world to spend time with Luna, even if it was in his peculiar way.

Leaving her alone with such a parent felt... odd. But I was just a kid myself and couldn’t do much about it. And who was I to meddle in someone else’s family? I consoled myself with the fact that, according to the books, she’d turn out relatively fine. Besides, now she had me, and she wasn’t as peculiar as in the canon, even if she did talk in that dreamy way. But I understood her perfectly, and I quite liked it.

Luna was my personal miracle. She stood out from other girls. She had no duplicity or meanness in her. She was a whole soul, reliable as a rock and calm as a sea on a still day. I never regretted meeting her for a second.

Mr. Lovegood treated me with the same disinterest as he would a piece of furniture, as if I’d always been in their home. We didn’t see each other often. Mostly we’d bump into each other in the hallway, and every time he’d ask my name, and not once did I see him in proper clothes. It seemed he practically lived in his study.

I reckon the man wasn’t quite all there—some borderline state of mind, like what you’d see with drunks.

I remember Uncle Pasha, our building’s caretaker, who once had a “white squirrel” episode and kept insisting there was a demon living in the corner of his little hut. He could describe every hair in detail, the faces it pulled, the way it reached out and promised to take him away. He’d get furious when others pretended not to see it, thinking they were mocking him. But in other ways, he was quite rational.

Another neighbor, Auntie Ira, who was into some esoteric nonsense, claimed that Uncle Pasha had his mind slip into parallel worlds, even if she couldn’t see the entity herself. I reckon Luna’s dad must have lived in some world of his own as well.

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For Luna’s birthday, I gave her a little fluffy creature so she wouldn’t feel lonely when I left. She named him Snowball—he was pure white. I told her the twins could change his color, but she refused. She said Snowball couldn’t speak, so he wouldn’t be able to tell her if he didn’t like it. That’s Luna through and through.

Even though I felt like a proper wizard by then, I was still sad to leave the workshop. By summer, they were already trusting me with serious tasks, and I did enjoy the work.

Matt teased me about Luna in good humor, saying I’d found myself a girlfriend. One spring day, she surprised me by turning up at the workshop. I went cold at the thought of her running into trouble on her way there. A little witch, alone in the Muggle world.

Of course, I gave her a good talking to, and she nodded, but she kept coming back every day. Her house was only a fifteen-minute walk across the field. Then I’d give her a lift home on my bike. Sometimes we'd stop at a cafe for ice cream.

Time flew that year, racing as if trying to make up for all the years I’d wasted. It still felt unreal that I’d be going to Hogwarts this year, until one morning when a large tawny owl delivered my letter.