ChronoLuna - Across realms

Chapter 17: Shadows in the Great Hall

The morning sun filtered through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, casting soft golden light across the four house tables. The plates gleamed with toast, eggs, sausages, and stewed tomatoes. Lendra Chrono Luna Lovegood sat quietly with a spoon of porridge in one hand, her other brushing the worn edge of an old rune-inscribed notebook.

She wasn't eating with urgency. She was watching.

Around her, the Ravenclaw table buzzed with quiet chatter. First-years swapped tales of near-miscast spells and clumsy cauldrons. Older students skimmed the Daily Prophet, discussing minor Ministry gossip. Luna, ever a quiet observer, filtered the sound into categories—useful, amusing, dangerous.

Across the room, at the High Table, the professors had begun settling in. Luna's gaze flicked to each one, cataloging their demeanor after the first week of teaching.

Professor McGonagall

Still sharp as steel, her posture unbending, and her eyes more observant than she let on. Her lessons on Transfiguration had already shifted from basics into conceptual discussions of magical intent.

"Focus determines form," she had said. "Your wand does not shape the object—you do."

Luna had nodded quietly in class, but she already knew. Intent was the spine of spellcasting.

Professor Flitwick

Excitable and warm, he had continued to test the first-years gently. Luna noticed that he'd begun asking more questions during lessons, gauging the intellectual boundaries of each student. He'd caught her eye more than once, his thoughts unreadable.

Professor Snape

Luna had prepared herself for the cold silence of the dungeons. But even so, Snape's oppressive presence grated on her nerves.

He would glide between desks like smoke, his words cutting. He made no effort to hide his disdain for anyone not in Slytherin. But Luna had watched him stir the potions himself—his technique was exact, refined.

"There's a story behind that man," she noted once, closing her notebook after class. "Anger and purpose tightly coiled."

Professor Sprout

Gentle and honest, with dirt permanently lining her nails. She was the only one who treated students like young plants—tender but expected to grow strong.

Her words stuck with Luna:"Every root needs darkness to grow. Don't fear failure in the soil."

It was the kind of wisdom even the system paused to record.

Professor Quirrell

Now he was different.

Luna sipped her pumpkin juice slowly, her gaze drawn involuntarily across the hall to the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He sat hunched, pale, wearing his signature turban and an expression of trembling uncertainty. His spoon clinked against the edge of his bowl too often, his eyes darting too much.

The others didn't notice. Or if they did, they dismissed it as nerves.

But Luna...

She felt it.

Not in magic. Not in air.

In time.

Something about him gave off an echo. A temporal disruption. Her system had no formal warning, no red flag—just the sensation of unease, deep in her soul.

She thought back to the moment she entered the Great Hall for the first time and made eye contact with Quirrell. A flicker. A pulse in the back of her mind. Like something watching from behind his eyes.

System Internal Log: Passive Chrono-Aura detection triggered.Energy signature behind host unstable. Temporal tether trace: inconclusive.Warning: Observer status only — avoid confrontation.

Luna blinked.

"Not yet," she whispered to herself. "The thread hasn't moved."

She wouldn't interfere yet. Time was delicate, and her own presence here had already distorted it enough. She remembered the books, the films, the legends of who hid beneath that turban.

But memory wasn't action.

Instead, she observed. Studied. Waited.

Afternoon Classes

The day moved on—Arithmancy lectures from upper-year guest students, Astronomy theory discussions, and a joint magical history session that nearly put everyone to sleep. But Luna paid attention.

Not to the drone of Professor Binns, but to what wasn't said.

The Founders. The gaps in magical history. The hidden wars. And once again, the subtle way in which certain dark figures were spoken of with avoidance instead of facts.

She jotted a note:

"History in this world is curated by fear."

Late Evening – Ravenclaw Tower

As curfew neared, Luna sat curled on a window ledge, watching stars emerge over the Forbidden Forest. Her system's dream-monitoring thread shimmered lightly in the back of her mind.

She murmured, "He's hiding. But not from us. Not yet."

Her notebook, filled with notes on rune feedback loops and ancient protection spells, lay forgotten beside her. What mattered now was timing.

Behind her, her roommates laughed about chocolate frogs and someone's exploding ink bottle.

Ahead of her, the path of time whispered possibilities. Luna didn't fear Voldemort. She feared the damage time might take when twisted by him again.

And this time, she had the chance to be ready.