Harry can't wait for Thursday. The days pass in a blur of impatience until finally, it's Thursday morning, and when she wakes, she's virtually trembling in anticipation.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Luna asks dreamily from the next bed. She's already dressed. Small fairy bottles full of glitter dangle from her ears-a welcome change from the radishes.

"Huh?" Harry blinks at her, looking rather like an owl, especially with her glasses. "I mean, yeah," she tacks on, flushing as she gathers up her clothes to change in the privacy of a shower stall. She doesn't really feel comfortable changing in front of anyone else. The rest of the first years act at least mostly accepting, but the older students don't. Not all of them, anyway. Chloe was the most overt at first meeting, but she's noticed the stares, the pointed whispers, the scrawls of "she-boy" across the foot of her bed until Professor Flitwick found out and put a stop to it. It hurts. It hurts a lot, but now she can't wait to meet other people who are like her, albeit not thrust into the spotlight as much as she is, simply by virtue of what happened when she was a baby. Like she knows how she defeated You Know Who.

"If you say so," Luna murmurs, giving her one of those stares that always make it look as if the straggly-haired girl is peering right through her. It's more than a bit creepy, and Harry feels a shiver slip down her spine as she clambers off the bed with her armful of clothes.

A shower makes her feel more human, and she makes it through lunch without anything too out of the ordinary happening. Until she realises that she's late to Transfiguration and more than that, she's alone.

Unease makes the hairs on Harry's neck stand up, and she picks up her pace, her wand out and brandished in one hand. She'd rather be chastised by Professor McGonagall than be caught unawares, and she doesn't trust most of the school.

"Oh look at the ickle firstie," a mocking voice says behind her. She whirls, seeing an older boy she doesn't recognise, with a red-and-gold-striped tie. Gryffindor, then. "Poor ickle firstie. He thinks he's a girl. Funny, innit?"

"Yeah," another voice rumbles. Harry turns again, keeping her back to the wall to see another boy who looks vaguely familiar. Also a Gryffindor.

"Brave House you got there," Harry sneers. "Do you always have to travel in packs to pick on eleven-year-olds?" She presses her knees together to stop them trembling.

"Listen, freak," the first one starts, before Professor Snape seems to materialise out of nowhere, the glower on his face dark enough to scare even the bullies.

"Towler, Kirke, fifty points from Gryffindor," Snape snarls, his wand half-raised as if he intends to hex the two of them into submission. "Each. Your cowardice is deplorable, your insolence even more so. Detention. With the caretaker. For a week."

The two nod, whey-faced, and vanish, leaving behind a more-relieved-than-she-can-express Harry Potter.

"Thank you, sir," she whispers shyly. The Potions professor starts, as if he has forgotten Harry's presence, then nods shortly.

"I despise bullies," is all he says. "And Gryffindor even more," he sneers, making Harry snort. "Get to class, Potter," Professor Snape adds. "If Minerva questions your tardiness, tell her to speak to me."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbles and hurries off.

She doesn't tell Hermione or Luna what happened. She knows she probably should, but she can't seem to get the words past her throat. They stick there, uncomfortable and too large. She can't tell Hermione the fear that made her mouth dry up, the way they reminded her of Dudley and his gang. The surprise when Snape actually stood up for her and took points. The way they called her a freak. It's nothing new, not really, not when she has to live with the Dursleys, but it still stings, like a scraped knee or a burnt finger. It's not fair, but Harry doesn't have words for why.

It's with relief that evening that she makes her way down to the dungeons for the proposed refuge. She told Hermione the other day about it, and Hermione wished her luck, nose stuck in yet another hefty tome. Luna skips next to her the entire way, her hair pulled up in pigtails that make her look even younger.

"Where are you going?" Harry asks her, feeling awkward. Luna smiles.

"The same place you are," she points out. Harry notices that she's not wearing shoes again, and her socks are mismatched. Dancing music notes on one foot, dancing carrots on the other.

"Are you sure?" Harry hikes up one eyebrow in surprise. Then again, Luna is pretty...different.

"Everyone needs a refuge," Luna says in that dreamy voice she gets when she doesn't want to properly explain things.

Outside Snape's classroom, an older girl lounges against the door. She looks like she's in seventh year, at least.

"Refuge?" the girl asks. Luna nods for both of them.

"Come on, then," the girl says. "Close your eyes. Both of you."

A blindfold slips itself across Harry's eyes. She panics for a moment, flailing until one of her hands strikes Luna's. Luna clasps her fingers and squeezes.

"Sorry," the girl's voice comes, apologetic. "But it's for safety."

They walk for what seems like ages, stumbling through drafty halls and over uneven stone. Until finally, they're before a door, and the blindfold's whisked off.

"Go on, then," the girl says, not unkindly. "Go in."

Harry pushes open the door, and finds herself shocked all over again.