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Chapter Text

The clink of cutlery in the Malfoy dining room was far too precise, far too polite to sound like real life. Lyra sat between Draco and the wall, staring down at the delicate arrangement of fruit on her plate as though willing it to look less ornamental and more like food she wanted to eat. It wasn’t just the food that felt staged—it was the whole house, every gilded frame and polished surface like a museum display. The high windows let in long streaks of early summer sunlight, but even that couldn’t cut through the room’s oppressive stillness. Everything here felt curated, controlled, and suffocating, as though her very existence had been carefully choreographed. Every gesture, every word she spoke at this table felt rehearsed, judged, weighed against the Malfoy standard of poise.  

Her thoughts drifted to Salisbury. She clung to it now—a memory of uneven cobblestones, the way the town smelled faintly of bread and rain, the quiet freedom of walking through streets where no one knew her name. Salisbury was alive in ways the Manor wasn’t. No stiff silences, no gilded cages. In that town, she didn’t need to be Bellatrix Lestrange’s daughter or Lucius Malfoy’s niece. She could just be. She could watch the shopkeepers banter with customers, children chasing each other across the square, smell the simple comfort of a bakery’s open window. There, the air didn’t feel heavy. It felt like air after weeks of suffocating underwater.  

Lucius, at the far end of the table, held his teacup with two fingers like a man on stage performing elegance. He skimmed the Daily Prophet without looking up. “Yaxley has informed me the Montague proceedings are… progressing,” he said at last, his words clipped, deliberate. “They will want you present again, Lyra—for follow‑up clarification sooner than we initially anticipated.”  

She didn’t look up. “Fine.” It was the only word she could force out, and she made it as flat as possible. She couldn’t give him more—not when even hearing Montague’s name made her stomach twist.  

Narcissa, ever observant, tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet,” she said, her voice light but prying. “Are you studying already? Exams are a year away, darling.” Her assessing gaze lingered on Lyra just a little too long.  

“I like to be prepared,” Lyra replied smoothly, lifting her teacup like armor. Tidy, practiced answers were easier than admitting she wanted to scream.  

Across from her, Draco perked up. “You should’ve seen my Nimbus,” he said, leaning forward with an eager gleam in his eye. “Father had it delivered yesterday for the whole team—Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, every single one of us. No more sluggish Cleansweeps or patched‑up brooms. We’ll dominate the pitch. And I’ll be Seeker next year; you’ll see.”  

“Maybe,” Lyra murmured, though the faintest shadow of a smile tugged at her lips. “Assuming you don’t fall off in the first match. And don’t think new brooms will save you from tryouts. Everyone earns their spot, even you.”  

Draco huffed, affronted, but she was already standing, folding her napkin with deliberate care. “I’m heading into Salisbury,” she said. “I need new parchment for next term.” Really, she needed air.  

“Don’t linger,” Narcissa warned, though her voice softened as she added, “And take one of the elves if you plan to bring back more than parchment. And be mindful—Salisbury isn’t like Diagon Alley. Muggles are easily startled, and you need to blend in.”  

“I won’t be long.”  

Lucius didn’t turn from his paper, but she felt his eyes follow her as she left. Even here, she couldn’t shake the sense of being watched, of belonging to this house instead of herself. Salisbury was freedom, and for a few precious hours, she intended to claim it.  

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Salisbury smelled like rain and bread. It always did, and Lyra thought that was what made it feel real. Not the curated reality of Malfoy Manor with its polished marble and perfumed halls, but the real kind of life that clung to uneven cobblestones, chipped paint on shop signs, and the low hum of conversations outside tiny cafes. She lingered as she walked, letting the breeze carry the scent of baking bread and faint soap from a nearby laundrette, savoring every reminder that she was somewhere untouched by her family name. Here, no one cared who she was—no one whispered “Lestrange” like a curse. She was just another girl, a shadow moving through the ordinary lives of strangers.  

She passed the little stationery shop she’d claimed as her errand, imagining stepping inside, running her fingers over stacks of journals and smooth pads of lined paper, even pens and markers displayed in tidy rows—mundane objects that still somehow felt exotic to her. It wasn’t about quills or parchment here; it was about choosing something for herself in a place where no one would recognize her. But she didn’t stop—not yet. Her feet carried her toward the square, where vendors called to customers in warm, unpolished accents, and children dashed between stalls with sticky fingers and unrestrained laughter. It was life in motion, messy and unscripted, nothing like the rehearsed interactions of the Manor. She ached for it, for the way this world seemed so unapologetically alive, unbothered by titles or bloodlines. This is what freedom feels like, she thought, brushing her fingers against the rough stone of a wall as if touching it would anchor her here a little longer.  

Her steps slowed at The Wild Hare. She hadn’t planned this, but she couldn’t keep away. The pub glowed warmly, alive with laughter, the faint twang of guitar strings, and the clatter of mugs against wooden tables. And there she was—the blonde woman with the ribbon of green and navy tartan, laughing with her companions, her face open and effortless. Lyra froze, caught between the doorway and her own breath, wanting to step closer but rooted in place by something nameless—fear, longing, maybe both. What would it feel like to belong in a place like this?  

She lingered just long enough to burn every detail into her mind: the candlelight on the woman’s hair, the warmth of her laugh, the way she seemed so at home in herself. Then, with a tightening in her chest, Lyra turned back into the night. The Manor awaited, cold and silent, but she carried Salisbury with her—the woman’s laughter, the smell of bread and rain, the reminder that there was still a world beyond her gilded cage.  

The return to Malfoy Manor always felt like stepping back into a painting—gilded, immaculate, and suffocating in its stillness. The air was too clean, scented faintly with something floral and expensive, the marble floors polished to a mirror-like sheen that seemed to mock the imperfections of the outside world. The portraits followed her with their painted gazes, silently judging her every movement, their eyes carrying the weight of a legacy she couldn’t outrun. Even the silence was oppressive—curated, purposeful, as if the house itself demanded its occupants perform their roles without deviation. Hours in Salisbury had felt like stepping between two worlds—one alive, vibrant, unfiltered; and one rehearsed, perfected, and utterly hollow.  

Dinner was a performance. Lucius sat at the head of the long dining table, cane resting at his side like a scepter, his pale gaze flicking between Draco and Lyra as they recounted their day. He asked few questions, but his lifted brow carried a warning: he knew more than he let on. Narcissa steered the conversation toward the upcoming Quidditch season, her calm words carefully smoothing over the tension. She reminded them—pointedly—that Lucius had procured Nimbus 2001s for the entire Slytherin team, a gift meant to ensure their dominance and, implicitly, their gratitude. Lyra gave polite thanks, even managed a smile, but inside she wondered if even her position as Captain still belonged to her—or if it had simply been folded into Lucius Malfoy’s sphere of influence.  

Later, in her room, Lyra sat at her desk, pulling a simple, soft-bound journal from her bag. It wasn’t like the enchanted books of her world; it was plain, unadorned, chosen by her and for her—a piece of Salisbury she could keep. She stared at the blank page, quill poised, willing the words to come. How could she write about the dizzying contradiction of being grateful for everything and yet feeling caged by all of it? How could she describe how those few hours in Salisbury—anonymous, untethered—had felt more like living than anything the Manor could ever offer?  

Her thoughts returned to the woman at The Wild Hare, her laughter ringing in Lyra’s memory like a charm, the way she looked like she belonged to herself. What would it take to feel like that? Lyra closed the journal, unwritten, leaning back in her chair as the silence of the Manor pressed in. But in her mind, Salisbury still buzzed with life. And somewhere out there, the blonde woman with the tartan ribbon was still laughing—unaware that a girl caught between two worlds was already thinking of her like a flame she couldn’t help but reach for.  

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The next trip to Salisbury came a few days later, under the same pretense of running errands. The cobbled streets hummed with life in the evening, lanterns glowing softly as Lyra lingered near The Wild Hare, unable to bring herself to go in this time. Instead, she turned toward the quieter streets leading out of town, her mind caught somewhere between guilt and longing. That was when she saw him.  

Dumbledore stood leaning lightly against a wrought-iron lamppost, his long traveling cloak the only thing that made him stand out in the Muggle street. His expression, warm yet unreadable, made it clear he’d been waiting for her.  

“An unusual place to see you, Miss Lestrange,” he said, falling into step beside her as though they’d arranged it. “Salisbury has a way of drawing people. I come here myself, now and then, for perspective.”  

Lyra arched a brow. “Perspective?”  

“It’s easy to forget the scale of life within castle walls,” he replied softly. “This place reminds me that the world is larger than our titles and troubles. And just beyond, of course, lies Stonehenge—a monument older than our world of wands and castles, and a reminder that magic, in some form, has always belonged to more than just us.”  

They walked for some time along the narrow country road, the sounds of the town fading behind them until the distant hum of the night and the whisper of the grass took over. Dumbledore spoke lightly of Stonehenge as they approached its distant outline on the horizon, weaving a tale about its role in magical and non-magical history, how generations of witches and wizards had come here seeking answers or simply a sense of connection to something older than themselves.  

“And you, Lyra,” he said at last, his tone shifting to something more personal, “have you considered who you want to be, beyond the walls of Hogwarts? Beyond the name Lestrange, or the expectations of those who raise you?”  

Lyra’s throat tightened. “I don’t know that it matters who I want to be,” she said, deflecting. “It’s not like anyone’s asking.”  

“I am asking,” Dumbledore said, with that quiet insistence that made it sound like the answer would matter to him, even if no one else cared. “You will spend your whole life answering to names unless you decide which one is yours. There is power in choosing who you are.”  

She didn’t reply. They walked a little longer in silence, the ancient stones of Stonehenge visible now against the fading twilight, until Lyra finally murmured, “I’ll think about it.”  

“That,” Dumbledore said gently, “is all I can ask for tonight.”  

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Back at Malfoy Manor, the house felt colder, its stillness pressing in around her. Lyra moved through the corridors like a ghost, slipping unnoticed into her room. She shed her cloak and sat at the edge of her bed, fingers digging into her knees as if she could hold herself together that way. Dumbledore’s words replayed in her head: You will spend your whole life answering to names unless you decide which one is yours. It wasn’t just a statement — it was a challenge, and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.  

Her thoughts kept returning to The Wild Hare, to the warm hum of voices, the comforting clatter of mugs, and most of all, to the blonde woman with the tartan ribbon. The memory lingered like a half‑remembered dream, both thrilling and untouchable. That ease, that ordinary freedom — Lyra wanted it in a way that felt sharp and dangerous.  

A knock at her door jolted her from her thoughts. Before she could answer, Draco barged in, already in flying robes, his pale hair immaculately combed. “You’ve been brooding all day,” he said bluntly. “Come outside. We should test the new brooms. You can’t keep hiding in here.”  

Lyra arched an eyebrow. “And you think flying fixes that?”  

“I think,” Draco said with an infuriatingly smug smirk, “that Captain Lestrange needs to see if she can still keep up with me.” He tossed her a pair of flying gloves. “Race you to the pitch.”  

She couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at her lips. For once, she let herself give in. “Fine. But don’t cry when I win.”  

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The pitch stretched out under the dimming sky as they strode across the grass, the faint smell of summer earth mixing with the familiar tang of broom polish. Lyra mounted her broom and felt the rush of power as it responded, eager to take flight. The first kick off the ground brought a surge of freedom, the manor’s suffocating weight falling away as she climbed higher, Draco streaking after her. They twisted and dove, pushing each other faster, sharper, laughing between challenges. For a while, there were no names, no burdens—just the wind, the sky, and the thrill of trying to outfly each other.  

They raced the length of the pitch, weaving through goal hoops, Draco shouting over his shoulder as she gained on him. “Too slow, Captain!”  

“Keep talking,” she yelled back, surging forward in a burst of speed that had her overtaking him by inches. The wind roared in her ears, whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks. She felt alive in a way she hadn’t since before Valentines Day. Every sharp turn, every near miss was its own rebellion, a refusal to let the weight of the Manor or the whispers of her past cage her here.  

They finally landed breathless, Draco collapsing onto the grass with dramatic flair. “Fine,” he said between gulps of air, “you’re still faster. For now.”  

Lyra dropped beside him, staring up at the darkening sky. For a moment, with the scent of grass in her nose and her pulse still racing, she could almost believe she was free. Almost.  

Chapter Text

Lyra had gotten good at lying.  

The first time she’d told Narcissa she was heading into Salisbury for “errands,” it had been clumsy, her voice too stiff, the excuse too vague. But Narcissa hadn’t questioned it—Malfoy Manor was a house of polite silences. If you didn’t want to be asked, you wouldn’t be. That suited Lyra just fine. So she kept saying it. Errands. As though she had any real business among Muggles with their clattering cars and ridiculous coins. As though she needed parchment or ink or anything Narcissa would expect.  

The truth was simpler: she just needed to be there.  

Salisbury was old, strange, and human in a way the Manor wasn’t. The narrow streets wound through mismatched buildings with sagging roofs and faded paint, holding stories far older than she could guess. The cobblestones were uneven, making her watch every step. The air carried the scents of bread, rain‑damp stone, and the faint sweetness of flowers hanging in windowsills. It smelled like life that had nothing to do with her world.  

It was so ordinary it felt foreign. And that was what she liked best.  

Here, no one whispered about Lestranges. No one glanced twice at her sharp profile or perfect posture. She was just a girl in plain clothes, learning how to disappear. A pair of children ran past laughing, and Lyra envied their unselfconscious joy. An older couple shared a bench, trading quiet smiles that made her chest ache. She wanted that ease. That normalcy.  

She bought coffee—burnt and bitter—and cradled the paper cup like something precious. It tasted wrong compared to the Manor’s imported teas, but it was hers, chosen by her. Yet every window she passed betrayed her: she didn’t belong. This wasn’t her world, no matter how she tried to pretend.  

And yet, she kept walking toward The Wild Hare. Her feet knew the way. She’d only actually been inside once, just long enough to see her . The blonde woman. Lyra didn’t know her name, but she knew her laugh, her bright hair, the way she felt alive.  

You’re staring at strangers now , Lyra scolded herself. Pathetic. But still, she didn’t turn away.  

The second time Lyra stepped into The Wild Hare, it was deliberate.  

She’d rehearsed it in her head, from how she’d keep her chin tilted just enough to seem confident, to how she’d order a drink like she’d done it a hundred times before. But the second she opened the door, the carefully constructed plan cracked, splintering beneath the weight of reality.  

The warmth of the pub wrapped around her, heavy with the scents of woodsmoke, ale, and something hearty cooking in the back. The low hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter were worlds away from the suffocating stillness of Malfoy Manor.  

Here, life happened in real time—messy, loud, unpolished. She noticed the creak of the floorboards, the scuffed chairs mismatched over decades, the way people leaned together, unafraid of being seen. They lived without the weight of names, of bloodlines, of expectations. How easy it must be to be no one.  

Her eyes found the blonde woman instantly, as though she’d been looking for her even before she walked in. There she was, hair pulled back with that same tartan ribbon, her easy smile brighter than any spell Lyra knew. Every part of her screamed Muggle, from the way she dressed to the way she gestured while speaking, unbothered by the rules of the world Lyra had been raised in. She wasn’t restrained. She wasn’t careful. She was free.  

You don’t belong here , Lyra reminded herself. And you never will. The words burned like a brand, but they didn’t stop her from taking a seat where she could watch without being obvious. She ordered a drink she didn’t want, pretending she belonged, and let herself listen to the hum of this alien world. She didn’t know why she kept coming back—only that she couldn’t seem to stay away. A soft, folky tune hummed from the corner where a man played guitar, the gentle melody threading between conversations and laughter that rose and fell like waves. She studied the glow of the pub’s mismatched lanterns, the scuffed floors, the easy way these strangers moved in a place that felt like a second home to them.  

She didn’t notice the woman approach until a warm voice broke through her thoughts. “You’ve been staring,” the blonde said with a playful tilt of her head, her green-and-blue ribbon catching the light as she moved. “How about a dance instead?” Lyra froze, heat flooding her cheeks, but she nodded stiffly. The woman’s grin softened, and she reached for Lyra’s hand, pulling her gently toward the open space in front of the fireplace where a few couples swayed. They danced slowly, Charity leading with practiced ease, and Lyra felt simultaneously terrified and impossibly light, her heart pounding as the music wrapped around them like a spell.  

Afterward, they found themselves sharing drinks at the bar, Charity’s presence as disarming as her laughter. “I’ve seen you outside before,” Charity said knowingly, swirling her drink. “You always walk by like you’re not sure if you’ll come in.” Embarrassed, Lyra mumbled an apology, her fingers tightening around her glass, but Charity only laughed, her tone warm and teasing. “It’s fine. Curiosity suits you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Charity.”  

“Lyra,” she replied, her voice quieter than she intended, but Charity smiled like she’d been expecting it.  

They talked for what felt like hours—about music, about Salisbury, about anything that wasn’t Hogwarts or the Manor—until Lyra glanced at the clock and felt panic crawl into her chest. “I should go,” she said reluctantly, rising to her feet. Charity smirked. “What, midnight already? Careful, Cinderella.” Lyra blinked at her, confused. “Cinderella?” she repeated cautiously. Charity tilted her head, clearly surprised at the confusion, then chuckled warmly. “You really don’t know? It’s a story. About a girl who has to run away before the magic fades.” Lyra’s frown deepened, still lost. “I don't—what?” her wizard‑raised mind grasping for context. Charity’s grin softened into something understanding, almost tender. “Never mind. I’ll tell you next time. It’s not important tonight.” The tease made Lyra laugh despite herself, though her stomach twisted as she turned to leave.  

On the walk back, the night air cooled her flushed skin. Every step toward the Manor felt heavier, her thoughts spinning—Charity’s laugh, the warmth of her hand, the strange and electric sensation of being seen for who she was, not her name. She wasn’t ready to let it go. Not yet.  

Lyra’s boots crunched against the gravel, each step loud in the oppressive quiet of the Wiltshire countryside. The cloak around her shoulders felt heavier than before, as if carrying the shame and exhilaration twisted together in her chest. You’re not like this. You don’t want this. You’re not— The words looped in her head, but she couldn’t finish them. Couldn’t define what she wasn’t, or what she was. All she knew was that something about tonight—about Charity—had shifted something inside her, cracked open a door she didn’t dare look through.  

Rodolphus’s voice crept in unbidden, cold and guttural: Bloodlines, girl. That’s what matters. Legacy. Duty. The words dragged like chains, anchoring her to memories of every lecture, every threat, every look from her mother that said be more, do more, don’t fail me . Bellatrix had never spoken the expectation aloud, but Lyra felt it always: to uphold the name, to stay in her place, it was safest there. And yet here she was—lingering in pubs, dancing with strangers, laughing at jokes she didn’t even understand. What would they say if they knew? What would they do if they saw her?  

She slowed when Stonehenge appeared in the distance, the ancient silhouettes carved against the moonlit sky like jagged teeth. The sight rooted her to the spot. She veered from the road, crossing dew-damp grass, her breath visible in the chill as she drew closer. Beneath those massive stones she felt small—not just in body, but in the vastness of history. Generations had carried burdens like hers here, some heavier, some lighter, and each had left nothing but whispers. Her bloodline, her guilt, even Charity’s laughter—all of it felt fleeting beside the stillness of these stones.  

She pressed her hand to the cool surface of one, closing her eyes as the chill sank into her skin. For a moment, she imagined she could leave it all here: the shame, the fear, the tangled confusion she couldn’t name. Walk away lighter. But when she stepped back, the weight clung to her like a second skin. It always did.  

Lyra stayed until the wind cut through her cloak and the silhouette of the Manor loomed in the distance, reminding her of who she had to be again. Before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder, the stones casting endless shadows under the moonlight. They felt like a promise—of survival, of becoming someone else, of someday claiming a name that belonged only to her. Clutching that thought tight, she turned back toward the night and began the long walk home.  

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The Manor was silent when Lyra returned, the kind of quiet that seemed alive — a watchful, expectant stillness that crept into her bones. The marble floors felt colder under her boots, and the grand corridors stretched endlessly, their dimmed lanterns flickering like distant stars. From the end of the hall came the faint, steady murmur of Lucius’s voice, spilling through the barely ajar study door. It was measured and deliberate, the clipped tone he reserved for matters of influence, strategy, and power. A muted glow from the Floo cast his tall shadow across the carpet as he paced, cane tapping rhythmically between pointed words. Lyra didn’t need to understand what was being said to know it wasn’t meant for her — it was the business of names, votes, and debts that kept their world turning.  

Narcissa met her at the staircase, a vision of soft silk and sharp composure. “You’re late,” she murmured, her voice free of judgment yet heavy with knowing. Her blue eyes swept Lyra’s face, lingering as if cataloging every unspoken thing, but she chose silence over questions. “You should rest,” she said instead, fingertips brushing Lyra’s arm in a fleeting gesture of reassurance. “Goodnight, my darling.”  

Lyra nodded wordlessly and slipped away, but her thoughts stayed knotted, heavy.  

She had just reached her door when it burst open. “Finally!” Draco’s voice shattered the quiet, his bare feet skidding across the polished floor. His hair was tousled, his pajamas rumpled, as if he’d been plotting instead of sleeping. “Where have you been? Never mind — I don’t care. I’ve been thinking about team formations all night.”  

Lyra arched an eyebrow. “It’s the middle of the night.”  

Draco scoffed. “So? We’ve got Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-Ones! The whole team has them — our team. We need to start thinking about who’s keeping their spot and who’s getting cut. You’re the captain, Lyra. We need to talk practice schedules and strategies for crushing Gryffindor. We should at least go over plans for the first few practices tomorrow.” He practically vibrated with excitement as he launched into ideas — new drills, ways to adjust their chaser lineup. It spilled from him like an unstoppable tide, filling the room with his electric energy.  

Lyra leaned against the doorframe, letting his chatter ground her, though she made no move to give him the satisfaction of thinking he was in charge. His relentless optimism felt alien and familiar all at once, a reminder of how different he still was from the players she captained. “Tryouts aren’t until term starts,” she said finally, her tone calm but resolute, reminding him and herself who held authority here. “We’ll plan tomorrow. Early. I’ll bring the roster, and you can give me your thoughts then — but I make the calls.”  

Draco’s grin split his face, unbothered by her cool authority. “Finally. It’s going to be brilliant — Potter won’t stand a chance.” He darted off before she could reply, his boyish arrogance trailing behind him.  

