[Castling] Chapter 55

That trip did something strange to me. I learned a lot about myself—some of it was not exactly pleasant. For one, I realised I was a sentimental idiot, a proper product of this cushy modern age—a pampered weakling who’d grown up thinking meat just appeared on shop shelves by itself.

The easy life I was raised in hadn’t prepared me for the real world. Not that I was unaware of how things worked, but growing up in a world of glass buildings and convenience meant I never had to think about it. Turns out, knowing how to throw a punch or defend yourself is pointless if your entire mindset has been warped by the comforts of civilization.

Modern people don’t trust each other anymore, too afraid of betrayal and disappointment. They’d rather isolate themselves or fill the holes in their hearts with domesticated, predictable animals. A dog isn’t just a loyal pet—it becomes a friend, a family member. A cat turns into the centre of its owner’s universe. I’ve seen it time and again with my mates. And it’s unsettling, really, when creatures of the same species drift apart like that. Some sink to the level of animals, living only to satisfy their base needs, while others humanise their pets, treating them as equals—or sometimes even valuing them above other people.

For the first time, I realised how spoiled I was. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so quick to order steak at a restaurant, or throw barbecues every Friday, if I’d ever had to go out and hunt my own food. But in cities, that connection to nature is gone for good—along with any real sense of balance or understanding of life’s actual worth. Any life.

Dropped into the real jungle, I lost all my confidence. I felt like a child suddenly seeing the world for what it was—brutal, but not in the senseless, cruel way of our world. Here, everything survived by consuming something else. If it wasn’t you eating, then you were the one being eaten. There were no harmless, cute little creatures. But at least here, nothing killed just for fun, just because it could.

I mean, sure, I knew dolphins were carnivores—I’d seen them being fed fish for doing tricks. But did I ever stop to think, back when I was swimming with them at the aquarium, that they were actual predators? That outside their little tank, a magical version of them could casually knock prey out of trees for a snack? And if a person fell into the water, just four quick strokes of those blade-like fins, and they’d be gone—vanished without a trace. I actually regretted never living in the countryside, never having to butcher livestock, never seeing real life without the filter of convenience, safety, and having everything I needed within arm’s reach.

We travelled through the jungle along enchanted pathways. They kept us hidden from the creatures around us, allowing them to go about their lives undisturbed. Each path led to a viewing hut, either on the ground or up in the trees, where we had a clear view of places where certain animals tended to show up.

This time, the researchers had come to study the Rakhanut—an absolutely bizarre magical creature that, at first glance, looked like the cat from Shrek with massive, cartoonishly expressive eyes. Except this little guy was downright strange.

Greenish-grey scales shimmered around its eyes, nose, and paw pads. Tiny black, twisted horns poked out between its ears. Below the nose, where fur should’ve been, was a layer of soft, grey-blue feathers. Two small, leathery wings, too tiny to be of any real use, sat folded against its back—more decoration than anything practical. It looked so absurdly adorable that any little girl would’ve screamed and scooped it up for a cuddle. Even I found myself grinning as I watched it darting around, playfully chasing some little rodent.

Then, at the edge of the clearing, something moved. A massive beast, creeping forward—looked like a lion, but with bony protrusions sticking out of its skull. My first instinct was to shoo it away from the tiny creature.

We’d been warned during the lecture not to interfere, and I barely stopped myself from acting. But then the Rakhanut bristled, sensing danger, and in a split second, it flipped backwards just as the predator lunged.

And then, it grew.

Not just a little—suddenly, the tiny thing was a towering, four-metre-tall monster. It swung a massive, muscular wing, knocking the lion-like beast senseless. Then, with a flick of its head, it tossed the predator into the air on its metre-long horns, slashing its belly open in the process. In three quick bites, it devoured the lifeless carcass, chewed for a bit, and spat out the bony growth like it was nothing.

An hour later, it had shrunk back into its small, fluffy form and was once again happily chasing a mouse, like nothing had happened.

