Luna laughed for a solid few minutes before she finally stopped, but Cohen didn't think what he'd said was *that* funny. Maybe it was amusing at first, but after someone's cracking up across from you for that long, even the best joke loses its charm.
Cohen picked up a book to pass the time—this time, it was Lockhart's *Wanderings with Werewolves*.
He'd already shelled out the cash for it, so if he didn't at least crack it open, he might as well use magic to slap its cover on some other book and call it a day. Honestly, if you treated Lockhart's memoirs like adventure novels, they weren't half bad for killing time. The guy knew how to spin a story with all the ups and downs—Lockhart should've been writing web novels in 21st-century China, not teaching dangerous Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.
Cohen was just getting to the part where some tiny Armenian village was facing its seventh attack by a sneaky werewolf when he decided to stretch his stiff neck—
That's when he noticed Luna, sitting across from him, reading something too.
It was a newspaper—*The Quibbler*, the quirky little wizarding tabloid her dad ran. Full of wild, off-the-wall articles.
The back cover had a headline so eye-catching it yanked Cohen's attention away from Lockhart's "impossible magic" cure for werewolf curses.
*"Are Dementors Really Evil Creatures? The True Kindness Beneath the Cloak…"*
What?! Who had taste this refined? Someone actually got the whole "united and friendly" Dementor vibe…
"This paper looks pretty interesting—mind if I take a peek?" Cohen asked Luna, genuinely curious. Sure, he knew most of *The Quibbler* was gimmicky nonsense that flew in the face of common sense, but when it came to his species' reputation, he had to check it out.
"Sure!" Luna chirped, thrilled that someone liked her dad's paper. Cohen seemed like a cool guy.
He took the paper and flipped to the page marked on the cover, landing on the Dementor article.
**"Dementors—Really 'Irredeemably Evil'?"**
**"Terrifying Murder Machines, or Perhaps Gentle, Loving Magical Beings!"**
Cohen had to stifle a laugh—if he'd written this himself, it'd make sense, but the byline read "Xenophilius Lovegood."
**"For centuries, Dementors have served as Azkaban's guards, often branded as ' merciless killers' (they don't have eyes, after all) and 'soul devourers.'"**
**"But is that really the case?"**
**"Shocking new evidence has recently come to light, suggesting Dementors might not be as heartless or terrifying as we've been led to believe. According to Ned O'Connor, a reclusive old man from the Isles of Scilly in Cornwall, he met a Dementor in 1987 that didn't harm him—and for the next three months, it brought him Galleons and little toys every month."**
**"'People misunderstand Dementors so badly,' Mr. O'Connor says. 'I think the Ministry doesn't want us getting too fond of their jailers. That little Dementor didn't hurt me at all—it was like a kid, building sandcastles on the beach. I thought it was just some homeless child at first. When I realized it was a Dementor, I even brought two bottles of Cheering Potion to keep it from sucking out my happiness. But it didn't even try—it just glanced at me, then at its sandcastle, and zipped off. Every month after that, I'd find a few Galleons or some kid's toys in that same spot. I've written to the Minister of Magic, hoping he'll take the needs of Dementors seriously soon—no more letting these poor little loners drift around aimlessly.'"**
Weird. Too damn weird.
Even for a Dementor, this was next-level bizarre. No wonder most people saw *The Quibbler* as "useless trash."
"I love this article too," Luna said. "Every species has a friendly side—they've got friends, families… it's just a shame we don't usually get to see it."
"Dementors do have a friendly side…" Cohen agreed.
"But I wouldn't recommend approaching one out of the blue—they can still be dangerous," he added. "Not every Dementor's as harmless as the one in this story. You've got to know how to communicate with them. It's like how you wouldn't waltz into merpeople territory without knowing their language."
After that, Luna launched into an excited chat with Cohen about Dementor habits and the language they spoke—
And boy, had she picked the right person to ask.
"You're basically a walking Dementor!"
Luna said it with such a cheerful tone.
She clearly didn't realize how that might sound to anyone else.
"Ha, thanks for the compliment—maybe skip it next time," Cohen replied, half-laughing, half-cringing.
The more he thought about it, the more he suspected the "Dementor" Ned O'Connor saw was actually Mick, the little Dementor tucked in his niffler pouch.
Did Lovegood actually stumble onto a true story?
Halfway through the trip, Earl woke up and spent a solid ten minutes griping about Cohen's summer homework—Luna didn't seem fazed at all by a talking owl.
"Animals all talk," she said softly. "Maybe your owl's just extra smart and picked up human speech. I wish I had one like that—then I'd have a friend at home."
"I sweet-talking girl," Earl said with a rebellious edge. "Can you toss me a couple more compliments? Keep the good vibes going?"
But Luna didn't keep it up—cutting him off left Earl squirming in frustration.
After a few minutes of silence, he gave up playing the fairy-tale owl in front of Luna and went full-on himself, bugging Cohen for some booze.
"Are you a second-year?" Luna asked as the train neared the station, finally getting around to Cohen's grade. "What's the Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony like? Dad says it's a dream where whatever animal shows up decides your house. I like rabbits, but there's no rabbit house at Hogwarts…" (Hogwarts' mysterious traditions—parents never spill the beans on what the Sorting Ceremony actually is.)
"No owl houses either," Earl hiccupped, reeking of alcohol. "I bet you'll end up in Ravenclaw—eagles love snacking on rabbits."
"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," Luna sang out. "My mom and dad were both in Ravenclaw. Thanks for the good wishes, amazing owl sir."
"Man, learn from her!"
Earl turned to Cohen, slurring through his boozy breath.
One look from Cohen was enough to sober him up fast.