The silence crept back in, heavier than before. Lyra closed her door more slowly this time, leaning her forehead against the wood and exhaling through her nose. Through her window, Salisbury’s distant lights glimmered on the horizon. Slowly, she crossed the room and walked over to the window, easing herself down onto the broad stone ledge as though the act itself might settle her racing thoughts. For a moment, she wished she were there instead — anonymous, free, untethered by names that felt more like chains, if only for a night. It was a childish fantasy, but she let herself linger in it a moment longer, just to imagine what it would be like to belong to no one but herself.  

With slow, deliberate movements, she climbed down from the ledge and crossed to her jewelry box. She slid open the top drawer, then carefully pressed at the false bottom until it gave way with a soft click. From the hidden compartment, she drew out a simple silver chain with a ring threaded through it — not her mother’s like most would suspect if they found it before they took the time to really look at it, but Edgar Bones’s heir ring. She had found it on the stairs the night he died, where it had fallen from his hand, and she’d kept it ever since, too large for her finger but impossible to let go of. The last thing he had ever touched. She sat back on the ledge, holding it up to the moonlight. The metal glinted faintly, and she traced its familiar contours with her thumb, grounding herself in the coolness of it. She had always found comfort in the feel of the Bones family crest branded into the surface.  

Lyra sat back down on the ledge, letting the chain rest against her palm, and let her thoughts spiral back to everything else she’d been trying not to think about — the conversation with Dumbledore, the woman at the pub, the crushing expectations waiting for her in every corner of her life.  

It wasn’t just about the woman — though the thought of her made Lyra’s breath hitch in a way she didn’t want to name. It was what she represented. Freedom. Ease. A life without constant performance, where she wasn’t Bellatrix’s daughter, the Malfoy ward, or the Lestrange heir. A life where she could simply be without fearing judgment or punishment for wanting something different.  

She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, clutching the ring tightly as the ache deepened. She didn’t even know what she wanted, not exactly — only that she wasn’t allowed to have it. That whatever it was, it would be ripped away the moment she reached for it.  

You can’t want her, she told herself, the words sharp and cruel. You don’t get to want this. You’re a Lestrange. And Lestrange’s don’t get to be human. They don't get to be happy.  

The thought sat in her chest like stone, heavy and immovable, until the distant lights of Salisbury blurred into streaks through her tears.  

Chapter Text

Amelia Bones arrived at the Ministry well before sunrise, the heavy oak doors of the Atrium groaning open as if even they weren’t ready for the day ahead. Her heels struck the polished stone floor with purpose as she crossed to the lifts, her breath forming faint clouds in the cool early‑morning air of the cavernous hall. By the time she arrived on Level Two, the Ministry was only just waking — a scattering of junior clerks hurrying past with stacks of parchment, the soft rush of owls cutting through the air, the scent of burnt coffee brewing in some far‑off corner. To Amelia, it was perfect. Quiet enough to think, alive enough to feel like the heart of wizarding law.  

Her office was a fortress of work. Case files loomed in precarious towers, but every pile had its place, organized with an almost militaristic precision. Wanted posters stared out from the walls, some sneering, some screaming in protest, their enchantments never resting. One heavily warded cabinet pulsed faintly in the corner, its contents too volatile or politically dangerous for prying eyes. That was where the Montague file would belong. Soon.  

She shrugged off her deep red cloak and scanned the morning briefs, monocle catching the dim candlelight. Most of it was routine — Auror reports, border issues, minor criminal complaints — but one folder stood apart. Yaxley’s report. Freshly charmed, humming faintly, its crisp edges daring her to open it. She did. The language was cold, clinical, but every word hit like a curse. She had read Lyra Lestrange’s statement before, but seeing it compiled this way — sanitized, distilled — only sharpened her anger. She thought of the girl, of the steel‑faced mask that barely hid the child who had once clung to her robes, and something old and painful twisted inside.  

This wasn’t just another case. It couldn’t be. And yet, no one could know why. To the Ministry, this was about bringing a predator and his enabling family to justice. To Amelia, it was about keeping a promise — the vow she made years ago as she carried a bloodied, trembling little girl into St. Mungo’s, silently swearing that she would never leave her unprotected again.  

She closed the file with a decisive snap. This was personal, but she couldn’t let them see that. Gathering her composure like armor, she strode into the corridor. Her cloak swirled at her heels as she barked, “Conference Room B. Now.” Moody. Shacklebolt. Tonks. Yaxley. Her task force would be waiting. The hunt began today.  

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The door to Conference Room B creaked open as the first of them arrived. Moody, grizzled and scarred, stomped in with his usual growl, his magical eye sweeping every corner of the room twice before settling on her. “Old families protecting their filth,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her like she was still his protégé. “Keep your wits sharp. People like the Montagues don’t just roll over. Constant vigilance.” He took a seat at the far end of the table, posture tense, hands never far from his wand.  

Shacklebolt entered next, his calm presence a sharp counterbalance to Moody’s storm. “You’re making waves with this one, Director,” he said, voice smooth but with an undertone of warning. “The Wizengamot won’t like us dragging one of their own into the open. They’ll circle the wagons.”  

Tonks tumbled in behind him, her hair a shocking violet today, energy barely contained. She straightened under Amelia’s sharp gaze, smoothing her cloak as if trying to grow into her role. Moody’s current protégé, eager to prove herself.  

Finally, Yaxley arrived, perfectly pressed and polished, carrying himself with the kind of pride only old blood could afford. He inclined his head to Amelia, though his tone carried a veiled warning. “Howard Montague may not even know the full extent of his son’s actions. But if he does, he’ll fight to protect the family name.” His words were clipped, guarded. Amelia studied him for a beat—useful, ambitious, but dangerous if unchecked.  

She waited until they were all seated. “This is my case. My rules,” Amelia said, her voice ringing like steel across the table. “We’re going after Graham Montague for rape, assault, and attempted line theft. We’re investigating whether Howard Montague knew and enabled it. This is about accountability, not assumptions. That starts now.”  

Moody grunted. “About time someone gutted that old boys’ club.”  

Shacklebolt inclined his head. “We’ll need airtight evidence. One mistake, they’ll walk.”  

“Then we won’t make one,” Amelia replied, her gaze sweeping over each of them. “I want this done clean. And loud.”  

For a moment, silence reigned, the weight of their task settling over them like a gauntlet thrown.  

The mood in Conference Room B sharpened as the team leaned forward, the creak of chairs underscoring the weight of what lay ahead. Amelia remained standing, pacing deliberately around the head of the table, her monocle glinting as her eyes scanned each face.  

“Howard Montague isn’t stupid,” Amelia began, her tone precise, each word like a cut of steel. “He’s had decades to build shields—layers of money, allies in every corner of the Wizengamot, and a knack for burying crimes. That ends now.”  

Yaxley leaned forward, fingers steepled. “If Howard’s complicit, we’ll find the cracks. And make no mistake, Malfoy will exploit them. He’s already angling for Montague’s seat.”  

Amelia’s jaw tightened. A good play, she thought darkly, even as she despised it. Aloud, she said, “Lucius Malfoy’s moves don’t change ours. Kingsley, Yaxley—you’re on Howard. Audit his accounts, trace his travel, and get into his correspondences. Pull every thread until his tapestry unravels.”  

Moody grunted approval. “And when subtle fails—and it will—I’ll be ready with warrants. Constant vigilance.” His magical eye whirled toward Tonks. “And you, rookie—people talk when they think you’re harmless. Use it.”  

Tonks flushed but nodded briskly. “Yes, sir.”  

Amelia set the file firmly on the table. “Tonks and I will visit witnesses—Lyra first. Then Gemma Farley, Eliza Burke, Snape, McGonagall, and Pomfrey. By trial, there won’t be a thread left for the Montagues to pull.”  

A silence hung before Yaxley said quietly, “We’re dismantling a dynasty.”  

Amelia’s gaze swept the room. “Good. It’s past time. Go.”  

The scrape of chairs followed as the team dispersed, blades unsheathed for war.  

Amelia remained in the conference room long after the others had gone, her reflection caught faintly in the darkened glass of the window. The case file for Lyra lay open before her, its pages fanned like a wound refusing to close. She let her fingers linger over the top sheet — Lyra’s statement — and allowed herself a single, unguarded moment.  

She thought of Edgar: her eldest brother, whose laughter used to fill their childhood home, whose death had left a hollow in their family. She remembered the blood on the stairs that had taken years to scrub clean, the way the smell lingered even when the stains had faded. She thought of Edwin too — her other brother — and his wife Katherine, all gone now, leaving only her and Susan. She thought of Lyra, a frightened child carried from horrors, her small fists clinging desperately to Amelia’s sleeve. She had wished Lyra could have been part of her family, but she knew she couldn’t take her from Narcissa. The Malfoys respected her, yes, but they lived in a world her family had always opposed, and Amelia had no right to disrupt the only stability Lyra had known. She had to believe Lyra was happy with the aunt who had raised her.  

She inhaled sharply, folding the file closed with deliberate precision. There was no room for grief here. No room for sentimentality. This wasn’t personal — it couldn’t be. But the lie was thin, and she knew it. This was war, and Amelia Bones had every intention of winning it.  

With one last glance at the file, she straightened, her expression hardening back into the unshakable mask of the DMLE Director. "Time to end this," she murmured, and strode out, already rehearsing the orders she would give come morning.  

Chapter Text

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement stirred long before sunrise, beating like a second heart beneath the Ministry’s marble floors. Every corridor thrummed with purposeful movement: fireplaces roared hotter than usual, spitting embers and enchanted paper airplanes that zig‑zagged toward their recipients; junior clerks in navy robes hurried along with so many scrolls tucked under their arms they could barely see; veteran Aurors compared notes over steaming mugs of coffee strong enough to strip varnish.   

Amelia Bones walked resolutely at the center of the storm, her dragon‑hide boots clicking a crisp cadence that made junior staff melt aside like waves parting for a prow. Her monocle flashed whenever she caught the light of the bracket torches, and the neat bun pinned high at the back of her head didn’t loosen even when a harried Hit Wizard nearly collided with her elbow. She navigated the chaos with the calm assurance of a seasoned general, her expression thoughtful, already juggling three simultaneous problems: the Auror Office’s gutted budget, a backlog of wand‑license appeals, and—most pressing—what to do about Graham Montague.  

A brisk knock on her office door interrupted the spiral of numbers in her mind. “Come in,” Amelia said, voice firm but not unfriendly.   

Gemma Farley stepped inside as though her shoes were made of glass: shoulders squared in textbook posture but hands trembling enough to give her away. Shadows pooled like bruises beneath her eyes.   

“Have a seat, Miss Farley.” Amelia indicated the leather chair opposite her massive oak desk, its surface already littered with files charmed to sort themselves into neat stacks. She deliberately gentled her tone—no false cooing like some of her colleges might use in this situation, but something warmer than the marble outside. “We’ll take this slowly. Tell me what happened in the Slytherin common room on June 28th, in order, and start with anything you knew before it happened.”   

Gemma let out a shaky breath and perched on the very edge of the chair, knees bouncing. “Okay—this is super formal and I’m kinda freaking out, so if I start rambling just wave or something.” A nervous laugh slipped out before she could stop it.  

“It started on Lyra’s birthday—April 15th,” she said, tucking a rogue curl behind her ear. “I was in the library, drowning in a Defence essay, when Pansy Parkinson barreled in looking like she’d seen a Banshee. She just said, ‘Lyra’s not okay. You have to come. Now.’ No details. I bolted.”  

Her fingers twisted together. “Lyra was on her bed, still in her uniform, shoes on, staring at nothing. She wouldn’t talk, but she didn’t shove me away, so I sat on the floor and just… stayed. After a bit she whispered she needed Madam Pomfrey.”  

“We walked up—just the two of us—and somehow Professor Snape was already outside the ward, like he’d read our minds. Madam Pomfrey gave Lyra the contraceptive potion and some bruise balm. Snape asked if it had been consensual. Lyra said ‘yes,’ but it sounded wrong—like she’d borrowed the word because the real answer was too heavy.” Gemma’s voice dipped. “She never told me to keep quiet. I just knew she needed space unless she actually asked for help, and I was waiting for her to just say the word.”  

Amelia offered a small nod that was neither condemnation nor absolution. “And on the night in question?” she prompted, quill poised. A Dicta Quill hovered nearby, but Amelia preferred her own handwriting when gravity was involved.   

She swallowed, knuckles white. “On the 28th, Graham storms into the common room, pacing like a caged dragon, demanding to know where Lyra was. I tried to diffuse him, but it was like talking to a Bludger.” She pressed her lips together. “When Lyra finally walked in, he pounced. Shouted that she had no right to disappear overnight. Said she belonged to him.”   

Amelia’s quill scratched noisily at those words. “Belonged to him?”   

“Exact phrasing,” Gemma confirmed, jaw tight. “Then he slapped her. Backhand, hard enough that she stumbled into a table. They said something to each other but I couldn't hear them, then before anyone blinked, he slapped her again, same cheek. Lyra just straightened, refused to touch the mark—stared at him as if she was watching a—a grindylow behind glass.”   

Gemma’s composure shredded. Her next words tumbled out, raw. “I drew my wand and hexed him across the room. Didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. I—I used a Knockback Jinx. He hit the bookcase. Eliza Burke saw him reach for his wand and stomped on his hand. We heard bone crack.”   

Amelia paused, eyeing Gemma over the rim of her monocle. “Did anyone else intervene?”   

“No one needed to. Once he was on the floor, the entire House shifted. It was like a veil lifted." She laughed bitterly. “Funny what it takes to make people see.”   

Amelia finished her note, then set the quill aside. “You protected a class‑mate from further harm, Miss Farley. You did the right thing.”   

Gemma shook her head. “I reacted . The right thing would have been speaking up months ago.” Her voice cracked on the last two words, and one tear finally escaped. She wiped it away angrily. “If I’d reported him, maybe he’d never have touched her again.”   

Her composure wavered, eyes glossing with unshed tears, she stubbornly refused to let fall. “I should have pressed her. I should have done something . Instead, I convinced myself it wasn’t my business.”   

Amelia reached across the desk but stopped short of touching Gemma’s hand, offering respect instead of pity. “You’re helping now.”   

Gemma nodded, gathering herself. When she left, her shoulders were still rigid, but the shaking had subsided.   

The door swung shut and reopened almost instantaneously. Eliza Burke entered like an oncoming storm—cloak half off her shoulders, boots muddy, eyes blazing. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she dropped into the chair Gemma had vacated.   

“I broke Montague’s hand,” she announced. “He’s lucky I didn’t break his skull.”   

Amelia arched one brow. “I understand you acted to protect Miss Lestrange.”   

Eliza huffed. “Acted to protect every girl he’s ever cornered.” She leaned forward; forearms braced on her knees. “He made a sport of scaring her. Would pinch her arm in the hallway, whisper filth in her ear during practice. I warned him one day that if he touched her again, I’d shove his own wand up his ass.” She shrugged unapologetically. “I don't think Lyra knew of course. And I wish I had the chance to keep my promise”   

“Did Miss Lestrange confide in you before the attack?”   

Eliza’s glare softened, turned almost mournful. “Lyra doesn’t confide. She deflects. I noticed how she flinched when someone walked too close. When Pomfrey patched her up that night last term, I put two and two together. She never said ‘help me,’ but you don’t need Legilimency to see fear.”   

Amelia wrote steadily, letting the silence stretch until Eliza exhaled, tension leaving in a single long gust.   

“I’m glad you stepped in,” Amelia said at last.   

“So am I,” Eliza replied. “But stepping in after isn’t enough. Make sure he’s put somewhere he can’t reach her.”  

When the girl departed, Amelia allowed herself a rare moment of stillness. She leaned back, eyes closed, breathing through the ache that came from hearing children speak about trauma as though it were weather. Finally, she straightened, quill snapping back to life, and scribbled a line in thick black ink: Pattern of coercive control established.    

A soft knock sounded, and Tonks peeked in, hair a vibrant bubble‑gum pink striking against her dark‑red Auror robes. “Tea?” she offered, lifting two mugs.   

Amelia accepted one, wrapping chilled fingers around the warmth. “They’re not holding back,” she murmured, voice rawer than usual.   

Tonks settled into the visitor chair, steam fogging the tips of her spikey fringe. “No reason to. Montague’s filth.” Her expression hardened, an echo of Eliza’s righteous fury. “We’re going to nail him, right?”   

Amelia’s grip tightened on her mug. “Oh we will. One thing I have learned over the years is that cases like this rot our world from the inside. We can’t keep patching wounds and pretending the infection isn’t spreading.””   

Tonks’ grin was sharp, predatory. “Good. Let's clear the infection then.”  

Amelia didn’t smile, but her eyes sparked. Turning back to the files, she flipped to the topmost one labelled Lestrange, Lyra—Statement Given 01/07/1992 . She traced the edge thoughtfully.   

“This is only the beginning,” she whispered, a vow swallowed by the hiss of the fireplace but etched forever in parchment and ash.  

-----------------------------------  

The clock outside Amelia Bones’s office had only just chimed eleven when the first of three professors arrived. Tonks—every inch the bright‑eyed rookie despite the dark‑red Auror robes that marked her as official—guided each witness in separately, then stationed herself at Amelia’s right shoulder with a quill poised like a bayonet.  

McGonagall entered as if a gale followed her cloak. She took the straight‑backed chair opposite Amelia without waiting to be offered it, spine ramrod, hands folded so tightly the knuckles blanched. Only the faint tremor at the corner of her mouth betrayed fury simmering beneath that legendary composure.  

“Thank you for coming, Minerva,” Amelia began, settling her monocle. “We understand this is… difficult.”  

McGonagall’s response was clipped. “Difficult does not begin to cover it, Madam Bones.” Her Scottish burr sharpened every syllable into flint. “Miss Lestrange is a capable young witch. No student should leave my classroom to endure what she has.”  

Amelia inclined her head. “When did you first suspect something was amiss between Miss Lestrange and Mr. Montague?”  

“I noticed a change in her demeanor after Easter holiday.” McGonagall’s eyes flashed. “She was quieter—focus narrowed to a knife‑edge. That girl has always been driven, but suddenly she was… hollow. I asked if she required help; she declined.” A breath, measured. “It is my great regret I lacked proof to push further.”  

Tonks opened her mouth—perhaps to offer reassurance—but McGonagall overrode her. “I should have pushed anyway.”  

Amelia’s quill scratched steadily. “Your testimony will help ensure he can never harm her again.”  

McGonagall’s jaw worked, but she only nodded once—sharp as a salute—before rising at Amelia’s dismissal.  

Snape glided into the office next, looking like a raven cut from midnight, black robes swallowing the lamplight. He took the chair opposite Amelia but did not sit; instead he stood behind it, fingers resting on the carved back, as though daring anyone to order him down.  

Amelia’s heart gave one traitorous thud—the same tiny quake it always managed when Severus entered a room, the same one that has been there since she was Lyra's age—but her expression remained a study in composed steel. She had never allowed that old, half‑formed longing to show, not even to herself, yet it hovered now like a ghost between them.  

“Professor Snape,” she greeted, voice smooth—too smooth. “Thank you for coming.”  

A single brow arched. “Gratitude seems premature when I was summoned.” His sarcasm was practiced, but there was a faint hitch in his breath when she met his gaze and quietly said, “Severus, please sit.”  

He obeyed—reluctantly—and Tonks, quill poised, blinked at the unspoken exchange.  

“We’ll keep this brief,” Amelia continued, folding her hands. “When did you first suspect Mr. Montague posed a danger to Miss Lestrange?”  

Snape’s eyes flicked toward Tonks, then back to Amelia, softening by a degree that most would miss. “Miss Lestrange began returning from practices… diminished,” he said, voice low. “An edge to her aura I have only seen in students who fear going home for holidays.” He paused, as though weighing how much to reveal, then added, “I made discrete inquiries. Nothing concrete.”  

Tonks shifted, ready with a follow‑up, but Snape’s stare pinned her to silence. “Spare me the novice interrogation techniques, Auror Tonks. You’ll find no negligence here.”  

Tonks bristled—pink spikes turning scarlet—but Amelia’s hand touched hers in warning before turning that same palm outward toward Snape: stay. The touch was fleeting, professional… yet Severus’s gaze lingered on her fingertips as though remembering the late-night study sessions of their seventh year.  

“Severus,” Amelia said, softer now, “you escorted Miss Lestrange into the hospital wing on April 15th. In your judgment, was she safe to make decisions for herself at that moment?”  

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “She was determined to retain the one choice that hadn’t yet been stripped from her—whether to speak.” He drew a controlled breath. “I am aware of that the Auror Office would never have acted on hearsay alone while she is of age unless she spoke up herself, so I respected her silence and kept contingency measures in place should she choose otherwise.” He swallowed—an uncharacteristic tell. “In hindsight, I should have pressed the matter anyway.”  

“That burden is not yours alone,” Amelia replied, and for a heartbeat Tonks felt like an intruder. She had never quite noticed it before, but now—watching Amelia meet Snape’s eyes—it clicked into place; Tonks recalled the subtle softening in Amelia’s face whenever the Potions Master’s name was mentioned, the way her gaze lingered, as though measuring words unsaid. Something old and tender crackled in the space between Director and Potions Master—regret, perhaps, or promises never spoken aloud, and suddenly all those half‑moments Tonks had dismissed made sense.   

Recovering, Tonks asked the final, required question. “Do you believe the assault was non‑consensual?”  

Snape turned away from Amelia only then, voice a blade. “I know it was.”  

Tonks’s quill hovered, hungry. “Respectfully, sir— how do you know? The Wizengamot will want something weightier than instinct.”  

Snape’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Amelia as though answering only to the older witch. “Because I am her Head of House. I watch my students. Miss Lestrange left for Easter break bright‑eyed and returned looking as though sleep were a rumour. She has always had some trouble with nightmares of the trauma she endured during the war. It started out like that—but it got worse as time went on—it was clear to see the cause. She flinched when Montague so much as breathed behind her in Potions. She stopped eating supper unless I stood at the High Table.” His voice roughened, almost imperceptibly. “I performed a discreet diagnostic charm the night I escorted her to Pomfrey. Soft‑tissue trauma, recent and… extensive. Those marks were not the result of an encounter freely chosen.”  

Tonks scribbled, eyes wide. “Did you document the charm?”  

“A copy is sealed with Madam Pomfrey’s records. She can confirm my findings.”  