It took me a while to recover—not from the blood or the killing, but from how completely unpredictable the whole thing was. It felt wrong. Meanwhile, Luna took it all in stride, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When I finally asked her if she’d wanted to step in, knowing the little cat-thing was about to get eaten, she just said, “That’s their life, Ron. That’s survival. If I saved one, I’d be dooming the other. They figured it out themselves—who was more deserving of life. This isn’t my world, and I’d rather not interfere.”

After witnessing a few more moments like that, I started getting used to it. Even found myself feeling relieved—like I’d crossed some kind of internal barrier, grown up a little, learned to think differently.

We didn’t go too deep into the jungle. Rakhanuts preferred to live closer to the water, so we stuck to the river, sleeping on the yacht at night and using magical transportation to reach our observation posts by day. Even if the hut was built high above the ground, all it took was a tap of the wand, and you’d be there in an instant.

They kept us busy, but nothing too taxing. Mostly, we recorded everything—how many creatures showed up, what they did, when they left, what they ate. Or we activated artefacts to track new arrivals, marking which ones were already logged and which weren’t.

The older magizoologists followed up by tagging certain animals with tracking charms—kind of like magical microchipping. It let them monitor populations and guard against poachers. They didn’t tag every creature, just the rare and valuable ones. Those on the brink of extinction were completely off-limits—no visitors, no interference. The perimeter was protected by magical wards that repelled predators.

This place was home to magical creatures from all over the world. The reserve was huge. There was even a desert somewhere on the far side, which meant they could house creatures from different climates, giving them controlled areas to live in without threatening the local ecosystem.

Wizards from all over the world worked here. But, interestingly, barely anyone from Britain.

Watching one species didn’t mean we ignored the others. Over the course of our trip, we saw all sorts of creatures—about half of the rare magical beasts listed in the field guide. No dragons, though; they lived much further upriver. We did, however, catch a glimpse of a Poisonfang in flight—looked like a prehistoric pterodactyl. Thank Merlin it wasn’t heading our way.

But the real highlight was a massive bird with a name that sounded like someone had coughed up a dictionary. The locals just called it Big Thunder.

Our observation hut was about five metres off the ground, so when a giant yellow eye—roughly the size of my own head—blocked the window and cast a shadow over the room, I nearly had a heart attack. For a split second, I thought we’d been ambushed by a dragon. Or a dinosaur. Honestly, nothing would’ve surprised me at that point.

Turned out, it was just a giant bird. A cheerful, bright blue, ridiculously fluffy thing—not dangerous at all, unless you happened to be standing where it landed. It screeched like a banshee, sure, but otherwise, it was more impressive than scary. Still, I wasn’t exactly used to birds and fish being bigger than me.

Once it had stuffed itself full of some purple berries and flown off, I climbed down and collected a handful of its shed feathers for Luna and Ginny. Meanwhile, Gustavo kept an eye on the perimeter to make sure I didn’t end up as someone else’s snack.

By the way, Gustavo didn’t use a camera. No big lenses, no fancy equipment—just a long crystal mounted on a handle, kind of like a torch. The jungle was littered with them, constantly recording any creatures that passed their detection fields. He just had to refine the footage later to get moving images for the magazines.

Knew who else surprised me? Xenophilius.

The yacht didn’t have any proper books, aside from a few dry, boring reference guides. But it was packed with foreign scientific journals from the last few years. Some even had articles on recently discovered magical species. No sign of Wrackspurts or Nargles, mind you, but I did find an entry on the Gulping Plimpy.

That one’s a real tropical fish—looks a bit like a pufferfish but has a pair of tiny hind legs instead of back fins. Not poisonous, either. Apparently, wizards eat it after magical exhaustion—kind of like how Muggles swear by chicken soup when they’re sick.

So, turns out Lovegood wasn’t just a complete nutter. He actually wrote some solid, well-researched articles on well-documented creatures. Outside Britain, he was even somewhat respected—often called in as an expert for certain topics. Which just made me wonder even more… why, in England, did he insist on acting like a complete loon?

But the biggest shock?

The Blibbering Humdinger was real.

That happened right at the end of our trip. There was suddenly a huge commotion—people buzzing about a breakthrough. At first, I thought they’d found another breach in the barrier or something like that.

They cordoned off a nondescript bush by the river, cleared the area of other wildlife, and set up an old-fashioned magnifying glass on a stand. They kept fiddling with the dials, adjusting the focus, then—just like that—everyone gasped. Proper, stunned silence.