Amelia’s quill paused as she allowed herself the smallest nod of understanding—of gratitude she’d never name. “That will satisfy the evidentiary chain. Thank you, Severus,” she said, voice low. It sounded far too intimate for an interview room, but neither corrected it.  

Snape rose, a shadow uncurling. As he passed Amelia’s desk his fingers brushed the polished wood, a near‑touch in farewell. Then the door closed behind him, leaving the scent of freshly brewed potions.  

Tonks exhaled, cheeks flushed. “Blimey… do you always keep a basilisk under your desk or was that just for me?”  

Amelia’s lips quirked despite herself. “Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she muttered, already reaching for the next file.  

Pomfrey bustled in a munite later with a healer’s brisk efficiency, a file already tucked beneath one arm. She placed it on the desk before Amelia could offer a greeting.  

“Everything is here,” she said, wand tapping the folder so it unlatched itself. “Dates of treatment, potions dispensed, photographic charms of bruising—spelled so they cannot be accessed without consent.”  

Amelia’s throat tightened at the top image—purpling finger marks blooming across pale skin—but she kept her face neutral. “Thank you, Poppy.”  

Tonks eased forward. “Could you summarize Miss Lestrange’s condition the night she came to you?”  

Pomfrey folded her hands, tone clinical yet laced with fury. “No broken bones that night—though her arm had been fractured and healed weeks prior., due to a quidditch injury  Significant bruising at her hips and internal soft tissue trauma. Psychological shock. She requested contraception and bruise balm.” A pause, lower now. “She did not request Calming Draught. That told me more than anything.”  

Amelia nodded slowly. “You believe the encounter was non‑consensual.”  

“It was ,” Pomfrey said, voice firm. “Any healer worth their salt could see it.”  

Tonks fumbled with her quill. “Did—sorry—did you record exact damage done to her body? For, um, evidence?”  

Snape’s earlier barb must have lingered; her question came out tangled. Pomfrey gave her a sympathetic look. “I documented everything permissible under patient privacy. The rest will remain sealed unless Miss Lestrange gives written consent.”  

Amelia placed a steadying hand over Tonks’s notes. “That suffices, Poppy. Your testimony corroborates the pattern.”  

Pomfrey exhaled, shoulders unclenching. “Good. Because I will not see that girl silenced. She’s carried enough alone.”  

When the final door clicked shut, Amelia allowed herself a single, weary sigh. Tonks slumped into a chair opposite; parchment scattered like fallen leaves.  

“Professor interviews—done.” Tonks rubbed her forehead. “Think Snape hates me forever?”  

“He hates everyone on alternating Tuesdays,” Amelia replied, dry. “You handled yourself fine.”  

Tonks’s answering grin was lopsided but relieved. She glanced at the thick stack of files. “We’ve built a wall of testimony.”  

Amelia’s monocle glinted. “And tomorrow we start adding bricks.”  

-----------------------------------  

High‑July heat pressed against the mullioned windows of Malfoy Manor, the gardens outside shimmering under a brittle sun. A pulse of green flame burst inside the receiving room’s marble hearth, and two figures stepped out: Amelia Bones, shoulders squared in dark‑red Auror robes, and Nymphadora Tonks at her flank, robes the same colour but hair a riot of bubble‑gum pink that clashed with the manor’s muted palette.  

Lucius Malfoy stood several meters away, one gloved hand resting on his serpent‑headed cane. His smile was knife‑thin—polite for Amelia, chilling for Tonks.  

“Director Bones,” he murmured. “We appreciate your haste in pursuing justice.”  

His gaze flicked to Tonks, lingered a shade too long. “Auror Tonks.” The title sounded like a courtesy he was forced to extend.  

Tonks’s answering grin was wolfish.  “Lovely décor. Shame about the company.”  

Narcissa emerged from a side archway, pale and poised in gauzy summer silks. Her eyes slid over Tonks then settled on Amelia with brittle civility. “My niece is in the west drawing room. She is… prepared.”  

Amelia nodded once.  “Lead the way, Lady  Malfoy.”  

--------------------------------  

French doors stood open to the humid garden, a lazy breeze rustling the yew hedges. Lyra sat rigid on a velvet settee, summer light glinting off the pale weave of her blouse. She did not rise when the others entered.  

Tonks tried first—because Tonks always tried first—offering a crooked smile as she crossed the rug. “Wotcher, Lyra. We’ll keep this quick.”  

Lyra’s eyes were flat.  “Do what you have to.”  

Tonks’s grin faltered.  Narcissa’s mouth twitched in satisfied disapproval.  

Amelia claimed the arm‑chair opposite Lyra, produced a single parchment and a Dicta‑Quill, and let silence settle until the air felt close.  “Miss Lestrange, we’re here only to clarify points the Wizengamot will press." Amelia’s tone was calm but left no room for evasion. The Dicta‑Quill hovered, waiting.  

Lyra drew a breath that felt too warm in her lungs and began, voice low and steady.  

"Graham Montague and I started… whatever it was… on Valentines Day. At first he was charming—all compliments in public, little gifts when no one was looking. But it changed quickly. He wanted to know where I was, who I spoke to, and why I studied so late. If I laughed with our teammates, he called it flirting; if I studied with friends, he corrected my priorities. Graham said it was love. It felt like a leash."  

Her fingers twisted once in the hem of her sleeve, then stilled. "On April fifteenth—my birthday—he asked me to meet him after our classes where finished. I went because I thought giving in would quiet him." The next words came out flat, practiced. "He raped me. He refused the Contraceptive Charm, said an heir would make me his properly . I froze, and he took what he wanted."  

A faint clack sounded as the Dicta‑Quill scratched faster to keep up.  

"Afterwards I walked back to the dormitory like nothing had happened. Gemma found me. She didn’t ask questions—just got me to Madam Pomfrey. I asked for Bruise Balm and Contraceptive Draught. Professor Snape was there; he asked if it was consensual. I said yes, because admitting the truth felt like letting him win."  

Lyra swallowed, forcing her gaze up to meet Amelia’s. "Weeks later—in June—Graham cornered me in the common‑room when he realized I’d been avoiding him. He slapped me twice before Gemma hexed him across the floor and Eliza Burke snapped his wand."  

Her grip tightened on the cushion beside her. "On the train home he tried again. Said we belonged together, that running wasn't an option after what happened. That was the last time I saw him."  

The silence that followed rang almost louder than her words. The Dicta‑Quill hovered, scratching out its final loop before falling still.  

Amelia cleared her throat, soft but steady. "Thank you, Lyra. You’ve given us everything we need for now." Her gaze flicked to Tonks in silent cue.  

Tonks leaned forward, voice gentler than Lyra had ever heard it. "We’re going to find him, yeah? And he’s going to stand before the Wizengamot for every bruise and every word he said. That’s a promise."  

Lyra gave a single, weary nod. She hadn’t cried, but her eyes shone—anger more than tears.  

Lucius spoke at last, each word honed to a razor. "Director Bones, the Malfoy family will cooperate fully. Any evidence you require—correspondence or the like—will be released under seal." He paused, and for a breath his veneer cracked, grief flickering beneath. "I will not see my niece’s misery dismissed as schoolyard folly."  

Narcissa crossed the room and, with surprising tenderness, set a cool hand on Lyra’s shoulder. "You were brave," she murmured—barely audible, but enough.  

Amelia rose. "Our next steps are an arrest warrant and formal charges. I expect no delays." She offered her hand; Lyra hesitated, then shook it. The grip was brief but firm.  

Tonks produced a small card. "Floo or owl, day or night." She set it on the side table where Lyra could take it—or ignore it—without pressure.  

The interview concluded, Amelia nodded once more to Lucius and Narcissa, then turned toward the hearth. Tonks followed, casting Lyra a last, encouraging smile.  

Green fire flared and swallowed the Aurors whole, leaving the drawing‑room thick with the scent of ash and the promise of reckoning.  

----------------------------------  

The moment Amelia and Tonks re‑materialised in the Atrium’s hearth, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Auror Yaxley were already waiting outside the lift banks—both still in their field robes, travel‑dust dulling the crimson weave.  

“Director,” Kingsley greeted, voice pitched low for corridors that echoed. “We have news.”  

Amelia didn’t break stride, forcing the group into motion toward her office. “Walk with me.”  

The door shut with a muted thud . Tonks took her customary place against the filing cabinets while Amelia rounded to her desk. Kingsley and Yaxley remained standing, parchment folders tucked beneath their arms.  

“Start with Howard Montague,” Amelia said, folding her sleeves back to the elbow—the closest she came to rolling them up.  

Kingsley opened his file. “We tracked him to Montague Hall in Cambridgeshire. He’s been meeting discreetly with Marius Gibbon and Octavia Borgin—both Wizengamot adjuncts known for burying disciplinary motions.”  

Yaxley added, “He’s also retained Erasmus Selwyn, Esq.—specialises in political shielding charms and non‑disclosure writs. The retainer alone cost fifty thousand galleons.”  

Tonks let out a low whistle. “Pre‑emptive damage control.”  

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Which means he knows we’re coming.”  

Kingsley laid three photographs on the desk—moving stills captured via Omni‑Exposure:  

1. A burned ledger page: Montague Senior’s crest half‑visible, entries for ‘private healers’ and ‘obligation fees’ scrubbed but recoverable under Revealing Charm. 
2. Elf Roster: names of six Montague house‑elves discharged within forty‑eight hours of Graham’s return home; four have since been relocated under secrecy oaths handled by Selwyn’s office. 
3. St Mungo’s Incident Record: July 9th, 1989; healer’s report detailing Cordelia Montague’s severe blunt‑force injuries—skull fracture, broken ribs, extensive contusions—injuries noted as “consistent with repeated domestic assault”. Signed by Healer‑in‑Charge Miriam Wainscott; patient discharged against medical advice after Howard Montague’s intervention. 

Tonks’s hair darkened a shade. “House‑elves too?”  

“Two of the six gave statements,” Kingsley confirmed. “Physical intimidation, memory tampering. One elf witnessed Graham referring to Lyra as ‘breeding stock’. She still has the scar from the punishment.”  

Silence descended—heavy and raw.  

Amelia broke it first, voice like steel wire. “That is more than enough for conspiracy to obstruct justice, felony domestic abuse resulting in grievous bodily harm, and one count of aggravated coercion for every silenced witness.”  

She reached for her quill, scratching notes in terse strokes. “Draft warrants for Howard Montague: obstruction, witness tampering, felony domestic abuse, accessory‑before‑the‑fact to sexual assault, and attempted line theft."  

“We serve the summonses tomorrow,” she said, voice quiet but final. “Bring them both in.”  

Kingsley nodded. “Consider it done.”  

Tonks straightened, eyes bright with the promise of action. “About time.”  

Amelia glanced toward the window—late‑afternoon sun slanting over the Thames. For a heartbeat her gaze softened, thinking of a pale‑faced girl in Wiltshire and a promise she made long ago.  

“Justice tends to arrive slower than it should,” she murmured. “But it arrives none the less.”  

Chapter Text

July’s twilight hadn’t quite bled out of the sky when Lyra slipped through the wrought‑iron gates of Malfoy Manor and started the walk toward Salisbury. It was nearly five miles by hedge‑lined lanes and quiet sheep fields, each step giving her time to untangle the restless thoughts that seemed endless these days. The air was warm and smelled faintly of honeysuckle, the last of the sun bruising the clouds purple. She tugged her jacket closer despite the warmth, out of habit more than need, feeling the familiar sense of stepping into a different world where no one knew her name or history.  

The Wild Hare sat tucked between a florist and a bookshop that looked like it might collapse any day. Its crooked sign creaked as the breeze passed through, and the faint hum of a radio drifted out. Lyra pushed inside, letting the noise of laughter, clinking glasses, and chatter wash over her. Her eyes found the one person she both hoped and dreaded to see: Charity, alone at a corner table.  

Charity had papers pushed aside, fiddling absently with a half‑empty cider glass. Her blonde hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling free, and a ribbon—subtle, not decorative—pulled her outfit together in a way that made Lyra too aware of every detail. Charity looked up, surprised, but smiled warmly. “Lyra. You came back.”  

Lyra shrugged and slid into the opposite chair. “Needed a change of scenery.” It sounded cooler than saying she’d needed to breathe. A bartender appeared, and she ordered, “Vodka tonic, please.”  

Charity tilted her head. “Long day?”  

Lyra huffed a laugh. “Something like that. You?”  

“Busy, but in the good way,” Charity said, leaning back. “I spent the morning at my parents’ farm—they keep sheep out past Salisbury. It’s been in the family for generations.”  

“Sheep farmers? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Lyra said, intrigued.  

“Most people don’t.” Charity smiled at that. “My father grew up there, but my mum’s Scottish—met him when she was researching Stonehenge. She’s a historian. I think she liked the idea of living somewhere quieter.”  

Lyra nodded toward the ribbon at Charity’s waist. “That’s why you wear that? The ribbon?”  

“Oh.” Charity glanced down, slightly sheepish. “Yes. It’s Lamont tartan—my mum’s family. It’s silly, maybe, but it reminds me of where I come from.”  

“Not silly,” Lyra said quickly, then busied herself with the condensation on her glass, feeling suddenly exposed by how much she wanted to know more. “Do you go up there often? To Scotland, I mean?”  

“Sometimes,” Charity said. “Not as much as I’d like. My mum’s side still has a little place in Argyll. It’s wild and beautiful—a bit like time stops when you’re there.” She chuckled softly. “Though I can’t imagine you trudging through muddy fields in wellies.”  

Lyra smirked faintly, the image both absurd and oddly comforting. “You’d be surprised.”  

Charity leaned her chin on her hand. “I’ve been spending more time up there lately, actually. I just finished at the University of Edinburgh—finally graduated in July. Double MA, Social Anthropology and History and Politics. I’m still not used to saying that out loud. And I’ve just taken a new teaching job in Scotland, which makes all those late nights feel worth it.”  

Lyra blinked. “Graduated? That’s… recent, then.”  

“Very,” Charity said with a small laugh. “It was exhausting, but worth it. My parents were thrilled I survived the dissertation process.”  

Lyra hesitated, picking up on the detail. “So you’ll be leaving Salisbury, then? For good?”  

Charity paused, then nodded slowly. “Soon, yes. It’s strange. Salisbury has always been home, but it feels like the right time to go.”  

Lyra’s stomach tightened. “When are you leaving?”  

“End of August,” Charity said. “Gives me a little time to tie up loose ends here.”  

Lyra traced the rim of her glass with one finger, trying to sound casual. “Do you know where you’ll be living? In Scotland, I mean.”  

“Near Edinburgh at first,” Charity said carefully. “Close enough to the city that I can get settled, but far enough out that it still feels quiet. It’s… up in the Highlands, really. Feels familiar in a way—I went to school up there before university, so part of me is just going back.”  

Lyra blinked at that, curiosity sparking. “You went to school in the Highlands?”  

Charity nodded but didn’t elaborate, simply smiling. “A long time ago. Feels like another life.”  

Lyra blinked again, a thought flickering uninvited—Hogwarts. It fit, in a way. But no, that was ridiculous. Charity was a Muggle, just a Muggle, and Lyra would have known if she wasn’t. She pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came.  

They lingered over their drinks, Charity telling her more about the move, her parents’ excitement, and how strange it felt to be starting over somewhere new. Lyra mostly listened, sipping slowly to stretch out the time. It was easier than she expected to lose herself in someone else’s story.  

Then Charity glanced up at the clock above the bar and gave Lyra a knowing look. “Are you going to have to run off again? It’s getting late,” she said with a teasing lilt. “Another Cinderella moment?”  

Lyra frowned faintly. “You said that last time. I still don’t know what it means.”  

Charity laughed softly. “It’s an old story. A girl at a ball has to leave before midnight, and when she runs, she leaves a slipper behind. It’s become shorthand for vanishing before the night’s over.”  

“Ah.” Lyra considered that, smirking faintly. “I’ll try not to lose a shoe.”  

Charity’s smile softened. “Safe walk back, Lyra.”  

Lyra nodded, gathering her jacket. “See you around.” She stepped back into the cool night, the meaning of Cinderella lingering in her mind all the way home. The walk back to the Manor felt longer, her thoughts looping between Charity’s stories, the pull of that smile, and the odd ache that came with knowing time was running out before she left Salisbury for good.  

----------------------------------------  

By the time Lyra reached the Manor, the sky had gone fully dark, and the distant hedgerows glowed faintly with the reflection of the moon. Her boots echoed against the marble as she entered through the side door, quiet as a shadow. The Manor was silent; Narcissa and Draco would already be asleep, and the vast halls seemed emptier for it.  

She drifted toward the library, the one place in the Manor that felt like her own other than her bedroom. The tall doors groaned softly as she pushed them open, revealing the warm glow of enchanted sconces against shelves that stretched higher than any ladder. She went straight for the north corner—the place she used to curl up as a child when the world felt too heavy—and pulled a worn book at random from the shelves. She wasn’t planning to read. She just needed the smell of old paper and leather to anchor her.  

“You’re back late.”  

Lyra turned, startled, to find Lucius leaning in the doorway. He wore a silver-grey dressing gown instead of his usual immaculate robes, his long hair loose around his shoulders. Without the peacock grandeur of day, he looked older, more human—even a little tired.  

“Couldn’t sleep,” Lyra said, shrugging. “Thought I’d read.”  

Lucius stepped further into the room, his cane absent for once. “Vodka on your breath. Salisbury?”  

Lyra braced herself for a lecture, but instead he only sighed, crossing to the opposite armchair. “I’m glad you’ve found somewhere to clear your head.”  

That disarmed her more than anger would have. She perched on the edge of the chaise. “That’s… new. You being glad I’m out late drinking.”  

Lucius gave a soft chuckle. “I’ve learned, painfully, that keeping you locked away doesn’t make you safe. It only makes you a prisoner.” He paused, his tone turning heavier. “Lyra, I owe you an apology.”  

Her stomach tightened. “For what?”  

“For Montague,” he said plainly. “For thinking that match was a good idea. I told myself it was about alliances and appearances. But it wasn’t about you. It never was. And that was a failure on my part.”  

Lyra stared at him, words caught in her throat. Lucius Malfoy did not apologise. Not to anyone.  

He continued, quieter, “Yaxley informed me tonight that the DMLE is preparing warrants. Howard Montague will face charges — domestic abuse, obstruction, worse. Graham as well, for what he did to you. It will all be over soon.”  

Lyra sank back into the chaise, her chest tight with a mess of relief and dread. “Warrants. They’re actually doing it.”  

“Real ones. Signed tomorrow.” Lucius studied her, his expression uncharacteristically open. “You are not just my responsibility, Lyra. You are my niece. My family. And I would give anything to keep you safe.”  

She looked away, blinking hard. “You have a funny way of showing it.”  

He didn’t deny it. “I know.”  

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock. Then Lucius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I cannot undo my mistakes. But I can damn well make sure they’re never repeated.” He offered a small, almost shy smile. “Besides, Draco would never forgive me if I let his cousin get away.”  

Lyra huffed a laugh despite herself. “Wait until he’s taller than me.”  

Lucius stood and, with surprising gentleness, reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “Get some rest, hummingbird. Things will look different in the morning.”  

When he left, Lyra sat in the quiet library for a long while, her fingers still pressed to where his hand had been. The words you are my family  echoed louder than the ticking clock. Her mind churned.  

Part of her wanted to trust him, to believe that this house could be a home and Lucius someone who truly cared for her. Another part whispered reminders of every cold look and calculated choice, of how often she’d been reduced to a pawn on someone else’s board.  

She let the conflicting feelings settle like sediment, heavy but familiar, and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, wondering if safety was something she’d ever really get to feel. Her mind drifted to the idea of family—what it really meant, whether words could make it true, and whether she’d ever stop waiting for the ground to give out beneath her. She thought about Narcissa’s quiet reassurances, Draco’s easy affection, and how Lucius’s apology felt like something cracking open in walls she hadn’t realised she’d built so high.  

Her thoughts turned darker—to Bellatrix. Her mother, who had loved her fiercely and tried, in her own flawed ways, to shield her from the worst of their world. Bellatrix had taught her to survive and had fought for her when no one else would, but she couldn’t always protect Lyra—especially from Rodolphus. That failure wasn’t from lack of love; Lyra knew that now. It had simply been more than even Bellatrix could fight.   

Then she thought of Edgar. Her father, whose name she had first learned from Rodolphus’s cruel lips just before he murdered him in front of her. That moment had been burned into her memory so deeply she could still feel the helplessness in her bones. In the years since, she had pieced together what little she could—grainy photographs tucked away in archives, articles that reduced him to a headline, and the whispered stories Bellatrix had shared in rare, unguarded moments before Azkaban claimed her. Edgar was more than a ghost to her now, yet still more concept than man. Would he have been proud of her? Or horrified by what his only child had been twisted into?  

Her mind shifted to his family. She thought of the others she had read about, those whose lives were cut short in the war: Edgar’s parents, murdered the same night as him, his brother Edwin and Edwin’s wife Katherine—all gone. Entire branches of the family tree burned away in a single night, leaving only two names clinging to what was left of the Bones line: Amelia and Susan.  

Amelia, who bore the crushing responsibility of leading the DMLE, who embodied the kind of strength Lyra wasn’t sure she could ever grasp for herself. And Susan, so young, untouched by this particular web of politics and pain—at least for now. Lyra envied Susan her distance from all of this, even as she pitied the inevitability of innocence colliding with reality.  

For a moment, Lyra wondered what it would have been like if Amelia had taken her in after Bellatrix went to Azkaban instead of ending up here in the Manor. Would Amelia have raised her differently — in a house where kindness didn’t have to be earned, where strength meant something other than masks and manipulation? Would Susan have felt like a sister instead of a distant name, and would Lyra have known what it meant to belong to a family that wasn’t built on fear? The questions lingered, heavy and unanswerable, before she pushed them aside.  

Then came the inevitable thought of Rodolphus—and with him, the familiar spiral into the dark thoughts that so often plagued her mind. Memories she kept locked in the darkest corners of her mind clawed to the surface: his cold eyes, his suffocating grip, the cruel words he whispered to remind her how powerless she was. She felt again the bruising weight of his hands, the way her body had gone numb as a shield, the hollowing sense of being reduced to an object. They weren’t just memories—they were shadows that moved with her, breathing down her neck when the house— when her mind —was quiet. She shoved them back down, as she always did, but they lingered like smoke that refused to clear, staining everything it touched.  

Her chest tightened until she forced herself to stop, to breathe, to think instead of Charity—her easy smile, her soft voice, the unassuming way she made family sound like something gentle and alive instead of a chain that dragged you down.  