Then chaos.

They started shaking Xenophilius’ hand, cheering, congratulating some other old researcher as well—some professor type who looked like he’d spent his life buried in books.

After they finished taking notes and snapping images, Luna and I were finally allowed to have a look.

"Look, Ron," Luna beamed. "That’s the Blibbering Humdinger! Dad was right—we were going to find one. There was a breach here recently. Isn’t it beautiful?"

I leaned in to peer through the glass.

An eye stared back at me.

Just a single, ordinary brown eye—perched on eight spindly legs.

Looked like someone had glued a spider’s body to an eyeball. It moved around in its socket, though it didn’t blink. Had little hair-like tendrils that almost looked like eyelashes.

Creepy as hell.

Calling it "beautiful" was… generous. Especially when it started crawling towards me, its unblinking pupil fixed in my direction.

"Erm… Luna?" I asked, swallowing hard. "What is this thing supposed to be, exactly?"

"Why does it have to be anything, Ron?" she said dreamily, eyes full of admiration for the thing. "Sometimes, things just exist. Dad convinced Master Sherry to create this artefact so we could see beings from the Thin World. The human eye isn’t capable of perceiving some things without the right tools. But now the Council will have to admit the world is far bigger than they thought."

"Wait—you’re saying no one has ever seen this thing before?" I asked, my brain struggling to process that.

"Nope, we’re the first," Luna said cheerfully. "They’ll probably name it Sherry’s Humdinger now. But Dad won’t mind—he doesn’t care much for recognition. He’s just happy they finally listened and funded the research. I still get to call it what I like."

I frowned, my thoughts spinning. "So… you see these kinds of creatures, Luna? Like, without magical lenses?"

"I don’t see them," she corrected, looking at me with mild confusion. "I feel them."

"Er…" My stomach turned. "Am I supposed to be able to feel them?"

Luna blinked at me, genuinely surprised. "Wait… you don’t?"

"No," I admitted, feeling oddly guilty, like I’d let her down somehow. "Should I?"

"But how?" she asked, tilting her head. "You play the Path. You wear my Nargle charms. And you didn’t even question me when I told you about Wrackspurts."

"That’s different, Luna," I sighed. "I believe you. I don’t feel them, but I trust that you do. You understand magic better than I do. Who was I before you? A Muggle with a wand. But you taught me—and everything changed. I started… seeing things differently. Trusting my instincts. Hogwarts started playing Path with me, revealing its secrets…"

"Wait. Stop, Ron," she suddenly interrupted, fixing me with an intense look. "What do you mean, Hogwarts started playing Path with you?"

I hesitated. "Erm… well, you know, like we played at your house. And how your home played tricks on us—made it interesting, led us to discoveries."

Luna stared at me for a moment—then suddenly burst into laughter.

"Sorry, Ron," she giggled, grabbing my hand when I huffed and looked away. "You’re just so funny sometimes. Come on—let’s go have some tea," she suggested, nodding towards the group of excited researchers heading back our way.

Luna and I headed down to the common room, where she busied herself in the small kitchenette, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of me before settling into the seat opposite.

"Ron, no matter how magical a house is, it can’t play with you," she said matter-of-factly. "It’s not alive. It’s got hidden secrets and functions built into it, but it’s you who creates your ‘Path’ when you play. The house is just responding to your magic."

I frowned. "So, you’re saying I had it all wrong? It wasn’t Hogwarts showing me things—I was finding them myself?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "That’s why you still don’t believe in your Path, even though you’ve learned to feel it. You think it’s something outside of you, not something you control. But it’s the opposite. Say you’re cold, and you wrap yourself in a blanket. The blanket doesn’t make you warm on its own. You warm it first, and then it gives that warmth back to you. Magic and the Path work the same way—it’s all about interaction. You wanted to understand Hogwarts, so you shaped your Path. The castle simply responded, showing you what you sought—or what it thought you’d find interesting."

"But that seems too simple, Luna," I argued. "If that were true, then loads of people should’ve been able to find the Chamber of Secrets or the Room of Requirement. Even Filch knows every hidden passage, and he’s a Squib."