She lingered on the memory of Charity’s words, their warmth softening the sharp edges in her mind. It felt safer to picture her sitting across a pub table, speaking with that quiet confidence, than to keep replaying ghosts she couldn’t silence. Lyra clung to that thought like a lifeline as she finally left the library, climbing the familiar stairs and letting the hum of that remembered voice carry her into sleep. As she drifted, one last thought rose up unbidden: maybe it wasn’t so wrong, the way she felt. Liking women—liking Charity—didn’t feel wrong. It felt like breathing. It felt free. Rodolphus would have been livid if he knew, and that alone made it sweeter. If he hated it, then it had to be good.  

Chapter Text

Tonks arrived at the DMLE a few hours before the sun would properly rise, a coffee clutched in one hand and her hair stubbornly stuck in a nervous shade of green. She’d tried for a neutral light brown in the lift, but it wouldn’t hold. Not today. Her stomach was tight with the kind of anticipation that came before a big raid—or maybe before something that mattered more than she wanted to admit. This wasn’t just another job. This was Graham Montague, and for all her Auror training, part of her wanted nothing more than to put him on the floor herself.  

Howard Montague and his son had been ghosts in the corridors of the Department for weeks, whispered about in every corner, but now they were tangible. Real. And about to be dragged out of whatever polished estate they’d been hiding in. She’d heard the rumors, the way Amelia’s name and Lyra Lestrange’s name were spoken in the same breath when people talked about this case. This was big, the kind of mission that could make or break reputations, the kind that carried weight far beyond paperwork and protocols.  

The briefing room smelled of ink, parchment, and nerves. Amelia Bones stood at the head of the long table, expression carved from granite, her monocle flashing in the enchanted lights. Kingsley was already seated at her right, radiating calm in his immaculate robes, and the rest of the table was filled by Moody and Yaxley, both looking as tense and focused as the room felt. Tonks slipped into a chair near the end, notebook open, quill ready, though she knew she wouldn’t need it.  

Amelia didn’t waste time. “Howard and Graham Montague have been tracked to their estate in Somerset,” she began, voice clipped, carrying to every corner of the room. “Intelligence suggests they’ve been preparing to flee—likely before the warrants were formally served. That ends this morning. We are moving in at first light.”  

Tonks sipped her coffee, letting the words sharpen her focus. Somerset. Sprawling countryside. Too many blind spots, too many wards they’d need to break, too many places for the Montagues to slip away if they got even a moment’s warning. She pictured the estate’s grounds—sweeping gardens designed to misdirect, protective charms layered to slow intruders, and vast echoing halls that would have been meant to intimidate. The pureblood estates were all the same. Her hair flickered from green to a stormy purple, betraying her nerves, and she forced it into dark brown with a slow exhale. She could almost hear Moody’s voice in her head: Constant vigilance, Nymphadora.  

“We will breach in three teams,” Amelia continued. “Shacklebolt, you’ll take point on the main entrance. Yaxley, east wing. Tonks, west — cut off any potential escape route.” Her gaze cut to Tonks briefly, sharp as a curse, before she looked at each of them in the eye. “If the Montagues runs, you stop them. We need them alive, but you are authorized to use force.”  

Tonks felt her jaw set, adrenaline already buzzing in her veins. She nodded once, quickly, maybe too eagerly. The others responded with similar sharp acknowledgments, the kind that said they understood exactly how serious this was, no need for speeches or reassurances   

Amelia’s monocle flashed as she surveyed the room again. “They will resist. Howard will try to talk his way out. Graham will fight. Don’t underestimate him. And don’t—” her voice tightened by the smallest fraction, “—let this become another circus for them to manipulate. We do this cleanly, by the book, and without giving the Prophet so much as a headline to twist.”  

Kingsley leaned back, unhurried, like he’d done this a thousand times. “We’ll have them before breakfast.”  

Tonks wished she had his calm. Instead, her fingers drummed lightly against the edge of her notebook, restless energy coiling through her like a live wire. She told herself this wasn’t nerves—it was readiness, the same feeling before every high-stakes mission—but she wasn’t sure she believed it.  

The meeting wrapped quickly. Wands were checked, wards were synchronized, Apparition coordinates distributed. They went over procedures twice, Amelia’s voice cutting through every distraction in Tonks’s head. Tonks followed the others out, her boots echoing on the tiled floor, and flexed her fingers around her wand. Somerset. Graham Montague. Her chance to prove herself—not just to Amelia, but to herself. And maybe, in some small way, to Lyra too.  

She caught her reflection in the glass of the atrium doors before they left, hair still twitching between brown and green, her eyes wide but resolute. “Get it together, Tonks,” she muttered. Then she stepped into the Apparition circle and let the DMLE fall away, ready for whatever waited in Somerset.  

--------------------------------  

The Somerset air was cold and damp when Tonks landed on the gravel drive of the Montague estate, her boots crunching softly as the others Apparated in beside her. The sky was still the muted grey of pre-dawn, the kind of light that made everything feel half-real, and the scent of wet earth clung to the fog that curled around the hedges. Protective wards shimmered faintly around the sprawling house, but they’d been mapped and broken ahead of time—now, only the men inside stood between them and justice. The Montague estate was exactly what she expected: pristine, proud, designed to remind anyone approaching of their place in the world. She hated it instantly.  

“West wing,” Moody barked, his scarred face unreadable, his magical eye scanning for movement. Tonks nodded, feeling the comforting weight of her wand in her grip as she peeled off from the group. “And watch yourself, Tonks. They fight dirty.”  

“Wouldn’t dream of expecting anything else,” she muttered under her breath, keeping her steps silent along the hedge-lined path that wrapped the manor. Her pulse thudded in her ears, but her breathing stayed steady. Training took over, every motion rehearsed and automatic.  

She found Graham Montague halfway out of a side door, his trunk floating behind him and his cloak thrown on hastily, as if he’d been caught mid-flight. His hair was disheveled, his jaw unshaven, but his sneer was as polished as ever. He froze when he saw her, eyes narrowing.  

“Well, well,” he sneered, eyes raking over her in a way that made her skin crawl. “They sent the little Metamorphmagus to play Auror? Didn’t know this was a Ministry raid or a fucking joke.”  

“Funny,” Tonks said, voice flat, “I was just thinking the same about you.”  

His grin widened, filthy and full of teeth. “Bet I could show you a better time than that mudblood-loving boss of yours. You look like the type that likes it rough.”  

Tonks’ hair flared red before she could stop it. “You’re done, Montague.”  

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, his voice low and full of ugly promise. “You don’t get to drag me in like some common thug. You think you’re tough? You’re just a little girl playing at war.”  

He lunged first, wand flashing, teeth bared in a snarl. She felt the Imperius hit her like a sudden fog, a sickly sweet suggestion winding its way into her mind. “Lower your wand,” his voice oozed inside her head, lewd and commanding, “obey me. Get on your knees. Strip for me like you know you want to.” — the kind of vile command that made her stomach twist with revulsion. For the briefest instant she felt the unnatural warmth of the curse, the false calm of submission wrapping around her, and then her training roared to the surface. She shredded through the compulsion like tearing paper, anger clearing the fog in an instant. Her lips curled into a sneer, and she barked a sharp laugh. “That’s all you’ve got? Pathetic.” Her voice was like steel, cutting through the mist of his magic. “You’re not even good at being disgusting.” 

His face twisted, the crude charm gone, replaced by raw anger. “You bitch!” He threw a volley of hexes — fast, vicious, but sloppy. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”  

“Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” she shot back, deflecting each curse with crisp, economical movements. Her wand was a blur as she pressed forward, forcing him off balance. “A coward who only feels big when he’s hurting someone who can’t fight back.”  

“Say that again!” he roared, launching a Blasting Curse that scorched the wall behind her as she rolled out of the way.  

She grinned, the hunt in her blood now. “Gladly.” Her jinxes landed with precision, one slicing his sleeve, another knocking his wand-arm askew. He spat more crude comments between spells, his voice rising with frustration, but she barely heard them over the hum of her magic and the sharpened edge of her focus. His spells grew wilder, more desperate, but she pressed harder, every Auror instinct kicking in until the duel wasn’t a fight—it was a hunt, and he was already cornered prey.  

“You little—” was all he managed before her final stunner hit him square in the forehead, slamming him against the doorframe. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious, his wand skittering uselessly across the stones.  

Tonks exhaled sharply, adrenaline still singing in her veins. “Not so tough now, are you?” she muttered, crouching to bind his hands with a flick of her wand. The magical restraints glowed briefly before tightening, and she levitated him easily, the unconscious weight floating inches above the ground as she dragged him back toward the others. His head lolled, his once-proud sneer slack in unconsciousness.  

As she rounded the corner, she saw Howard Montague being dragged out of the front entrance by Kingsley and Yaxley, shouting a string of curse words that would have made even Moody blink. “This is all that Lestrange bitch’s fault!” Howard roared, spittle flying. “She’ll regret crossing my family! All of them will!”  

Tonks kept her face neutral, but her grip on her wand tightened until her knuckles ached. She adjusted her hold on Graham’s floating body and joined the group.  

“Target secured,” she reported crisply, forcing her voice to stay even.  

Amelia appeared in the doorway, her face calm but deadly serious. “Good work. Let’s get them back to the Department. They’ve had their last comfortable morning.”  

Tonks nodded, tightening the bindings on Graham for good measure before following the others toward the Apparition point. As the heavy gates of the Montague estate loomed behind them, she couldn’t help but think of Lyra. Justice was coming, and she’d make sure they felt every inch of it.  

------------------------------------  

Back at the DMLE, the air felt heavier. The sterile corridors and humming wards seemed to buzz with the anticipation of what came next. Tonks followed as Graham and Howard Montague were separated, each dragged to their own interrogation rooms. Even unconscious, Graham somehow managed to look smug; Howard, on the other hand, still spat venom the entire walk, his curses echoing off the walls until Amelia silenced him with a single sharp flick of her wand.  

Tonks lingered outside Graham’s room for a moment, glancing at the file already laid out on the observation table. The list of charges was long and damning. For Graham: sexual assault, assault and battery, attempted line theft —and now three new charges would be added in bold ink: use of an Unforgivable Curse, resisting arrest, and attacking an Auror. For Howard: obstruction, witness tampering, felony domestic abuse, accessory-before-the-fact to sexual assault, and attempted line theft —with resisting arrest and attacking an Auror now joining the list.  

She stepped inside with Kingsley at her side. Graham sat shackled at the table, hands bound in glowing magical restraints that dug faintly into his wrists. He looked up at her through a curtain of greasy hair, smirking like he still thought he had power here.  

“You’ve made it worse for yourself,” Tonks said flatly, taking the seat across from him. “The Imperius alone is enough to see you thrown into Azkaban for a life.”  

Graham barked a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, please. You think I’m scared of some puffed-up Ministry whore? Bet you enjoyed it when I had you on your knees in your head. You looked like the type.”  

Tonks’ hair flared red, but her voice stayed icy. “Say something like that again, Montague. I dare you.”  

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to say.” He leaned back, chains rattling. “You Ministry slags strut in here like you’ve won. All I can think about is what I should’ve done to that Lestrange bitch before you lot got your hands on me. Should’ve taken what was mine.”  

Tonks’ grip on her wand tightened until her knuckles ached. “You’re digging yourself deeper every time you open your mouth.”  

“You like it when I talk dirty,” Graham sneered, flicking his gaze toward the observation window. “What about your boss? Bones, isn’t it? I bet she’s just waiting for someone to put her in her place.”  

Before Tonks could answer, Kingsley cut in, his voice calm but edged with steel. “Keep talking, Montague. Every word you say goes in the record. And every one makes Azkaban closer.”  

For the first time that day, Graham’s smirk faltered.  

---------------------------------------  

Howard’s interrogation was colder, quieter—at least at first. Amelia led this one personally. Tonks observed from the corner after they were done with Graham, arms folded, watching as the Head of the DMLE dismantled Howard Montague with the same precision Tonks had used in the duel. Every question stripped away a layer of his haughty facade until the man who’d been shouting curses at the gates now sat pale and shaking.  

“And resisting arrest,” Amelia added calmly, quill scratching as she wrote, “along with attacking an Auror . Those will be added to your charges, Lord Montague. Do you understand?”  

Howard’s eyes flicked to Tonks briefly, his jaw tightening. “This is political,” he hissed. “You’ll regret humiliating my family like this.”  

Amelia didn’t flinch. “What I regret,” she said evenly, “is that it took this long for your victims to see justice.”  

Howard fell silent, his face mottled with fury but his words finally spent.  

Tonks watched, a quiet satisfaction blooming in her chest. For once, these fuckers weren’t untouchable.  

-----------------------------------------  

The corridors of the DMLE were quiet by the time Tonks was summoned to Amelia Bones’s office. The late-night hum of enchanted lights and the muted shuffle of clerks working overtime created a kind of stillness that made her boots sound too loud on the stone floor.   

She half-expected a lecture—Moody’s voice in her head had already scolded her for how hard she’d hit Montague with that final stunner—and she’d been bracing for Amelia’s sharp rebuke all the way there. But when she stepped inside, the atmosphere surprised her. Amelia sat behind her desk, quill set aside, a steaming mug of tea untouched beside a stack of files. She looked tired, older somehow, but her posture remained as composed as ever.  

“Close the door, Tonks,” Amelia said. Her voice was clipped, but there was a heaviness underneath it—the weight of a day that had finally ended something long overdue. Tonks did as instructed, the soft click of the door closing sounding final, like the last page of a long and ugly chapter.  

Tonks obeyed and stood at attention, feeling strangely out of place under Amelia’s keen gaze. “If this is about Montague, ma’am—”  

“It is,” Amelia interrupted before she could finish. She studied Tonks for a long moment, her sharp eyes softening slightly in a way that startled her. “And I’m not here to reprimand you. Quite the opposite. You handled yourself well. Better than well.”  

Tonks blinked, thrown off balance. “I—Thank you, ma’am.”  

“Your control, your decisiveness in the field—it was exactly what I needed from you today.” Amelia leaned back in her chair, a faint creak escaping the old wood. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to make this official. Consider it found.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a parchment form, already signed and stamped with the DMLE seal. “Effective immediately, Nymphadora Tonks is promoted to Auror. No more ‘junior.’ You’re now fully recognized within the office hierarchy.”  

Tonks’s mouth went dry. “You’re serious?”  

Amelia’s eyebrow arched, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting across her lips. “Do I look like I’m joking?”  

Tonks had no quip. Her throat felt tight as she nodded, the weight of the words settling over her like armor. This wasn’t just about a new position. It was about trust. About proving she could stand in rooms like this, carry the badge without anyone doubting she’d earned it.  

Amelia’s gaze sharpened again, but her tone softened. “This case is personal. For me. For Lyra. For more people than you probably realize. What you did today—what we did today—mattered.” Her words hung in the air like a benediction, heavier than any official commendation Tonks could have received.  

Tonks swallowed hard. “It was an honor to be part of it. To see it through.”  

“Good,” Amelia said simply. Her monocle caught the lamplight as she turned back to the papers on her desk, her voice snapping back to its usual businesslike tone. “Now get some rest. We’re not done yet.”  

Tonks left the office in a daze, her new position echoing in her head like a mantra. Auror. No more qualifiers. She no longer stood at the bottom of the hierarchy.   

As she walked back through the quiet halls, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—a deep, unshakable sense of belonging. She knew she’d earned it.  

When she finally left the Ministry, the night air was cool against her flushed face. She Apparated home in an instant, landing just outside her parents’ townhouse in a quiet Muggle street. Inside, the familiar warmth of her childhood home wrapped around her. Her mother looked up from a teacup, startled for a moment before Andromeda’s face broke into a smile. "You’re home late. Rough day?"  

Tonks couldn’t keep the grin off her face. "Not rough. Big. I’m not a junior anymore. I’m officially an Auror." She held up the parchment Amelia had handed her like it was a trophy.  

Her father, Ted, who had been reading the Evening Prophet by the fire, set it aside and stood to hug her. "Merlin’s beard, Dora—that’s incredible!"  

Andromeda crossed the room to hug her too, eyes shining with pride. "I always knew you’d make it."  

Tonks laughed, a little breathless, letting herself sink into the embrace. For a moment, the weight of the day fell away, replaced by something lighter. Pride. Relief. Belonging.  

As she sat between her parents, listening to them celebrate her achievement, Tonks thought of the little girl who once dreamed of wearing this badge and standing where she stood now.  

She realized she didn’t feel as pulled tight anymore—not wound up with nerves, but held steady by everything she’d fought for. It felt right.  

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen when Lyra found herself at the small writing desk by her window, a place she hadn’t sat in for weeks. The house was quiet in that heavy way only Malfoy Manor could be, like every wall was listening. A silver tray had been left for her while she slept—two envelopes resting neatly atop it, both sealed in familiar wax. She hesitated, fingertips lingering over the first letter. Somehow, even opening them felt like defiance.  

She broke Gemma’s seal first. The letter smelled faintly of the sandalwood ink Gemma always used, her handwriting sharp but effortless:  

Lyra,  

I hope you’re holding up. It feels strange writing like this instead of just seeing you in the common room, but I suppose this summer is strange all around. I wanted to tell you that I miss you—really miss you. It’s odd how quickly a place can feel empty when the right people aren’t in it.  

They called me into the DMLE this week. It was… unsettling, but I gave my statement. Amelia Bones herself was there. It felt good, though, to say what I needed to say, even if it left me shaking after. I thought about you the entire time, about how unfair it is that you’re even involved in something like this, and I wish I’d said more in your defense. Maybe I still will if they call me back.  

I hope you’re doing well, Lyra. I know the Manor can’t be easy, especially now. If you need a break from it, you know you’re always welcome here. My parents would be glad to see you, and I think it would do us both good to sit down together and just… talk like we used to. Please write back when you can, even if it’s just a few lines. I’d like to know how you’re really doing.  

All my best,  

Gemma  

Lyra folded the parchment carefully, tracing the crease with her thumb before setting it aside. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear Gemma’s voice, even in ink. The letter smelled of their dormitory, of late-night conversations and laughter that seemed like another lifetime. Her chest ached in that hollow, wordless way that told her she did, in fact, miss someone.  

The second envelope bore Terrence’s precise hand. His letter was shorter, but his voice came through in every line:  

Lyra,  

I wanted to ask you about next season—with Bletchley gone, the Beater spot is open, and I’d really like the chance to take it. It’s where I should’ve been from the start, and I think I could do well there. Obviously, it’s your call as captain, but I wanted to get my name in early.  

Also—with the Seeker spot opening up, you might want to tell Draco before anyone else does. Figured he’d like to know first.  

Let me know what you think. I’ll be ready when practices start back up.  

– Terrence  

She read his letter twice, picturing Terrence with his usual eager grin, already strategizing for the season ahead. It was strange—comforting, almost—to think about Quidditch when the rest of her world felt like it had ground to a halt.  

Lyra set the letter down with the first, resting her elbows on the desk and staring at the two envelopes. For a long moment she let herself imagine actually writing back—telling Gemma everything she couldn’t say out loud, teasing Terrence about his eagerness for the Beater spot, maybe even sharing something honest for once. The thought almost felt dangerous in the stillness of the Manor, but comforting too.  

She gathered the letters into a tidy stack and pressed her palm over them as if she could absorb their words a little longer. Her eyes drifted to the still‑drawn curtains, the untouched breakfast tray, the familiar but suffocating trappings of her life here. She imagined taking Gemma up on her invitation—stepping into a home where she didn’t have to measure every word, where she could just be. The thought felt like breathing after being underwater.  

Her fingers itched for a quill, for parchment, for some way to respond—to tell Gemma she missed her too, to reassure Terrence that his ambition hadn’t gone unnoticed. Yet the weight of what she could and couldn’t say kept her rooted in the silence, her words trapped in her throat. She thought of how Narcissa would react if she knew, how Lucius might read between the lines of anything she sent. Even her letters felt monitored, owned by someone else.  

Eventually she gathered the letters into the drawer of her desk, but even tucked away, they seemed to hum with the connection they offered, fragile but real. As she closed the drawer, she sat for a while longer, staring at her ink-stained fingertips, wondering when even opening a letter had become an act of rebellion.  

She stayed like that for a long time, slouched forward with her hands pressed against the cool wood of the desk, until the restless hum in her chest demanded she do something, anything. Her eyes drifted toward the nightstand by her bed, to the drawer at the bottom she hadn’t opened in years. She stood, feet bare against the cold floor, and crossed the room, feeling each creak of the ancient boards under her.  

The journal was right where she’d left it, wedged beneath a stack of old books, its black leather cover worn soft at the corners. When she opened it, the familiar scent of paper and charcoal hit her—faint but comforting, like catching a ghost of herself from before everything got so complicated. She flipped slowly through the pages. There were sketches of the lake at Hogwarts, of the Slytherin common room draped in green lamplight, of her friends laughing in stolen moments between exams.  

A younger version of herself had filled these pages recklessly, without caring how good it looked. The last entry was from her fourth year. She traced the edges of the final sketch with her thumb, a bittersweet ache crawling up her throat. She remembered when she used to draw every day—how it gave her a way to untangle feelings she couldn’t name, how it had been hers alone. Somewhere along the way, she had put that part of herself away, burying it under survival and expectation.  

She turned to a fresh page. Her hand hovered there for a moment, frozen in indecision. Then she pulled her chair close to the bed, set the journal against her knees, and uncapped her ink bottle and dipped her quill.  

The first lines were shaky—just a rough outline to mark the space on the page—but she kept at it, letting her hand find its rhythm. She began to build the frame of Charity’s face, sketching the curve of her jaw, then hesitating to get the angle of her neck just right. Lyra adjusted her grip on the quill, dragging the tip slowly to catch the way Charity always wore her hair up when Lyra had seen her, carefully recreating the neat twist and the tartan ribbon knotted securely at its base. She lingered on that ribbon, redrawing its lines until it felt real on the page, an anchor to her memory.  

She paused often, leaning back to compare the drawing to the image in her mind, then leaned in again to add delicate strokes: the slight tilt of her head, the way her lashes softened the lines of her face. Each line felt like holding the memory in place, anchoring it to paper. She found herself working in layers, returning again and again to the slope of her jaw, the shadow beneath her eyes, and the gentle, uncertain curve of her mouth. The more she added, the clearer Charity became, until the drawing was no longer just an outline but a memory taking form.  

It surprised her how much her memory lived in those lines—not just the way Charity looked, but how she’d made Lyra feel. The softness of her expression, the warmth in her posture; it was all there, if Lyra could just capture it.  

As she sketched, she thought about the last time she’d felt this way—steady, grounded. It wasn’t just the drawing; it was the permission to remember. To hold someone in her mind without fear of what it meant. She remembered the slight tremor in Charity’s laugh, the kindness in her voice, the way she’d looked at Lyra like she was more than a name and a reputation as those of the wizarding world so often remind her of. Those moments became strokes of ink, fixed on the page.  

Time stretched and slipped away as she worked. The world outside the Manor faded until it was just her and the scratch of quill against paper, her breathing syncing with the rhythm of her strokes. She adjusted, vanished sections, redrew, refining Charity’s features with the same patience she once had for Transfiguration diagrams. She added tiny flourishes—the faintest curls to the ends of her hair, the soft crease of a smile that might’ve been there, or maybe Lyra just wished it had been. It felt like meditation, like healing. She realized how much she had missed this—not just drawing, but creating something that belonged entirely to her. She had forgotten what it felt like to build something with her hands that no one else could take from her.  

She experimented with details she couldn’t fully remember, letting her imagination fill in the soft edges of Charity’s expression. The subtle upturn of her lips. The shadows of her hair falling across her cheek. Lyra worked and reworked those small touches, the act itself a strange kind of comfort. It wasn’t about perfection—it was about presence. About being here, with the version of Charity her memory had preserved for her. As the hours stretched, her thoughts wandered to that night at the pub, to the sound of Charity’s laugh, to the way her eyes had seemed to hold a hundred unspoken words. She caught herself smiling without meaning to.  

When she finally paused, her wrist ached, and her fingers were smudged with ink. The sketch wasn’t perfect—her hand was out of practice—but it was alive. Charity’s eyes looked back at her from the page, soft and knowing. Lyra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, closing the journal halfway but leaving the image visible. For a moment, she just stared at it, her pulse settling into something calm. Then she traced the edge of the page lightly, almost like she was reaching for Charity herself.  

She set the journal on her nightstand, its pages still open to Charity’s likeness. It felt like reclaiming something she had lost: a quiet piece of herself untouched by expectation or legacy. In the stillness of her room, surrounded by walls that so rarely felt her own, she finally did. And as she sat back, flexing the ache from her fingers, she knew she’d be opening that journal again soon—not because she needed to, but because she wanted to.  

Chapter Text

Courtroom Ten was colder than Amelia remembered—and she had been here more times than she cared to count. Perhaps it wasn’t the room itself but the weight of what was about to happen that made the air bite so sharply. No spectators were allowed; this was a closed trial. Only Wizengamot members and key Ministry officials filled the tiered benches, their plum-colored robes a ripple of color against the grey stone. There were no journalists to grandstand for, no gawking public either.  

At the central bench sat Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, his presence commanding but composed. The Ministry’s crests glinted from the heavy wooden doors and the towering banners above, but there was little grandeur here. The room, with its high ceiling and oppressive stone walls, was built for one thing: passing sentence.  

The side door opened with a low groan, and Graham Montague was brought in by two Aurors. His hands were bound in thick enchanted chains, his chin tilted up in defiance. Amelia’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. At first, he looked almost smug, as though this were a Quidditch match and he was daring the room to jeer. But as the door closed behind him with a final, echoing thud, his bravado began to falter. His gaze darted over the seated Wizengamot, searching for allies and finding none.  

“Bring the accused forward,” Dumbledore said, his voice calm but carrying to every corner of the chamber. Graham was led to the single chair in the center of the floor, bolted to the stone, heavy chains coiling like patient serpents.  

“The charges,” Dumbledore began, his tone level but unyielding, “are as follows: sexual assault. Assault and battery. Attempted line theft. The use of an Unforgivable Curse against an Auror. Resisting arrest. And attacking an Auror in the course of duty.”  

A low murmur swept through the benches. Amelia saw Graham’s smirk vanish entirely as the list went on.  

“You will answer to these charges,” Dumbledore continued, his blue gaze fixed on the boy. “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”  

Graham’s mouth twisted. “Not guilty,” he said, his voice hoarse but loud. A few in the Wizengamot scoffed audibly.  

Amelia rose from her place near the front, her monocle catching the torchlight as she addressed the court. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement submits witness testimony, physical evidence, and signed statements corroborating every charge,” she said evenly. “The details are extensive and will be entered into the record.”  

The testimony began. One by one, they brought in voices: Tonks herself describing Graham’s arrest—“ he used the Imperius on me when I tried to subdue him; it was weak, but he tried to make me drop my wand and even—” she hesitated, then forced herself to continue, “—tried to make me strip before I fought through it.” The courtroom fell silent at that, the words hanging like a curse in the air. Amelia watched Tonks take a slow breath, steadying herself before adding how the Imperius attempt, his physical struggle, and his hexes during the arrest formed the basis for three of the most recent charges. Her voice was calm, professional, but Amelia could hear the steel beneath it—the quiet anger of someone who refused to be reduced to a victim.  

Next came a house-elf recounting what she’d seen in the Montague estate, her high, tremulous voice describing scenes that made several members shift uncomfortably. And finally, a DMLE investigator presented Lyra Lestrange's files — detailed records of abuse, coercion, and every insult and indignity Graham had inflicted upon her.  

The documentation was painstakingly thorough: letters seized from the Montague estate, witness corroborations from her fellow Hogwarts students, and Lyra’s own statements taken at Malfoy Manor just weeks ago. Amelia could still remember sitting across from her in that gilded, suffocating room, the girl stiff-backed on a velvet chair that felt more like a throne than a safe space. Her voice had shaken, but she hadn’t broken, forcing herself to say the things no one her age should ever have to put into words. It clearly had taken everything in Lyra to stay in that room long enough to get it all out. And now those words were here, echoing in this courtroom.  

Amelia felt the eyes of the Wizengamot on her as the most harrowing accounts were read aloud: Lyra’s injuries cataloged in cold, clinical language that belied their horror; her testimony about the threats Graham had whispered in Hogwarts corridors; the ways he had used her trust in him, his body size and strength, his position at her side everyday, to make her feel small and unsafe. It was gutting to hear how calculated it all had been—more than just assaults, but an attempt to break a young woman entirely.  

The words left a heavy silence in their wake. Even seasoned members of the Wizengamot looked away. Amelia’s hand curled into a fist at her side, and she forced herself to breathe evenly, to stay the composed Head of the DMLE instead of the woman who wanted to drag Graham out of that chair herself. She glanced at him, catching the twitch in his jaw, the way his shoulders tightened. He had flinched at some of it, but otherwise stared forward, jaw locked as if bracing himself against the weight of what could no longer be denied.  

When the air felt thick enough to choke on, Dumbledore folded his hands over the bench and looked over the room. His gaze swept across the benches, pausing on a few members whose skepticism was plain. “You have heard the evidence,” he said, his voice grave yet steady, filling the cold chamber. “Graham Montague is guilty of grievous crimes. Of this, there is no question. But he is also seventeen. The Dementor’s Kiss would not serve justice, only finality. It is one of our most irreversible punishments, and I urge you to remember the weight of such a sentence. Life imprisonment in Azkaban is no mercy—it is a punishment that allows this body to uphold the law without resorting to a penalty that ends all that he is. What we do here defines not only his fate but the character of this court. I ask this assembly to consider that distinction carefully.”  

A rumble went through the benches—some scoffing, others nodding.  

“Justice is not vengeance,” Dumbledore continued. “We must be better, we must act with mercy where we can.”  

Graham turned toward Dumbledore, his expression flickering between shock and desperate hope.  

Dumbledore conferred briefly with several Wizengamot members before addressing the room. “The Wizengamot finds the accused guilty on all counts,” he said, his tone quieter now but no less steady. “We will now decide his punishment. This assembly will vote between two sentences: the Dementor’s Kiss or life imprisonment in Azkaban.”  

He raised his hand, and enchanted counters appeared over each option. “All those in favor of the Dementor’s Kiss?”  

Amelia felt the weight of the choice before she moved. Her fingers twitched, then stilled as she raised her hand. It wasn’t a vote made as the Head of the DMLE, or as a politician considering optics. This was Amelia Bones, the last adult of the Bones line who had watched her brother’s child grow up in a world that wanted to hurt her simply for existing. Graham’s crimes weren’t just brutal; they had been a personal assault on what little family she had left.  

She thought of Lyra sitting across from her in Malfoy Manor, stiff-backed and pale, forcing the words out even when her throat threatened to close. She thought of Susan, bright and still innocent, unaware of how close these monsters came to shattering their world entirely. Lyra was Edgar’s daughter, Susan’s cousin, Amelia’s to protect—and she had promised herself years ago that she would. The attempted line theft, the degradation, every humiliation… it made her stomach twist with a colder, sharper fury than she let anyone see.  

She didn’t flinch when her counter joined the others. This wasn’t vengeance, she reminded herself. This was protection. Finality. The only way to make sure Graham Montague would never touch another girl, never breathe a threat against her family again.  

“And for life imprisonment?” More hands lifted after a pause, a broader mix of members who leaned toward Dumbledore’s appeal. Amelia noted the pause, the weight of their reluctance, as if they were convincing themselves to be merciful. The counters shifted, tallied, and the result appeared in shimmering numbers above the bench: life imprisonment by a narrow but undeniable margin.  

Dumbledore nodded once. “The vote is decided. Graham Montague will serve life imprisonment in Azkaban. Sentence to begin immediately.”  

Graham’s knees seemed to buckle as the chains tightened. Whatever defiance he had left bled out of him. He didn’t speak again as the Aurors dragged him away, his head hanging low.  

Amelia didn’t look away as the doors closed behind him. She kept her expression neutral, the way she always did in this chamber, but inside her anger boiled. Life imprisonment. It was justice, yes, but not the kind she had wanted for Lyra. Not the kind her niece deserved. She thought of Edgar, of all the promises she had silently made standing over his grave, over his daughters broken body that night in Saint Mungo's. That boy—no, that man—should have been thrown to the Dementors, piece by piece if that’s what it took.  

For a brief, savage moment, she wished she could have been the one to do it herself.  

Amelia stayed rooted in her seat as the doors opened again. Her fingers curled against the polished wood of the table, nails biting into her palms. She didn’t let herself exhale, didn’t let the fury burn itself out. She needed it. She wanted it. Howard Montague was next, and she wasn’t about to let him glide through this with that same smugness he wore everywhere.  

When they brought him in, Amelia understood exactly why her anger hadn’t cooled. Howard Montague walked into Courtroom Ten as if he owned it, head high, eyes sweeping across the benches like he was about to give a speech at a dinner party. Even in chains, he looked unbothered. Amelia wanted to wipe that look from his face. This wasn’t some reckless boy like Graham, floundering in his arrogance. This was a man who had built his life on cruelty and called it power.  

“Howard Montague,” Dumbledore said, his voice echoing like a gavel, “you stand accused of obstruction of justice, witness tampering, felony domestic abuse, accessory-before-the-fact to sexual assault, attempted line theft, resisting arrest, and attacking an Auror in the course of duty. How do you plead?”  

“Not guilty,” Howard said smoothly, like it was a waste of his time to even be asked.  

Amelia’s jaw tightened. Let him smirk. It wouldn’t last.  

She rose when it was her turn, moving slowly, deliberately. “The Department of Magical Law Enforcement submits testimony from the Aurors involved, St. Mungo’s medical reports, letters and documents seized from the Montague estate, and multiple signed witness statements,” she said, her tone calm but cutting. “These aren’t rumors. They’re facts. Documented, deliberate acts of violence and manipulation that paint the clearest picture possible.”  

“Facts from questionable parties,” Umbridge’s syrupy voice cut in before Amelia could sit. “It does make one wonder how eagerly the DMLE will trample over a man’s reputation when it suits them.”  

Amelia turned her head slowly. “Questionable parties?” she repeated, her voice low, dangerous. “You mean his wife? The one who spent weeks in St. Mungo’s because of him? Or the house-elf who still limps because he beat her nearly to death for refusing to lie? Or perhaps the young girl he allowed his son to terrorize?”  

Umbridge’s smile twitched, but she didn’t reply. Amelia didn’t give her the chance.  

“We are not here to debate reputation, Dolores,” she said, her voice rising, “we are here to deal in facts. And the facts are this: Howard Montague used his wealth and influence to shield himself and his son while they degraded and brutalized anyone who couldn’t fight back.”  

The testimonies came next, one after another, each more damning than the last. A healer from St. Mungo’s took the stand first, describing Howard’s wife’s injuries in cold, clinical language—but there was no masking the brutality in her words. Amelia could see several Wizengamot members shift uncomfortably as the healer cataloged every scar, every broken bone, every night of pain the woman had endured.  

Then Auror Yaxley stepped forward to recount the duel at Howard’s arrest. His voice was steady but carried an edge as he described the encounter. In truth, he said, it hadn’t been much of a duel at all—Howard had more bark than bite when it came to fighting men who could defend themselves. The exchange had been over in seconds, his hexes lacking the precision or power of someone used to real resistance. But Yaxley made a point of emphasizing Howard’s intent: every curse thrown had been designed to wound or intimidate, to make the Aurors bleed for daring to lay hands on him. Amelia listened closely, watching Howard as his own actions were laid bare, and saw the smirk on his face falter just slightly when Yaxley recounted how quickly he was disarmed and bound.  

Finally, the DMLE investigator, a hard woman by the name of Connie Hammer, presented documents seized from the Montague estate: letters, orders, instructions to silence witnesses and twist the narrative in his favor. Every parchment carried his name. Every word reeked of entitlement and control.  

Each testimony, each piece of evidence, felt like another nail sealing his fate. Amelia let the weight of it sink into the room, refusing to let anyone—least of all Howard — forget the full scope of his crimes.  

Umbridge tried again, leaning forward in her seat. “Surely, Chief Warlock, we must consider whether the Dementor’s Kiss is too severe a punishment for a man like Lord Montague—”  

“—a man who used his influence to destroy lives?” Amelia snapped, cutting her off. “Dolores, we are not here to soften the blow for abusers. We are here to end their reign of harm.”  

Dumbledore raised his hand, calling for quiet. “The evidence stands. We will vote.”  

The counters appeared above his bench, glowing faintly.  

“All those in favor of a verdict of guilty?” Dumbledore called first.  

Amelia’s hand was already in the air. The counters gathered, the vast majority voting as expected.  

“And for not guilty?” Dumbledore asked.  

Only a handful of counters floated up—Amelia noticed the faces behind them, the same who clung to Howard’s name as though it were a shield. The same who if she were given any evidence would most likely be in the same chains he is now.  

“The Wizengamot finds the accused guilty on all counts,” Dumbledore said, his voice echoing off the stone. “We will now decide his sentence.”  

“All those in favor of the Dementor’s Kiss?”  

Amelia’s hand shot up without hesitation. No waffling. No second-guessing. She glanced at the hands of the traditional families rising with hers. This was justice.  

“And for life imprisonment?”  

Fewer hands. The counters tallied, the result glowing cold and final.  

“The Wizengamot has spoken,” Dumbledore said. “Howard Montague will receive the Dementor’s Kiss. Sentence to be carried out immediately.”  

Howard didn’t drop his smirk, but Amelia saw it—the twitch in his jaw, the slight tremor in his fingers as the Aurors took hold of him. His arrogance couldn’t save him now. He was just another monster walking toward his end.  

And for Amelia, that was justice. But it wasn’t enough.  

She stood when Dumbledore dismissed them and followed as the Aurors escorted Howard to a side chamber reserved for carrying out such sentences. The air was colder there, heavier, and Amelia could already feel the presence of the Dementors waiting beyond the iron doors.  

The Aurors hesitated when she stepped forward, but no one stopped her. She grabbed Howard by the arm, shoving him toward the doors herself. He tried to keep that arrogant smirk, but up close she could see the sweat beading at his temple, the fear he didn’t want anyone to notice.  

She leaned close enough that only he could hear. “For my niece,” she whispered, her voice like ice.  

His eyes went wide, his head whipping toward her, finally cracking through that mask of arrogance. In that instant, Amelia could see the last piece fall into place in his mind—he understood. He understood exactly who Lyra’s real father was, and why Amelia’s words cut so deeply. Amelia didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She shoved him forward, through the doors, into the waiting darkness where the Dementors glided silently to meet him.  

He screamed when they reached him—a raw, ugly sound that followed her as she turned on her heel and began to walk away. The screaming stopped suddenly, replaced by silence as cold as the chamber itself.  

Only then did Amelia allow herself the faintest of smirks.  

She did not linger. There was no time to savor the moment—she still had work to do. As she stepped back into the main hall, the quiet hum of conversation reached her. The Wizengamot had reconvened after a brief recess, the air in Courtroom Ten charged with a different kind of tension.  

She walked back to her seat, ignoring the curious glances sent her way. Let them wonder. She didn’t care. Dumbledore’s deep voice cut through the din as she settled in.  

“We resume our session,” he said, tapping the bench lightly with his wand. “There remains the matter of the Montague family’s vacated Wizengamot seat.”  

Amelia straightened. This was the part she’d been dreading. Of course Lucius Malfoy was already waiting in the front row, poised like a serpent ready to strike. His pale face was unreadable, but his presence was declaration enough: he was here to take what he believed was owed to him.  

Dumbledore nodded to him. “Lord Malfoy, you may address the assembly.”  

Lucius rose, smooth and deliberate. “Thank you, Chief Warlock. With the conviction and sentencing of Lord Howard Montague and his heir, the Montague line has been stripped of its voice in this body. Given the… significant damages inflicted upon my family in these events, I formally claim the vacated Montague seat through my regency of House Lestrange.”  

The room murmured, some in agreement, others in protest. Amelia kept her face still, though her stomach turned. Reparations. That was Lucius’s word for it—as though he hadn’t maneuvered himself perfectly to benefit from this outcome. As if he didn’t already hold more power than any single man in this chamber: the Malfoy seat and its two votes, the Black family’s seat and three votes since Arcturus’s death made him regent until Draco came of age, and the Lestrange vote. Six votes. The largest single bloc in the dark faction. And now he wanted more.  

Dolores Umbridge, of course, chimed in almost immediately, her false sweetness as thick as treacle. “An excellent claim,” she said warmly, her eyes flicking toward Lucius with open approval. “It is only right that the Malfoy family—through their regency of House Lestrange—step in to steward such a seat. I’m certain the Chief Warlock will recognize the necessity of honoring this transfer without delay.”  

Dumbledore’s gaze swept over the chamber. “The law allows for such a claim if no direct Montague heir remains. However, the Wizengamot must vote to approve or deny the transfer. All those in favor of awarding the Montague seat to Lord Malfoy?”  

Amelia’s hand stayed firmly at her side. Around her, many of the traditional families raised theirs without hesitation. Counters floated toward Lucius like moths to a flame.  

“And those opposed?”  

Her hand went up. So did a scattering of others—not nearly enough.  

The counters tallied themselves in the air, the final number glowing bright and undeniable. Lucius Malfoy inclined his head in that insufferable way of his as Dumbledore announced, “The Wizengamot approves the transfer. The Montague seat is now awarded to House Lestrange.”  

Lucius didn’t look at her, but Amelia felt the victory in his stillness. A win wrapped in civility, delivered with that same quiet smugness she’d seen on Howard Montague only an hour ago. She wanted to spit, but she only clenched her jaw tighter. Seven votes for Malfoy now, Amelia thought bitterly. Seven. The light faction—Dumbledore with the Potter seat as well as his own, the Longbottoms, and the Abbotts—kept them in check for now. But this balance was growing thinner by the day.  

“Let it be recorded,” Dumbledore said, his tone even. “This concludes our session on the matter.”  

Amelia sat back in her chair, forcing herself to stay still. Justice had been served in part, but the cost—the shifting balance of power—was already clawing at the edges of her thoughts.  

She didn’t wait for the others to file out. Instead, she rose and made her way back to her office, her mind buzzing with too many thoughts to name. Sitting at her desk, Amelia reached for parchment, intending to write to Lyra. It felt like the only thing she could do—to remind the girl that she wasn’t alone, that justice, however imperfect, had been carried out.  

As she dipped her quill, a heaviness settled over her. The political theater of the day replayed in her mind, Lucius’s smugness, Umbridge’s thinly veiled barbs, the vote that had given Malfoy yet more power. It felt wrong, like a storm on the horizon. This was going to come back to bite her in the ass. She didn’t know how, but she could feel it. That creeping sense of inevitability coiled in her gut as she began to write: encouraging words for Lyra, assurances that she was strong, that she was safe—words she wished she could believe herself.  

------------------------------------------  

That night, Malfoy Manor was still. The corridors held their breath, and even the portraits seemed quieter than usual, their painted eyes followed Lyra with unspoken questions she couldn’t answer. Lucius hadn’t been at dinner, which had only made the silence worse, leaving Narcissa’s polite, distant presence and Draco’s subdued attempts at conversation to fill the cavernous dining room. It was late when she finally returned to her room, the glow of the sconces along the hall casting her shadow long and thin against the stone.  

But of course, even trying to sleep counldn't be easy.  

Lyra found a letter waiting for her on the silver tray outside her room, tucked between a plate of biscuits—clearly meant to be a snack since she barely ate her meal earlier—and a folded copy of the Daily Prophet she had no intention of reading.  

The parchment of the letter bore the Bones family crest, neat and understated. Her hands lingered over it for a moment before she brought it inside, closing the door behind her. She stood there for a long moment, just staring at it, her stomach twisting like it already knew what it contained. Finally, she sat on the edge of her bed, breaking the seal with careful fingers. Amelia’s handwriting was precise, controlled—but Lyra could feel the weight behind every stroke of the quill, as if the words had been carved into the parchment rather than written.  

Lyra,  

I wanted you to hear it from me, not from the Prophet or some whispered version of events. The trials have concluded. Graham has been sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban. Howard Montague is dead, I threw him to the Dementors myself.  

It was not an easy day. The Wizengamot chamber was cold and heavy with politics, as it always is. There were speeches made, arguments presented, and more maneuvering than I care to recount. I wish I could tell you that justice in this place is clean, that it is swift, but that would be a lie. It is messy. It is ugly. And sometimes it feels like no matter what verdict is read, no one leaves whole.  

But this much I can tell you: Graham and Howard Montague will never hurt you—or anyone else—again.  