"Well, let’s be honest—it’s not Filch who knows them. It’s his magical cat," Luna corrected, completely unfazed. "As for the rest… To interact with something, you need to feel or see it. And to do that, you need to understand yourself—connect with your magic. But most people never do."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because it’s difficult," she said simply. "And unfamiliar. You have to believe before you feel. You have to step off a cliff before you know you won’t fall. Most people would rather build a sturdy bridge than take a leap into the unknown."

"But playing Path was brilliant," I countered. "It was strange at first, but… fun."

"That’s because you wanted to understand," she said, giving me a knowing look. "You lost something, Ron—something important—and it changed you. Just like it changed me. You were lost, uncertain, or you wouldn’t have agreed to play my way. When I lost my mum"—she glanced away, fingers tracing the rim of her cup—"I realised that everything can change in an instant. Forever. It doesn’t matter if you’re a strong wizard or a weak one, if you know a lot or barely anything—it will happen, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So, what’s the point in running? If you rush through life, you’ll get where you’re going, sure—but you’ll be exhausted when you arrive. And you’ll miss the beauty along the way. You won’t understand it. You won’t feel it.

"I’d rather take my time. And I’m glad you do too," she added with a small smile. "Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a friend. No one wanted to play with me before. Not then, not now… And I don’t know how to play any other way. I’d be bored if I had to."

"Luna, but knowing things isn’t a bad thing," I said, hoping to pull her from that sad place. "Knowledge helps. Hermione’s brilliant, and the more she learns, the more confident she gets."

"You can copy a master’s painting a hundred times over," Luna replied, voice calm as ever. "You might even get good at it—really good. But if you only copy others, you’ll never create something new.

"There are more books in the world than anyone could read in ten lifetimes. There will always be someone who knows more. What’s the point of memorising hundreds of spells when you could just study Lumos? It’s the first spell most people learn. It’s supposed to be simple. But if you understand it—really understand it—you can recreate any spell. You can create new spells.

"By controlling your magic in Lumos, making the light brighter or dimmer at will, you learn how to channel power into a spell. And once you know how it works, you can invent your own. But most people would rather learn something already made—something more complicated, more impressive. It makes them feel powerful. Who cares about Lumos when you can learn Expecto Patronum?

"So, they end up knowing everything about magic—but understanding nothing. And you can’t create something new out of nothing.

"And that," she concluded, taking a sip of tea, "doesn’t interest me."

We finished the rest of our tea in silence, both lost in thought.

"Do you think I’ll ever be able to feel those invisible creatures?" I asked eventually.

"If you want to," she said with a smile. "Wizards can do anything, Ron—if they want to and understand how. But you’re terribly impatient. You’d struggle to focus for long enough.

"Still," she mused, tapping a finger against her cup, "if Master Sherry agrees to make the artefact cheaper, then maybe, one day, everyone will be able to see them. Well… everyone who wants to, and everyone who knows how to feel even just a little."

"Can’t imagine there’d be too many of those, Luna," I chuckled. "Not everyone was lucky enough to play with you as a kid."

She gave me a dreamy smile. "But that’s their problem, isn’t it? Everyone walks their own Path… Maybe we could disguise the artefact as something simple. Glasses, perhaps?"

Later, we found out the Humdinger wasn’t just some harmless oddity.

It was a parasite.

It burrowed into people’s brains and triggered nightmares—specifically tailored to their worst fears. When I made a noise of disgust and called it a useless little menace, Luna looked at me like I was missing the obvious.

"The Humdinger isn’t useless, Ron," she chided. "Not everyone can say their fears out loud. Not everyone can admit weakness. For some, it’s better to experience them—to live through them in their mind and come out the other side. The next time, the fear won’t seem quite so terrifying.

"Everything in the world has two sides. And you choose which one to see. Your Boggart is proof of that. Would you have ever understood it—let go of it—if you hadn’t seen it first?"

I had no answer for that.

Instead, I asked, "Luna, do you give names to every creature you feel?"

"Yes," she said, grinning. "I can’t shape them, but I can name them. Isn’t that wonderful?"

All I could do was nod.