I am proud of you, Lyra. You did something most adults could not do: you told the truth, even when it burned to say it. You stood in the face of power and refused to be silent. That courage is yours, and no one can take it from you.  

I know that hearing their sentences does not erase what happened. It doesn’t make the nights easier or the memories quieter. I wish it did. I wish I could take all of that weight from you and carry it myself. But I can promise you this: you are not alone. You have a family who will fight for you, even when it feels like the world wants you to stand alone.  

Hold your head high, Lyra. Not because of what people expect you to be. Hold it high because you are stronger than them. Stronger than they ever imagined you could be.  

—   Amelia  

Lyra read it once. Then again. By the third time, the words had blurred, Amelia’s careful script smeared by the tears she hadn’t even realized had started to fall. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, but it did nothing to stem the ache in her chest. Howard Montague was dead. Graham was rotting in Azkaban. She should have felt lighter. She should have felt free. Instead, it felt hollow—like a door had slammed shut behind her, locking her in with everything they’d left behind.  

She pressed the letter to her chest, curling in on herself as the walls of her room seemed to close in. Malfoy Manor always felt like a cage when it was quiet like this. She thought of Amelia, standing in that courtroom with all those eyes on her, refusing to falter. And she thought of herself—of the girl she’d been before Graham, before the corridors that felt like traps, before everything changed.  

Lyra unfolded the letter again, reading the lines about holding her head high. But her eyes kept drifting back to an earlier line—Amelia saying she was proud of her. It sat heavy in her chest, almost foreign. When was the last time anyone had said that and meant it? She wanted to believe Amelia, wanted to be that strong, unbreakable girl the letter described, the girl Amelia saw in her. But right now, she didn’t feel strong. She felt tired. So tired she couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be. The promise of safety, of not being alone, felt like a lifeline she wasn’t sure she deserved to grab.  

Her eyes drifted to the journal on her nightstand. She pulled it into her lap and flipped it open to the page with Charity’s unfinished sketch. She traced the lines of her face with ink-stained fingers, imagining her voice, her laugh, the warmth of that night in the little pub. Somehow, that memory made it easier to breathe, like if she could draw Charity’s face perfectly, she could hold on to some part of herself she’d thought was gone. She set Amelia’s letter beside the journal, two pieces of paper that felt heavier than anything else in the room.  

For a long time, Lyra just sat there, staring at them both. And for the first time since the trial began, she let herself cry. Not quietly or politely. But the kind of crying that left her throat raw and her body shaking, the kind that ripped its way out of her and left her feeling emptied. It burned on the way out, but when it was over, she felt a little lighter, like she could breathe again.  

When the tears finally stopped, she laid back on her bed, Amelia’s letter still clutched in her hand. Maybe Amelia was right. Maybe she wasn’t as alone as she felt. Maybe she could find a way to hold her head high again. She didn’t know if that was enough to make her strong. But tonight, it was enough to keep her breathing—and for now, that was everything.  

I am proud of you, Lyra. Well, at least someone is, she thought, the words echoing in her head as if Amelia had said them aloud in the room.  

She stared up at the ceiling, the weight of Amelia’s words pressing into her like gravity. The thought came unbidden, stubborn as a scar: if Amelia could believe she was strong, maybe—just maybe—she could believe it too. And as she let the silence of the manor settle around her, she whispered to herself, almost like a vow, “One day, I will.”  

Chapter Text

Harry had always thought that summer holidays at Privet Drive couldn’t get worse, but this one had proven him wrong by a mile. The Dursleys had been at their most insufferable, delighting in finding new ways to make him feel unwanted. Aunt Petunia fussed endlessly about cleanliness, forbidding him from using “her” bathroom, while Dudley strutted around with an air of petty triumph, armed with a new vocabulary of insults courtesy of Uncle Vernon. Meals were small, often barely more than scraps, and Hedwig’s cage remained locked to keep her from hunting.  

Then came the house-elf. Dobby, with his frantic energy and wide, fearful eyes, had turned an already miserable summer into utter chaos. Aunt Petunia’s prized pudding had crashed to the kitchen floor in an explosion of cream and violet sugared flowers, splattering the walls like a pastel crime scene and destroying the carefully maintained image she presented to guests.  

“WHAT have you done?!” Petunia had shrieked, her voice high and piercing, while Dudley gawked at Harry like it was his fault alone, smirking between bites of stolen pudding.  

Uncle Vernon’s face had turned a dangerous shade of purple as he bellowed, “YOU’VE RUINED US, BOY!” He had barely allowed Harry a word in defense before stomping away, returning hours later with a hired handyman to weld thick bars across Harry’s window. The clank of metal was humiliating, like Harry was a dangerous animal that needed caging, his freedom stripped away in a grotesque show of control. He’d overheard them downstairs later that night, whispering about reform schools and “breaking the boy,” their fear of his magic bubbling into cruel pettiness. He could still hear Vernon’s smug voice, planning to keep Harry “in line” until term started.  

Nights were the hardest. He would lie awake on his narrow bed, staring through the bars at the sky beyond, the stars cold and distant. “Why hasn’t anyone written to me?” he whispered to Hedwig once, but even she couldn’t answer. No letters from Ron or Hermione. No news. It was as though the wizarding world had forgotten him.  

He didn’t know it then, but it was Dobby’s doing—his well-meaning sabotage keeping Harry cut off from everything he loved. His stomach often growled as he picked at the meager portions Petunia slid under the door. Sometimes he dreamed of Hogwarts, of roaring fires, feasts, Quidditch soaring under a golden sky, and the sound of Hermione and Ron’s laughter, only to wake up suffocating in silence, more trapped than ever.  

It was nearly unbearable. Until the night Ron Weasley appeared at his window.  

“Harry!” Ron hissed through the bars, his freckled face grinning like it was the best idea in the world. “We’ve come to get you!” Fred and George flanked him like mischievous sentinels. “Blimey,” Fred muttered, inspecting the bars. “Locked you up, have they? That’s sick.” George chimed in with a quick, “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get you out of here.” The flying Ford Anglia hovered beyond, a glowing, enchanted lifeline in the dark, headlights illuminating Harry’s prison-like room. The night smelled of petrol and magic, a mix that felt like hope.  

The frantic escape blurred together—Hedwig’s indignant screeching, the bars groaning as Fred and George yanked them free, whispering incantations and grunting with effort. “Quickly!” George urged. “Watch your trunk!” Ron shouted, leaning halfway out the car. Uncle Vernon’s meaty hand closed around Harry’s ankle as he scrambled for the window. “YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!” Vernon roared, yanking him back with surprising strength. “LET GO!” Ron yelled as he and the twins pulled with all their might. Harry’s heart pounded as his trunk clattered dangerously against the windowsill before they finally wrenched him free. “Step on it, George!” Ron yelled, and Vernon’s furious roar echoed behind them as they sped off into the night sky, the car’s enchanted engine humming like freedom itself. Fred cackled, “You should’ve seen his face!” and even Ron cracked a laugh as Harry slumped against the seat.  

Relief crashed over Harry first, nearly dizzying. “Thanks,” he croaked, his throat dry. “Don’t mention it,” Ron said with a grin. “You should’ve seen your uncle’s face,” Fred added gleefully, while George chuckled, “Might’ve broken a record for biggest temper tantrum.” Then came guilt—a hollow pang at the chaos left behind—but threaded through it all was gratitude so deep it silenced every other thought: the Weasleys had come for him. They’d risked everything just to make sure he wasn’t alone.  

The Burrow was nothing like Privet Drive, and Harry loved it instantly. “Morning, dear,” a talking mirror in the cramped bathroom scolded. “At least try to do something with that hair.” A ghoul banged noisily in the attic. Explosions rattled Fred and George’s room, followed by unrestrained laughter and muffled yelps of “It was supposed to do that!” Harry wandered through narrow hallways plastered with moving family photos that waved and smiled at him, the mismatched furniture and threadbare rugs giving the place a chaotic warmth. Even the smells were different: bread baking, woodsmoke curling from the chimney, the faint tang of magical potions lingering in the kitchen, and the earthy scent of the garden wafting through open windows.  

It was chaos. It was imperfect. It was home.  

Harry sat at the kitchen table one morning, watching Mrs. Weasley chatter as she cooked breakfast, levitating utensils between pans and plates with casual precision. “Eat up, dear,” she said kindly, while Mr. Weasley animatedly explained the function of a rubber duck, eyes alight with fascination, pausing only to ask Harry if Muggle plugs had “different sizes for different jobs.” Ron, Ginny, and the twins argued over toast. “Pass the marmalade!” Fred demanded. “It’s on your side, genius,” George retorted, earning a swat from Mrs. Weasley. Ginny barely said a word, blushing whenever Harry glanced her way, and Percy breezed in, muttering about his O.W.L.s as though the world depended on them.  

A clock on the wall ticked with hands marked for each family member—Fred and George’s hand hovered stubbornly over “Mischief,” while Ron’s rested comfortably on “Home.” Harry found himself thinking, with quiet awe: Everyone here seems to like me. It was such a stark contrast to Privet Drive’s cold precision that it nearly hurt. For the first time all summer, Harry felt like he could breathe again—and he never wanted that feeling to end.  

---------------------------------------  

Golden sunlight streamed through the crooked windows of the Burrow’s kitchen, painting the room in warm amber hues. The smell of frying bacon, fresh bread, and something faintly floral from the garden made Harry’s stomach growl, but Mrs. Weasley was already bustling between stove and table, waving her wand to flip eggs while simultaneously levitating a stack of plates. Copper pans clanged against each other in the sink, a teapot hissed softly on the counter, and the enchanted clock on the wall clicked lazily, its hands shifting to indicate everyone’s whereabouts. The entire kitchen felt like a living thing — one that welcomed him.  

“Sit down, dear, you’re too thin,” she said as Harry entered, fussing as she swooped over to plop a heaping plate in front of him. She barely paused to cluck at Ron to “comb that hair, honestly” before summoning more toast from a tin that zoomed itself to the center of the table.  

Harry obeyed without protest, sinking into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs that creaked under his weight but felt oddly comforting. Every corner of the room hummed with the easy, unpolished magic of a real home.  

Arthur Weasley, seated across from Harry with a half-eaten slice of toast and a copy of the Daily Prophet folded beside his elbow, leaned forward eagerly. “So, Harry, tell me again—electricity, how does it get into those wires? And plugs! Do they work the same for toasters as they do for—what was it—televisions? And do all Muggles use those ‘telephones’ at the same time? I still can’t imagine how the wires don’t tangle.” His eyes glittered like a boy at Christmas.  

Harry smiled awkwardly, unsure how to explain it in a way Arthur would understand. “Er—well, kind of. There’s—um—voltage, I guess, and—”  

“Voltage!” Arthur exclaimed, as though Harry had just shared an ancient spell. “Marvelous word, isn’t it? I must get my hands on some of those plugs. Imagine, Molly—enchant one to—”  

“Arthur, eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” Molly interjected sharply, though she didn’t entirely hide her fond smile.  

Before Harry could say more, Ginny entered, clutching a bowl of fruit. She spotted Harry, went crimson, and immediately fumbled, sending the bowl clattering to the floor. Apples rolled under the table and across the floor. “Oh no!” she squeaked, diving to retrieve them, hair falling into her face.  

Fred appeared in the doorway, smirking like a Kneazle that had found cream. “Careful, Ginny. You’ll scare Harry off before term even starts.”  

“Leave her alone,” George added with mock seriousness, though his grin matched his twin’s. “She’s clearly practicing how to faint dramatically in front of him. Next she’ll ask for a lock of his hair. Very romantic.”  

Ginny made a noise somewhere between a groan and a squeak, and Harry quickly bent to help her collect the apples. “It’s fine,” he said softly, passing her one with a reassuring smile. She mumbled a quiet “thanks” without meeting his eyes, her ears glowing pink.  

Percy arrived next, sweeping in like a man on a mission, his prefect badge gleaming as though freshly polished. “Important work today,” he muttered, grabbing a slice of toast as he passed. “Can’t be late—I promised to help Dad sort some things for back-to-school preparations.” He didn’t elaborate, but the way he puffed out his chest made it clear he wanted them to ask about his new responsibilities at the Ministry office where he’d been spending part of his summer. No one did.  

Fred leaned back in his chair, holding up a sheet of parchment like it was cursed. “So, anyone else see this Lockhart booklist? Seven books—seven! For one class! Is he teaching Defense or starting his own fan club?”  

Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Mum’s already going spare about it. Bet he expects us to read them all too. And write essays about his favorite color or something.”  

George snorted. “Bet he expects us to worship him. Look at the titles—‘Magical Me’? He might as well sign them with kisses and a headshot. We should bring mirrors to class so we can stare at his reflection instead of him.”  

Mrs. Weasley shot them a glare sharp enough to silence them—at least for a moment. “That’s enough out of you two,” she said, though her cheeks colored slightly as she added, “Gilderoy Lockhart is a very accomplished wizard, and his books are excellent.” The twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed that she enjoyed talking about him more than she let on.  

A sudden thud at the window made everyone look up. Errol, the Weasleys’ ancient owl, slammed into the glass before sliding pitifully down in a heap of feathers. Ron sighed and went to retrieve him. “He’s not dead,” Ron said, examining the poor bird. “Just nearly.” He untied the letter from Errol’s leg and scanned it quickly. “It’s from Hermione. Says she’ll meet us in Diagon Alley before term starts.”  

Harry smiled faintly at the thought of seeing her again but fell quiet as his gaze drifted to the small coin purse Mrs. Weasley was carefully tucking away on the counter. It looked so light compared to the heavy, gold-filled vault at Gringotts that bore his name. He swallowed a knot of guilt. If only he could help without embarrassing them.  

Mrs. Weasley interrupted his thoughts with a brisk clap of her hands. “Right then! Eat up, all of you. We’ve a busy day ahead—school letters, shopping lists, and no dawdling in Diagon Alley!”  

Fred groaned dramatically. “Dawdling is my specialty.”  

“Mine too,” George added, raising his hand.  

“Not today,” Mrs. Weasley said firmly, already herding them toward the table. Ron shot Harry a look that said, Welcome to life in this madhouse, but Harry only grinned. The Burrow buzzed with chaotic, loving energy, and for Harry, it felt like belonging.  

-----------------------------------------  

The Burrow was alive earlier than usual, bursting with energy in a way only a Weasley morning could be. The crooked kitchen felt smaller than ever as the family whirled through their routines, filling the air with chatter, laughter, and the occasional argument. The scent of frying bacon and baking bread mingled with Molly’s faint floral hand lotion, the fragrance curling through the warm air. Every surface was cluttered with life: lunches stacked in mismatched tins waiting for bags, parchment lists covered in Molly’s looping handwriting, and a pile of Hogwarts letters perched precariously near a jar of homemade jam. Even the enchanted clock ticked and clanked, its many hands jittering between “Getting Ready,” “Running Late,” and, for Fred and George, “Causing Mischief.”  

Molly moved through it all like a general commanding her troops, her wand flicking to straighten cloaks and summon forgotten socks while she barked orders with sharp precision. “Everyone take a sandwich—one each, no excuses!” she said, levitating a basket of bacon sandwiches onto the table. She spotted Ron trying to sneak a second and wagged her wand at him. “Don’t even think about it, Ronald.”  

“And Fred,” she added, spinning to glare at her son, “if you so much as look at Harry with that grin again, I’ll have you degnoming the garden until Christmas. He’s new to Floo powder. Don’t you dare make him nervous.”  

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mum,” Fred replied, his mock innocence so overdone that George snorted.  

“Wouldn’t want him to think you’re scared either,” George added, his smirk earning him a sharp swat from Molly’s dishtowel.  

“This isn’t a game,” she snapped. “Now settle down, all of you!”  

Harry clutched the pot of Floo powder Molly thrust into his hands, staring at the soot-streaked fireplace. The flames roared, green and inviting, yet his stomach twisted at the thought of stepping into them. Magical or not, fire was still fire.  

“Listen carefully, dear,” Molly said, crouching slightly to meet his eye. “Step in, elbows tucked, throw the powder down, speak clearly — and I mean clearly, Harry—‘Diagon Alley.’ Then hold still as you spin. It’ll feel strange, but don’t panic. Elbows in. No flailing. No mumbling. Clear as a bell. Understand?”  

Harry nodded quickly, though his palms were clammy, and his pulse pounded in his ears.  

Fred and George crouched in front of the fireplace, scooping up pinches of glittering Floo powder. “Watch and learn, Harry,” Fred said, winking. “Diagon Alley!” The green flames swallowed him whole, leaving only a faint echo of his laughter.  

“See you there!” George grinned before vanishing in another whoosh of fire.  

“Show-offs,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes.  

Harry swallowed hard. Molly gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine, dear. Just like we practiced. Go on.”  

Harry stepped into the grate, soot crunching under his shoes. He raised his handful of powder, tossed it at his feet, and stammered, “Diagonally!” The ash choked him mid-sentence, burning his throat.  

The world erupted.  

He was spinning violently, tumbling helplessly through a long, fiery tunnel. Cold, invisible hands clawed at his clothes and slapped his face with every rotation. His glasses slid crookedly, nearly flying off as his stomach twisted. Shadowed parlors, gilded halls, grimy hearths—flashes of strange rooms blurred by, each gone before his brain could catch up. Voices murmured faintly, laughter distorted by the roaring fire. He tried to breathe, but each gasp felt like inhaling smoke. The spinning was relentless, nauseating, endless.  

Then, with a bone-jarring lurch, he was thrown out.  

Harry hit the ground hard, groaning as he blinked through the soot coating his face. Cold stone dug into his palms. His robes clung to his sweaty skin, and his cracked glasses smeared the world in crooked blurs. The air reeked of dust, metal, and something faintly rotten. He forced himself upright, heart hammering, and blinked until the shadows sharpened.  

The shop around him made every dark story he’d heard about Knockturn Alley seem tame. Dusty glass cases crowded the room, their grotesque contents illuminated by flickering, sickly light. A locket etched with strange, shifting runes pulsed faintly, as though breathing. A wickedly spiked dagger sat crusted with dried, dark residue. Instruments of unknown purpose gleamed with quiet menace. A Hand of Glory lay on black velvet, its shriveled fingers frozen in a grasp that made his skin crawl. Nearby, an opal necklace glowed faintly, its sheen oily, almost alive. Masks lined the back wall, their carved faces twisted in mocking expressions that seemed to follow his every movement. Even the floorboards groaned beneath him, as if warning him to leave.  

The bell above the door jingled.  

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. He darted into the nearest hiding spot — a massive black cabinet that smelled of mildew and rot. He crouched in the darkness, knees aching, every shallow breath echoing in his ears.  

Footsteps approached. A smooth, cultured voice filled the shop.  

“Good morning, Borgin. I trust you understand why I’ve come.”  

Lucius Malfoy. Harry didn’t need to see him to know. Calm. Cold. Dangerous. “There are certain… embarrassing items in my possession I’d prefer the Ministry not find during their ridiculous raids,” Lucius drawled. “And that Muggle Protection Act? Utter foolishness. They’ll regret antagonizing old families.”  

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” Borgin replied quickly, his voice oozing deference.  

Draco’s voice cut in, sharp and petulant. “Can we hurry? I don’t want to spend my whole day in this dump. Potter’s probably at the Leaky Cauldron being treated like royalty. He gets away with everything.”  

Harry gritted his teeth.  

A third voice, quieter but sharper. Lyra Lestrange. “You should look at this,” she said mildly. Through the cabinet crack, Harry glimpsed her moving with deliberate grace, dark curly hair cropped short, expression cool and unreadable. Her fingers hovered over the Hand of Glory before she stepped back deliberately. She examined the cursed opal necklace with clinical detachment, then drifted behind Lucius with practiced composure, her presence silent and steady. Something about her posture—poised, unafraid—made Harry shiver. She didn’t notice him. She didn’t even look his way.  

“Wrap these up,” Lucius said briskly, gesturing at several items. “Draco. Lyra. We’re leaving.”  

Draco muttered something under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Lyra, who said nothing. They moved like this was routine, like shops full of dark relics were just another errand.  

Their footsteps faded. The bell chimed, and silence returned.  

Borgin grumbled bitterly. “Malfoys. Always think they own the place. Old families.” He clicked his tongue, shuffling toward the back room, still muttering about Lucius’s arrogance.  

Harry exhaled shakily. His heart thundered in his chest, palms slick. He had to get out of here—now.  

Harry stumbled out of Borgin and Burkes, wiping at his cracked glasses with the edge of his sleeve, blinking against the bright sunlight. His legs still felt shaky from the Floo ride and the tense minutes hiding in that cabinet. His ears still rang with Lucius Malfoy’s voice, his mind replaying fragments of the conversation—snatches of words about the Ministry, the act, the “old families.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, scanning the crowd for someone familiar. Before he could gather his bearings, a huge shadow fell across him.  

“Harry? That you?” came Hagrid’s booming voice. The half-giant strode up, eyes wide with surprise and concern. “What in Merlin’s name are yeh doin’ in a place like this? Knockturn Alley ain’t no place for yeh—come on, we’ll get yeh back ter the others.” Hagrid’s massive hand clapped down on his shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him as he steered Harry out of the crooked alleyways.  

“Yer lucky I found yeh when I did,” Hagrid muttered. “Lots o’ people round here who wouldn’t think twice about takin’ advantage o’ a lost kid.” He glanced back at Knockturn Alley, his face darkening. “I shouldn’t even leave yeh for a second. Place is full o’ people who’d sell their own grandmothers for a few Galleons.”  

Harry nodded quietly, grateful for Hagrid’s steady presence. They emerged into the bustle of the main street, the shift from shadowy Knockturn Alley to bright, crowded Diagon Alley feeling like stepping into another world entirely. Stalls lined the walkways, hawking everything from self-stirring cauldrons to enchanted quills. A group of school-aged kids jostled past them, laughing as one of them unwrapped a steaming bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.  

Before he could catch his breath, a familiar voice cut through the din of the Alley.  

“There you are!” Molly Weasley came barreling toward him, her face pale and tight with worry. She grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a thorough once-over as though expecting a limb to be missing. “Honestly, Harry, what were you thinking? ‘Diagonally’? You could have ended up Merlin-knows-where!” She produced an oversized clothes brush from her handbag and began furiously dusting soot from his robes, ignoring his mumbled protests.  

Ron appeared from behind her, wide-eyed but grinning, clearly torn between relief and teasing him. Ginny peeked out from behind Ron, cheeks pink as she quickly ducked back when Harry glanced her way. Percy emerged a moment later, adjusting his prefect badge and muttering about how “reckless travel methods” were exactly why rules existed.  

“I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said quickly, though his face burned. He could feel the gazes of several passersby lingering, drawn by Molly’s fussing. Hagrid loomed beside her, frowning but less frantic.  

“Found him wanderin’ outta Knockturn Alley,” Hagrid rumbled. “Lucky I spotted yeh when I did. Dodgy place that is, Harry. Best steer clear. Nothin’ there yeh’d want ter see.”  

“Knockturn Alley?” Ron gasped. “Blimey, Harry—did you see any cursed skulls? Or those shrunken heads? Fred says they talk to you if you stare long enough—”  

“Ronald!” Molly snapped, her voice like a whip. “This is not a laughing matter. He could’ve been hurt or worse!” She muttered something about “reckless children” and “dangerous places” before shepherding Harry firmly toward Gringotts, still brushing soot off him with sharp, practiced strokes as they walked. The marble steps of the bank gleamed under the afternoon sun, bright and imposing against the chaotic backdrop of Diagon Alley.  

Harry caught sight of witches haggling at stalls selling potion ingredients, owls swooping overhead with packages, and the hum of conversations that made the Alley feel alive and overwhelming all at once. Shop windows glittered with cauldrons, brooms, enchanted pets, and the latest in magical accessories as students tugged their parents toward them with eager faces. Harry glimpsed a group of first-years peering into Madam Malkin’s shop, one nervously tugging at his new robes.  

They reached the top just as Hermione came bounding down the steps, her hair wilder than usual and her arms full of books. “Harry!” she squealed, nearly dropping the stack as she threw her arms around him in a hug that almost knocked him over. “Are you all right? I heard you got lost—what happened? Were you hurt? Where did you end up? Oh, it’s so good to see you!”  

Harry grinned, feeling warmth push away the lingering unease. “I’m fine. Really. Just—wrong fireplace.”  

Hermione gave him a look that said she wasn’t entirely convinced but let it go, falling into step beside him. “Come on, Ron and I were just about to meet you at the bank. The Alley’s absolutely packed today. There are new shops opening up near the apothecary, and the Quidditch store has some new releases Ron hasn’t stopped talking about.”  

Inside Gringotts, the cool, echoing halls swallowed the noise of the Alley. Goblins scurried behind tall counters, their clawed hands scribbling across ledgers, eyes flicking up to scrutinize customers with hawk-like precision. A goblin with an elaborate, jewel-studded collar led them through winding corridors to the first stop: the Weasley vault. Harry kept his eyes respectfully down, but curiosity tugged at him when the small door creaked open.  

His gut twisted at the sight inside: a pitiful pile of Sickles and a single Galleon glinting faintly in the torchlight. Molly scraped every last coin into her bag with brisk efficiency, her back straight and her chin high, as though daring anyone to pity her. Fred whispered something to George about “tight purse strings” and earned a glare from his mother sharp enough to cut steel. Percy, looking self-important, adjusted his prefect badge once again and loudly cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t noticed.  

The next cart ride brought them to Harry’s vault, and the contrast hit him like a Bludger. Mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins spilled from chests and glittered in the torchlight, the wealth almost overwhelming. Harry moved quickly, filling his money bag with practiced efficiency, hoping no one would notice. Heat crept up his neck at the thought of Ron or Hermione seeing the difference between his fortune and the Weasleys’ humble savings.  

The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping. Hermione darted between shops, rattling off her plans to buy ink and parchment while Ron kept pulling Harry toward the Quidditch displays. Percy was spotted in a dusty little shop, nose buried in a book titled Prefects Who Gained Power, ignoring the world around him while Fred and George loudly teased him from the doorway, mimicking his pompous voice until Molly barked at them to behave. The twins pooled their coins to buy a set of joke fireworks, cackling as they read the warnings on the box and plotting elaborate pranks. Ron dragged Harry to Quality Quidditch Supplies, his face pressed against the glass as he admired the latest Chudley Cannons robes, chattering about team rosters and broom upgrades. Harry promised himself he’d get Ron a set someday, even if Ron never asked. Ginny lingered quietly near a shop window, sneaking glances at Harry whenever she thought no one was looking, clutching her secondhand copy of The Standard Book of Spells to her chest. Molly fussed over the boys’ robes at Madam Malkin’s, muttering about hems and how fast they were growing while Hermione argued with the clerk at the stationery shop about the quality of different parchment types.  

They finished up most of their errands with an indulgent stop at Florean Fortescue’s. Harry insisted on treating Ron and Hermione to extravagant sundaes piled high with caramel, fudge, and mountains of whipped cream. They lingered there for a while, laughing between spoonfuls, watching the endless stream of shoppers drift by: parents herding first-years with new wands, witches comparing potion ingredient lists, and older students greeting friends after a long summer.  

The chatter from the Alley still carried through, full of the sounds of street vendors calling out their wares and the excited voices of Hogwarts students reunited for the first time in months. Harry leaned back in his chair, licking caramel from his spoon, and thought that despite the chaotic start, this might be one of the best days of the summer so far.  

As they left the shop, Molly gathered them up, pointing out the crowd gathered near Flourish and Blotts. “All right, everyone,” she called, herding them toward the bookshop’s front entrance. “We still need to get your schoolbooks. Let’s head there next.” The group began making their way down the cobblestone street, the bright Flourish and Blotts sign swinging above the sea of shoppers ahead, the promise of more shopping and bustle still ahead of them.  

Harry’s stomach twisted slightly as they approached; after Knockturn Alley, the thought of another crowded shop made him anxious, but he kept quiet, letting the noise of the Alley wash over him. Ron, walking beside him, grumbled about the booklists while Hermione prattled on about the excitement of new textbooks. It all blended into a comforting, familiar hum as they drew closer.  

The crowd outside Flourish and Blotts was suffocating.  

Harry had been in plenty of crowded spaces before, but this was different—an overwhelming crush of witches and wizards pressed shoulder to shoulder, their perfume and cologne mixing with the pungent smell of ink, polished wood, and freshly printed parchment. The air was thick with heat and chatter, rising like a wave that threatened to swallow him whole. He could barely see over the heads in front of him, feeling boxed in by elbows and cloaks.  

The noise was relentless—a chorus of impatient murmurs, sharp exclamations, and the occasional shriek of a Lockhart devotee. Children whined, parents scolded, and a hawker near the door shouted about discounted quills. Molly’s commanding voice—“Stay close!”—was the only tether Harry had in the chaos, cutting through the oppressive hum of the crowd.  

“Stay close!” Molly barked again, her voice sharp with the strain of holding the group together. She tightened her grip on Ginny’s arm as she bulldozed a path through the throng. Harry and Ron squeezed in behind her, Hermione on Harry’s other side, her list of schoolbooks clutched like a lifeline.  

Fred and George, of course, were taking their time, offering running commentary about the crowd. “Is that the witch who writes the cauldron maintenance column?” George quipped, earning a shove from Molly. Fred added, “Reckon she’s here for Lockhart or just for the free samples?” making Ron snort. Ginny stayed quiet, practically glued to her mother’s side, her knuckles white around her cauldron handle as the crowd jostled her.  

Inside, the air was even more claustrophobic. The smell of ink and parchment was stronger here, almost metallic, mixing with the floral perfume of a witch brushing past Harry’s shoulder. Books were stacked high on tables, towering displays leaning precariously over the crowd as though daring someone to knock them over.  

A makeshift stage had been set up at the front, where a banner read: Gilderoy Lockhart: Signing Today! A dazzlingly dressed man stood in the center of it all, his teeth shining brighter than the magical flashes from cameras. His aquamarine robes sparkled like crushed jewels in the light, making him look like a living ornament. Harry thought he looked ridiculous—like a gift someone would return immediately. Several witches near the front giggled and waved as Lockhart signed a book with a dramatic flourish.  

“Harry, my boy!” Lockhart’s magically amplified voice boomed across the shop. Before Harry could react, the man himself lunged forward, grabbing him by the arm with surprising strength. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Lockhart called, spinning Harry toward the crowd like a prize he’d just won. “Here he is—the one and only Harry Potter!”  

Gasps and excited chatter rippled through the shop as every head turned toward Harry. His face burned as Lockhart dragged him onto the stage, ignoring his protests. Someone in the back squealed, “Isn’t he precious?” Harry wanted to disappear. He caught Ron’s amused look—a mixture of disbelief and schadenfreude—and scowled, wishing Ron would at least pretend to sympathize.  

“Come now, don’t be shy!” Lockhart cooed, clamping a hand over Harry’s shoulder like a vice. “And what an honor it is for me to share this moment with our very own celebrity!” There was a blinding flash. Harry blinked against the light, feeling like a specimen under glass. He could feel the sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, his skin prickling under the weight of hundreds of eyes.  

“And—surprise!” Lockhart added, lifting a stack of books. “This year, I’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor!” The announcement sent a cheer through the crowd. Hermione squealed and clapped, nearly bouncing with excitement. Ron groaned, muttering, “Oh, great. Just great.”  

“Let’s get a photo for the Daily Prophet !” Lockhart said, yanking Harry closer for another blinding photograph. Harry’s stomach turned as the camera snapped. He hated every second of it and wondered if this was how he’d feel if he ever made the cover of a Chocolate Frog card—exposed, unreal, and completely out of his depth.  

From the edge of the crowd came a familiar, sneering voice. “Well, well. If it isn’t Potter.”  

Draco Malfoy stood with his arms crossed, smirking. “Enjoying the fame, Potter? Do you get a stage every time you go shopping, or is this a special treat?”  

Before Harry could retort, Ginny snapped, “Leave him alone!” Her cheeks burned, but her voice was clear. Harry blinked—he’d never heard her speak up like that before, and though embarrassment still prickled at him, he felt a flicker of gratitude.  

Draco’s smirk widened. “Oh, look, Potter’s little girlfriend has a voice. Does Harry know how much you write about him in that diary of yours? Or are you too busy buying secondhand trash?” He glanced at her battered books with disdain. Ron lunged forward, but Molly’s arm shot out, holding him back with surprising strength.  

“Malfoy.” Arthur Weasley’s low, dangerous voice cut through the noise. He stepped forward, fists curling.  

“Now, now,” Lucius Malfoy interrupted, gliding into view with his cane tapping against the floor. “No need for unpleasantness.” He reached into Ginny’s cauldron, plucking out her Transfiguration book and flipping it with disdain. “Ah, secondhand. A shame the Ministry doesn’t pay enough for you to afford better for your children.”  

“Put that back,” Arthur growled.  

“Careful, Arthur,” Lucius said silkily, his voice dripping with mock civility. “People might think you can’t control yourself.”  

Near Draco, Lyra stood silent, sharp-eyed. As Draco moved to step forward, she blocked him smoothly.  

“Draco, be quiet,” she said, voice calm but firm. Harry noted the protective edge—it was startlingly different from Draco’s usual bravado. It was the kind of tone Harry associated with McGonagall when she meant business, and it unsettled him.  

The tension snapped like a whip. Arthur lunged. He collided with Lucius, knocking into a shelf. Books crashed down in a deafening avalanche, people screamed, children cried. Molly yelled for everyone to get back, while Hermione yanked Ginny to safety. Fred and George flanked their father instinctively; Percy froze, pale and useless in the chaos.  

“Enough!” Hagrid’s roar shook the shop as he barreled forward, ripping the men apart as if they were misbehaving children. Lucius smoothed his robes, gave Arthur a cold, triumphant look, and turned away.  

“Come, Draco. Lyra.” He swept out, Draco trailing behind with a scowl. Lyra followed, shielding Draco from the jostling crowd, her calm demeanor unshaken despite the commotion.  

Whispers erupted as the Malfoys disappeared. Harry clutched Lockhart’s books, wishing he could vanish. Molly fussed over Ginny, checking her hands and face. Ron cursed under his breath, his ears scarlet. Hermione, still glowing over Lockhart’s announcement, seemed oblivious to the lingering tension. Fred and George exchanged vengeful looks that promised payback. Percy adjusted his badge like that would erase what had just happened. The shopkeeper muttered about “rowdy customers” as he began picking up fallen books, the crowd still buzzing with gossip about the brawl they’d witnessed.  

Molly was still fuming as they exited the shop, her face blotchy with anger and her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Brawling like a Muggle in the middle of a bookshop!” she scolded Arthur, her tone growing shriller as she went on. “In front of the children, Arthur! Do you know what people will say? The Prophet will have a field day, and for what? So you could punch Lucius Malfoy in front of a crowd?”  

Arthur trudged silently behind her, his ears as red as Ron’s and his jaw clenched. He kept his eyes down, muttering under his breath about “arrogant Pure-bloods.” Molly wasn’t having it. “Don’t you mumble at me,” she snapped, rounding on him. “You are supposed to set an example!”  

Fred snorted, breaking the tension. “They’ll say Dad flattened Lucius Malfoy. Lockhart will probably write a chapter about it in his next book. ‘Gilderoy Lockhart and the Heroic Bookshop Brawl.’ Might even sign copies at the scene of the crime.”  

“Not funny,” Molly snapped, though the twitch at her lips betrayed her. George chimed in, “Think Lockhart got our good side in those photos? He’s probably sending one to Witch Weekly as we speak.” Even Percy, stiff and self-important, couldn’t entirely hide his discomfort, muttering about how “completely inappropriate” the whole thing had been.  

By the time they reached the Leaky Cauldron, the group was exhausted and tense. Molly immediately began double-checking parcels, fussing over Ginny’s schoolbooks and adjusting Ron’s robes while the twins continued to tease Percy about “standing frozen like a statue” during the fight. Percy’s haughty denials only fueled their laughter. Arthur mumbled a goodbye to the Grangers, who were chatting warmly with Hermione about their first visit to Diagon Alley, their arms laden with bags of books and supplies.  

Harry stood quietly by the hearth, clutching his own parcels and trying to process everything. The day felt like a blur in his mind—Lockhart’s suffocating grip and blinding smile, Lucius Malfoy’s sneering insults, Arthur’s sudden rage, and the crash of falling books as the shop erupted into chaos. He thought of Ginny standing up to Draco, of Lyra shielding him in that oddly protective way, and of Hagrid’s massive form breaking apart the fight with ease. All of it buzzed in his mind, loud and jumbled.  

Yet through it all, one thought rose to the surface: the Burrow. Its warmth. Its safety. He thought of the crooked house with its mismatched furniture, the smells of Molly’s cooking, and the clamor of the Weasleys filling every corner. It wasn’t just a house—it was the only place that had ever felt like home.  

“Go on, dear,” Molly said, softening as she pressed a pinch of Floo powder into his hand. “Straight to the Burrow.” Her voice, still tinged with lingering anger, held an undercurrent of maternal concern that made Harry’s chest tighten.  

Harry stepped into the fireplace, the chatter of the Leaky Cauldron fading around him. He tossed down the powder. “The Burrow!” he called. Green flames roared up around him, swallowing the pub whole. As he spun through the Floo network, his stomach swooping and his vision blurring, Harry let the chaos of Diagon Alley melt away. He held on to the thought of the Burrow—not just a house, but a refuge, a place where, for a little while, he could belong.  

Chapter Text

The morning light crept gently through the tall windows of Lyra’s room, spilling over the patterned rug and catching on the gilded edges of the heavy furniture. She sat propped against her pillows, staring at the ceiling, awake far too early for her liking.  

The manor was quiet—eerily so, though it always was in the mornings. No clatter of breakfast dishes, no echo of Draco’s smug voice carrying down the marble corridors. Just silence. It felt comforting and suffocating all at once, like being wrapped in a blanket she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted.  

Her last day here before Hogwarts. Her last day of summer freedom. She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. Ready or not. The words repeated like a mantra. She thought of the trial 3 weeks ago, how Malfoy Manor had been a fortress against the eyes and whispers of the wizarding world.  

Lucius’s deliberate, calming words had been armor she didn’t ask for but desperately needed. Narcissa had been soft, steady—quiet reassurance in human form. Draco had distracted her with Quidditch stats and ridiculous gossip, pulling her out of her head more than he’d ever know. It hadn’t been a perfect summer, but at least it had been safe. And in its own strange way, it had felt like a family.  

A sharp tap at the window snapped her from her thoughts. “Altair?” she muttered, already smiling as she swung her legs off the bed. Her owl swooped in, glossy black wings catching the sunlight, a parcel clutched tightly in his talons.  

“You’re early,” she said softly, reaching for him. Altair landed on her bed and dropped the package with the elegance of a practiced courier before nipping at her fingers. “Fine, fine—you’ve done your job,” Lyra chuckled under her breath. “Show-off.”  

Altair puffed his grey feathers, clearly pleased, and hopped to his perch by the wardrobe, busying himself with preening as though he’d just flown a heroic quest. “Who’s it from, then? Hmm?” she asked him, knowing full well she wouldn’t get an answer. He blinked lazily at her, utterly unbothered by the mystery he’d just delivered.  

The package was simple—plain brown paper, tied with string. No seal or elaborate calligraphy. Definitely not Gemma or any of her other friends. Lyra frowned, tugged at the string, and felt a small slip of paper brush her fingers. A note.  

For a Keeper.  

When I played Seeker, I needed new gloves constantly. You should have something new for your final year.  

She stared. No signature. The handwriting was neat—practiced, careful. Unfamiliar. Lyra turned it over, checking for any mark. Nothing. “Who…?” she said aloud, glancing at Altair again. He hooted lazily, completely uninterested in her discovery.  

Her first thought was Terrence, but this wasn’t his style. She tried to recall other Seekers she knew—there were a few from the other houses she’d faced on the pitch, and some from friendly scrimmages over the years. Maybe one of the Ravenclaw Seekers? Or one of the older Slytherin graduates who still kept in touch? The handwriting didn’t spark recognition, but the mention of playing Seeker nagged at her. Whoever it was, they knew the sport and knew her well enough to send something this personal.  

Setting the note aside, Lyra carefully peeled away the paper. Inside lay a pair of Quidditch gloves—sleek, high-quality dragon-hide, dyed a deep forest green. She inhaled sharply. They were perfect. The leather was stiff but already felt like it would mold to her hands with use. Someone had known her size. Someone had chosen them for her with care.  

Sliding one on, she flexed her fingers, feeling the material give slightly. Better than last season’s gloves. Better than—her stomach twisted—the ones Graham had given her. That thought came unbidden, bringing with it the memory of his hand over hers, adjusting the fit like she couldn’t do it herself, his low, possessive voice in her ear. Lyra ripped the glove off quickly, shoving that memory back into its box. It lingered anyway, a ghost she couldn’t shake.  

“Who are you?” she muttered to the note. Her reflection in the mirror stared back—disheveled hair, oversized nightshirt slipping off one shoulder, expensive gloves in her hand. An anonymous kindness. It felt too personal, like someone had seen a piece of her she didn’t show anyone. It left her uneasy and oddly warm at the same time.  

Altair hooted again. “Not helping,” she said dryly, scratching his feathers again for comfort.  

She folded the note, hesitating, then slipped it into her desk drawer. Not keeping it. Just… not throwing it away yet. The gloves stayed on the bed, new and strange, while she traced the stitching absentmindedly, committing every detail to memory. She imagined wearing them at practice, the team noticing, maybe even asking about them. Would she tell them? Probably not. But the thought of someone—anyone—caring enough to send them made her chest ache.  

Tomorrow, they’d be part of her armor, just another piece of her captain’s kit. Today, though—they were a mystery. A question she wasn’t ready to answer. Maybe didn’t want to.  

She exhaled and turned to the window. August sunlight washed over the Malfoy gardens, perfectly trimmed and deceptively peaceful. Somewhere, Draco’s voice echoed faintly across the grounds. She imagined him showing off on his broom again, maybe waiting for her to join. Tomorrow, she’d leave for Hogwarts—new gloves, old scars, and questions she wasn’t sure she wanted solved. Her hand brushed the gloves once more, lingering. “Guess we’ll see,” she murmured to no one in particular, her voice low but steady, as though saying it aloud might make the year ahead easier to face.  

She sat there a long while, the house still quiet, before finally forcing herself up. Today wasn’t just her last day of summer—it was the last day before everything changed again. She wondered, fleetingly, if Hogwarts would feel as much like home as this place did now.  

Lyra sat on her bed, the new gloves resting neatly back in their wrapping on her nightstand, the old gloves Graham had given her lying heavy in her lap.  

She stared at them for what felt like an eternity, jaw clenched, the weight of their history pressing down on her shoulders. They weren’t just gloves—they were remnants of chains, threads connecting her to someone she desperately wanted cut from her life completely. They carried the ghost of every moment she had felt small, every moment she had convinced herself she owed him for his "kindness."  

She wondered why she had let them stay in her possession for so long, why she had kept them when every time she looked at them, she felt that awful twist in her stomach. Was it guilt? Fear? Or worse—an unwillingness to face the memories stitched into them? She shook her head, as though she could shake the questions out of her mind.  

She needed to do this. And she needed to do it now.  

Lyra pulled out her quill knife, the familiar blade glinting in the soft light of her room. At first, she worked with cold precision—sliding the blade carefully under the seams, snipping the threads one by one. The motion was slow, deliberate, methodical. Her focus narrowed to the way the blade glided along the stitching, to the satisfying pop of each severed thread. She counted in her head—one, two, three—falling into a rhythm that felt almost calming. It was like she could pretend this was just a task, impersonal and detached. Just another chore.  

But that illusion crumbled quickly. The sound of threads snapping grew louder, sharper, echoing in her skull like a whip crack. Her chest tightened, and the gloves suddenly felt too heavy with memory, too saturated with his voice, his touch, his control. Her motions grew rougher, her grip white-knuckled. She pulled harder, tearing instead of cutting. The delicate work gave way to frantic destruction. Her breathing grew shallow, uneven, until each rip felt like it was dragging pieces of him out of her skin.  

A choked sound escaped her throat—half laugh, half sob—as she realized how much hatred and grief she had sewn into these gloves by keeping them. It wasn’t just about destroying them. It was about purging herself of everything they represented. They weren’t just leather and thread—they were a physical reminder of his hold on her, and she was finally severing it.  

Flashes came unbidden—Graham’s voice, low and commanding, telling her how to hold her broom. His hand over hers, adjusting her grip like she just started flying—instead learning to fly years before Hogwarts, just as he had. The quiet, suffocating pressure that had clung to every one of his so-called gifts. Every cut became an act of rebellion. Every rip, a reclamation. It wasn’t careful anymore. It wasn’t neat. She wasn’t dismantling the gloves—she was annihilating them.  

The pieces scattered like fragments of a life she refused to carry into her final year. Her hands shook, a mixture of anger and grief spilling out with every movement. She paused only to wipe her damp palms on her blanket before resuming, cutting and tearing until there was nothing left to recognize.  

By the time she stopped, the dragonhide was unrecognizable, reduced to shredded fragments. Her hands trembled as she gathered them up, the ruined pieces slick with sweat from her palms. She stared at them for a moment, considering what she was about to do, and then rose slowly, crossing to the fireplace. Each step felt heavy, but deliberate.  

Kneeling, she tossed the remnants into the flames and watched silently as they curled and blackened, disintegrating into ash. The smell of burning leather filled the room, acrid and final, clinging to her hair and clothes. She stayed there, crouched by the fire, for what felt like hours, staring as if the flames could erase not just the gloves, but everything tied to them—every moment, every scar, every lingering hold he had over her. She could almost hear the echo of his voice in the crackle of the flames, but for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like closure.  

Her mind replayed every cut, every tear, as though trying to process the symbolic violence she had inflicted. Only when the flames died down did she lean back on her heels, exhaling shakily. The room was quiet again, but it felt different—emptier, lighter, as though she’d cut away a part of herself that had been festering too long. A part she no longer needed. A part she refused to take with her into the next chapter of her life.  

Her muscles ached, her hands sore from gripping the knife so tightly, but she felt like she could finally breathe. Her gaze drifted to the new gloves on the nightstand, they looked impossibly clean against the backdrop of destruction—a promise of something untainted. Something hers.  

They felt like a doorway—an invitation to start over. She felt like she had taken something back, and for a brief, fragile moment, she let herself believe she could. She pictured herself on the pitch, the leather molding to her grip, the cheers from the stands blending into background noise as she flew. Not as Graham’s, not as anyone’s—just Lyra. Finally, just Lyra.  

A knock at her door broke the stillness. Lyra blinked, startled, her eyes dragging away from the smoldering ashes in the fireplace.  

“Lyra, darling,” came Narcissa’s voice, smooth and polite even through the wood. “We’ll be in the gardens this morning. Don’t keep us waiting.”  

Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, grounding herself with a slow breath before answering. “I’ll be down in a minute, Aunt Cissy.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.  

She turned toward her wardrobe, pulling out a pair of black pants she’d found on sale at Madam Malkin’s during their recent Diagon Alley trip. The memory of the chaos at Flourish and Blotts flickered in her mind—Lucius’ drawl, Arthur Weasley’s fury, the embarrassing spectacle of it all—and she shook it off quickly. She grabbed a dark blue top next, the deep shade reminding her sharply of the navy in the tartan ribbon Charity always wore in her hair. With deliberate movements, she dressed for the day, gathering her composure with a quiet inhale. Then she turned and left her room, forcing herself to leave behind the heaviness of the morning. She walked down the grand staircase, her footsteps echoing against the marble as she crossed the long hallway lined with ancestral portraits. The cool air of the manor gave way to the gentle warmth spilling in from the garden doors, and she pushed them open, stepping onto the stone pathway that led to the vast, sunlit grounds.  

The gardens of Malfoy Manor stretched out in front of her, meticulously pruned hedges framing the wide, emerald expanse of lawn. The summer air was warm but pleasant, humming faintly with the sound of magical insects hidden among the blooms. Sunlight glinted off the ornate fountains, scattering patterns of light across the pathways as if the entire place were enchanted to look as idyllic as possible. The scent of roses, hydrangeas, and freshly cut grass filled the air, calming in a way that felt unfamiliar to her nerves. Every inch of the gardens seemed designed to project elegance and control, yet today they felt unusually alive. It was the kind of day that almost made her forget the weight she carried.  

Draco was already outside, his Nimbus 2001 gleaming under the late-morning sun as he kicked off from the ground. “Watch this, Lyra!” he called, zooming upward with practiced flair. He looped lazily through the air, his white-blond hair catching the sunlight as if he had choreographed it that way. He leaned forward on the broom, executing a tight spiral before shooting toward the far hedges, showing off at every opportunity.  

“Your posture is atrocious,” Lyra called back, shielding her eyes as she watched him twist into another loop. “And that turn was sloppy. You’re telegraphing your moves a mile away.”  

Draco groaned dramatically midair. “You’re insufferable. Can’t you just let me have this? It’s called ‘praise,’ you might try it sometime.”  

“Not if you’re flying like a first-year,” she said with a smirk, folding her arms.  

He swooped lower, feigning indignation. “You’re just bitter I finally have a broom that can keep up with you.”  

“Keep up with me? Draco, you can barely keep up with your own ego,” she shot back, smirking wider as his scowl deepened. “And don’t forget, I’ve got the same broom—you don’t get to use that as an excuse.”  

“Oh, hilarious,” Draco muttered, pulling his broom into a steep climb. “Just wait until Quidditch season. Then we’ll see who’s keeping up with who.”  

“Promises, promises,” she said, her tone light.  

He banked suddenly and called, “You could always come fly with me instead of standing there criticizing. Unless you’re afraid I’ll outpace you.”  

Lyra rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small grin. “Keep dreaming, Draco.”  

“Coward,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.  

On a bench nearby, Narcissa sat in quiet elegance, a vision in pale silks that mirrored the lilies in bloom behind her. Her delicate hands rested on her lap as she watched the exchange with serene amusement. Even sitting still, she carried herself with a poise that made Lyra instinctively straighten her posture. A teacup sat perfectly balanced in one hand, untouched, its steam curling into the warm air.  

“You know, Draco,” Narcissa interjected in her soft, cutting way, “you could take the criticism as an opportunity to improve instead of as a personal attack.”  

Draco sighed dramatically and turned his broom back toward the open lawn. “Yes, Mother,” he muttered, his tone full of teenage resignation.  

“And you, Lyra,” Narcissa added, her cool blue eyes flicking toward her niece. “Don’t crush his spirits entirely. Save it for the pitch.”  

Lyra bit back a laugh, nodding with exaggerated formality. “Yes, Aunt Cissy.”  

The banter continued after that, easy and warm. Lyra moved closer to the bench, the sun warming her shoulders as she let herself relax for the first time that morning. Narcissa offered her a small cup of tea—of course there was tea, waiting on a silver tray—and Lyra took it, the fragrant steam curling around her face. She sat next to her aunt, taking in the manicured view of the estate with an odd sense of detachment, feeling like a guest and family all at once.  

Draco continued his maneuvers, alternately boasting and complaining as Lyra shouted pointed critiques, each earning a groan or an eye roll. Occasionally, he’d land just long enough to adjust his gloves or smooth his hair before shooting off again with a new trick to impress them.  

At one point, Narcissa leaned toward her slightly. “You’re quieter than usual today,” she said softly, almost like a statement more than a question.  

Lyra hesitated, shrugging. “Just thinking,” she replied, because explaining the truth felt like too much.  

“About tomorrow?” Narcissa’s voice was gentle, almost coaxing.  

“Something like that,” Lyra admitted, staring into her tea. Narcissa didn’t press further, but the knowing glance she gave Lyra made her feel seen in a way that was both unsettling and comforting. For a moment, it felt like Narcissa wanted to say more—something reassuring—but chose not to.  

Draco swooped low again, cutting between the hedges. “Come on, Lyra! At least do one lap with me,” he shouted. “Don’t make me brag about my speed without you to prove me right.”  

“Later,” Lyra called back, smirking faintly.  

Draco grinned and spun his broom in a tight corkscrew before shooting higher, clearly trying to show off. “You’re just jealous you’ll never match my form,” he yelled, and Lyra rolled her eyes, but the banter was comforting in its familiarity.  

For a brief, fleeting moment, Malfoy Manor felt like something it rarely did—home. Not a fortress, not a cage. Just a place where the three of them could exist together. A family, however unconventional. And for that one morning, it was enough. Lyra let herself breathe it in, knowing how fleeting moments like this always were, silently wishing she could bottle the feeling to take with her back to Hogwarts.  

--------------------------------------  

Dinner that evening was held in the grand dining room, the long polished table reflecting the soft golden glow of the enchanted chandeliers above. The ornate candelabras cast dancing shadows across the walls, where portraits of stern-faced Malfoy ancestors observed them with silent judgment, their eyes seeming to follow every movement. It was as if they were silently appraising every word spoken at the table, every small gesture made by those seated beneath them.  

Silverware gleamed against fine china, the table set with Narcissa’s usual effortless precision, every napkin folded to perfection, every glass placed exactly so. The air smelled faintly of roasted pheasant, warm bread, and freshly chopped herbs, the comforting scents at odds with the room’s cold grandeur. The faint hum of enchanted music drifted through the air, polite and restrained, filling the silences between voices. Lyra felt small beneath the weight of the room, like an actor playing a role she hadn’t rehearsed for.  

Lucius sat at the head of the table, a glass of deep red wine in hand, his expression cool and distant. Every movement he made was deliberate, his posture impeccable, like a man performing for an audience only he could see.  

“Arthur Weasley,” he began, his tone dripping with disdain, “continues to push that pathetic little bill of his. A disgrace to the Ministry, truly. And yet they humor him. As if such pandering will ever bring real results. It’s embarrassing, really. How such incompetence manages to thrive is beyond me. The entire situation undermines the very structure of our world.”  

Lyra kept her gaze on her plate, letting his words wash over her like background noise. She moved food around idly with her fork, not really tasting any of it. A few weeks ago Graham and his father were on trial. Now I’m sitting here, eating dinner like nothing happened. The thought pressed against her ribs, making every bite heavier than it should be. It was strange, sitting here in the quiet civility of the Malfoy dining room, knowing the kind of chaos that had unfolded so recently.  

Her eyes flicked up briefly to Narcissa, who sat with perfect poise, wearing a serene expression even as her husband ranted. Only the faintest furrow in her brow betrayed her effort to manage him without confrontation.  

“Incompetence at every level,” Lucius continued, his voice growing sharper as he dissected the Ministry. “Though I will say Cornelius Fudge has at least shown some measure of prudence. He knows which voices to listen to, but he surrounds himself with too many fools. The current administration is a farce, propped up by pandering to the lowest minds. It’s no wonder the wizarding world is in such disarray when those in power care more about appearances than proper governance.”  

Narcissa sipped her wine, finally interjecting softly, “And yet, perhaps the dining room is not the place for such speeches.” Her tone was firm, even as it remained gentle.  

He didn’t pause. “If there were any true leadership left, they’d be ashamed of what they’ve allowed.” His lip curled as he spoke, clearly relishing the weight of his own words.  

Draco, unfazed, jumped in as Lucius took a breath. “You know, Lockhart’s definitely going to make this year interesting as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” he said with a smirk. “If his book signings were anything to go by, I can only imagine how much of a spectacle he’ll make of himself once term starts.”  

“That would be quite the feat,” Narcissa replied smoothly, her tone light but pointed. She set her wine down and added, “Speaking of eccentric men, perhaps we can spare the dinner table the details of the Ministry’s failures for another evening, Lucius. I’m sure the children would rather not spend the night hearing about Arthur Weasley.”  

Lucius’s expression cooled, his jaw tightening. He swirled his wine slowly, leaning back in his chair as if conceding—for now. But Lyra knew better. He never really let things go. What happened with the Montagues being the most recent example, the second Lucius had learned the truth, they were done for.  

The conversation shifted, guided by Narcissa’s hand, toward safer topics. Draco eagerly launched into more stories about Quidditch and classmates, and Narcissa steered things with well-placed questions, bringing up Hogwarts preparations, Christmas plans—despite it being months away, and upcoming events in polite society that Lyra and Draco will luckily not have to attend. Even Lucius, though mostly quiet, occasionally added his sharp commentary when the subjects veered toward people he considered worth his attention.  

“Have you been practicing as much as you should, Lyra?” Narcissa asked, glancing at her with that calm but expectant look.  

Lyra nodded. “Every chance I get. I’ll be ready for the season.”  

Draco scoffed playfully. “She’s probably hiding her new plays from me. Afraid I’ll outfly her this year.”  

Lyra gave him a faint smirk. “You’ll need more than gossip to catch up with me, Draco.”  

Draco rolled his eyes but grinned, leaning back with the ease of someone who enjoyed their sparring.  

For a moment, Lyra allowed herself to lean into the rhythm of their voices, into the fragile illusion of peace at this table. She answered Narcissa’s questions politely and listened to Draco’s antics, but her thoughts kept drifting back—to the trial, to the Ministry, to the weight of everything unsaid.  

She felt like an observer in her own life, perched at the table like a guest, surrounded by a family that wasn’t hers and yet, in some ways, was. Hogwarts awaited but maybe, away from these walls and their heavy expectations, she could start to find herself again.  

After dinner, Lyra slipped quietly out of the dining room, her footsteps hushed against the marble floors. The manor felt even larger at night, every shadow deepened and every creak magnified as she made her way to the side entrance.  

Narcissa didn’t stop her—she never did when Lyra needed air—and the house-elves averted their eyes as she passed, melting into the walls as if they understood her desire for solitude. The soft click of the heavy door behind her was like a release, shutting away the suffocating grandeur of Malfoy Manor.  

Outside, the air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth, distant rain, and the fading perfume of the garden’s late blooms. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of it as she started the walk toward Salisbury. It was a familiar path by now, one she had memorized after so many visits, but tonight it felt different—final, in a way.  

She knew this would be her last trip before term started—and Charity’s as well. That thought made her chest feel tight.  

When she reached the Wild Hare, the little pub that had become their usual meeting spot, she spotted Charity waiting just outside. The soft glow of the pub’s lantern caught in her blonde hair, giving her an almost ethereal appearance in the twilight.  

“You made it,” Charity said, her voice soft but laced with warmth.  

“Of course,” Lyra replied, adjusting her cloak. “Wouldn’t miss it.”  

“Good,” Charity teased. “For a moment I thought one of those endless dinners had swallowed you whole.”  

Lyra smirked. “Please. I’m far too resourceful to let myself get trapped in small talk that long. Though I think I deserve a medal for surviving as much of it as I did.”  

They went inside the pub together, the comforting scent of woodsmoke and old ale wrapping around them. The Wild Hare was cozy, lit by flickering lanterns and full of the low hum of casual conversation. Charity led the way to a quiet corner booth, brushing Lyra’s hand as they walked.  

“This might be our last time here for a while,” Charity said once they’d settled, her tone lighter than her eyes.  

Lyra gave her a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll have to make it count.”  

They ordered cider and, once the mugs were in front of them, the conversation came easily.  

“So,” Charity began, wrapping her hands around the mug, “did you actually do anything fun this summer? Or was it all endless dinners and… whatever else you do?”  

Lyra smirked. “Mostly enduring endless dinners. Though I did get some Quid—some reading in. It wasn’t all terrible.”  

Charity tilted her head with a slight smile. “That sounded like you were about to say something else.”  

Lyra shrugged. “It’s a talent of mine—sounding mysterious.”  

Charity laughed, shaking her head. “You’re terrible at talking about yourself, you know that?”  

“That’s by design,” Lyra replied dryly, earning an eye roll.  

They talked about the books they’d been meaning to recommend each other, traded small bits of Salisbury gossip, and laughed about the eccentric locals. Charity told a story about a farmer who’d come into the pub swearing he’d seen lights over the moors, and Lyra pretended to take it seriously just to make Charity laugh harder.  

Time stretched easily between them, and they stayed there longer than usual, picking at every topic, reluctant to let the night slip away.  

They lingered at the pub long after most of the tables had emptied, talking and laughing, sipping at the last of their ciders. At one point Charity glanced at the clock on the wall and smirked. “It’s past midnight. You should probably get going before you turn into a pumpkin.”  

Lyra snorted. “Still with the Cinderella jokes? You really don’t get tired of that one,” she said, shaking her head, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward.  

Charity grinned, leaning back in the booth. “What can I say? It suits you. You have that whole mysterious-until-midnight thing going on.”  

“Sure,” Lyra replied, rolling her eyes. “That must be it.”  

Charity laughed softly, then nudged her arm. “Go on, finish your drink. You’ll thank me when you’re not trudging home half-asleep.”  

Lyra lingered a little longer, sipping the last of her cider slowly, not quite ready to leave. But eventually, she slid out of the booth, and Charity walked her to the door. They paused under the pub’s lantern glow, holding onto each other’s hands for a moment that felt too short.  

With a final squeeze of Charity’s hand, she stepped out into the warm August night and started the walk back to the manor. The air was still heavy with the day’s heat, carrying the faint scent of grass and lingering woodsmoke from the pub.  

The walk back was dark and quiet like usual. Only the faint moonlight guided her steps as the fields and hedgerows closed in around her, the stillness of the night broken only by the occasional rustle of unseen animals. It was a path she could follow blindfolded by now, and yet tonight every turn felt heavier, as if each step pulled her further away from the comfort of the evening she’d just left behind.  

Back at the manor, Lyra slipped quietly through the front doors, the silence of the vast hall greeting her like an old, watchful ghost. The marble beneath her feet was cool, and the faint scent of polished wood, candle smoke, and something faintly floral clung to the air. She didn’t bother with the lights—she knew the path well enough—and padded up the stairs to her room, careful not to wake anyone.  

Every creak of the floorboards seemed amplified, each echo a reminder of how little time she had left before morning came. She passed the portraits of solemn faces on the wall, feeling their eyes on her even in the darkness, silently judging or maybe just watching. By the time she made it to her room she was sick of the feeling of always being watched, people were always waiting for her to snap, and it seemed the portraits were the same as everyone else.  

Her trunk sat open at the foot of her bed, a scatter of belongings still waiting to be organized. She crouched down and began double-checking everything with deliberate care, dragging out the process.  

Her meticulously written NEWT notes were stacked neatly in their folders, corners sharp, parchment soft from endless handling. She flipped through them aimlessly, pausing at pages where her own margin notes reminded her of hours hunched over parchment. Her well-worn Quidditch gear sat packed and polished, each piece carefully arranged as though placement itself might give her control over the season to come. She checked her broom maintenance kit twice, making sure every brush and bottle of polish was in its proper place.  

Her fingers hovered over her journal, tucked in the top drawer of her nightstand. She pulled it out, flipping through the pages filled with sketches, some half-finished, others more detailed. Her eyes lingered on a new drawing of Charity she had done the other night after a vivid nightmare—soft lines capturing her expression mid-laugh. Lyra’s throat tightened. She tucked the journal carefully on top of her clothes, as if moving it last made it safer.  

Finally, her hand hovered over the new gloves now tucked neatly into her kit, their leather smooth and untouched. She lingered there, brushing her thumb over the stitching, imagining them broken in after a season of flying. They didn’t feel like Graham’s. They felt like hers—unclaimed by anyone else’s shadow, ready to carry her into something new.  

She spent longer than she needed, rearranging a quill here, straightening a stack there, refolding a set of robes she’d already folded twice. At one point, she sat back on her heels and just stared at everything, letting her thoughts wander. This wasn’t just about packing—it felt like preparing armor.  

When she was finally satisfied, she set the trunk aside and changed into her nightclothes. The quiet creak of the bed frame greeted her as she sank into the mattress, the familiar fabric of her sheets cool against her skin, her body sinking into the space that had always been her refuge.  

Her mind wouldn’t still. Thoughts of the year ahead swirled—her final one at Hogwarts. The looming NEWTs, the responsibility of her House, the suffocating question of what came next when the safety of school walls was gone. It all felt enormous, threatening to swallow her, yet beneath that dread, there was something else—an ember of hope, fragile but alive. Maybe this year could be different. Maybe she could be different. Maybe she could finally set down the weight of her name.  

Her gaze shifted toward the corner of her room where the faint smell of burnt leather still lingered, clinging stubbornly to the air. It reminded her of the gloves she’d destroyed earlier, and the act of it—the careful cutting at first, then the tearing—felt like more than anger. It had been an unspoken ritual, a shedding of weight she didn’t want to carry anymore. Heavy and freeing all at once.  

She thought briefly of Charity, of the warmth of her hand at the Wild Hare, of the easy comfort that made her feel lighter than she had in months. The thought of leaving that behind tightened something in her chest, though it softened just as quickly into gratitude that she’d had it at all.  

She exhaled slowly and closed her eyes, holding onto that feeling of release as tightly as she could. Her thoughts drifted toward the Quidditch pitch, the echo of cheers, the smell of parchment and ink, and the faint memory of Charity’s laugh, all tangled together in her mind. Eventually, exhaustion won out.  

Her eyes drifted shut, and with the mingled scents of parchment, leather, and faint smoke surrounding her, Lyra let herself sink into sleep. In the haze of dreams, she saw flashes—green fields stretching endlessly, crowded Hogwarts corridors filled with the hum of voices, her fingers tightening on broom handles in the wind, Charity’s voice somewhere in the distance, the roaring crowd of a Quidditch match, the quiet hum of the library, the echo of a future conversation she couldn’t yet make out. She saw herself standing at the edge of a cliff, wind whipping through her short hair, staring out at a horizon she couldn’t yet reach—and somewhere beyond it all, the shadow of what came next waiting patiently for her.  

Her last conscious thought before sleep claimed her was of Charity—her laugh, her hand in hers, the way she made the world feel less heavy—and Lyra held onto that like a promise. If tomorrow was coming for her, she’d meet it head-on, but tonight, she let herself keep this one thing: the memory of someone who made her feel human.  

Chapter Text

Lyra woke before dawn, her eyes snapping open to the dim, pale light creeping in around the edges of her curtains.  

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She lay there on her back, staring at the ornate plaster ceiling, listening to the quiet groan of the old manor settling into the morning. It was the kind of silence that pressed on you, heavy and watchful. She didn’t like it. It made her feel like the house knew she was leaving—and that it wasn’t ready to let her go.  

Her chest ached in that strange, restless way it did when she couldn’t decide if she was nervous or just… ready. Hogwarts. Her last year. She let the word last roll around in her head until it started to feel too big, too heavy to hold. Exams, Quidditch, the uncertain world after graduation—all of it twisted together into something she couldn’t quite name. She thought about Charity, about the strange way the summer had ended, and felt that same complicated knot of emotions pressing in her chest.  

With a frustrated sigh, she shoved herself upright before she could think too much about it, pushing the blankets aside and swinging her legs out of bed. She lingered for a moment on the edge of her mattress, elbows on her knees, rubbing her face like it could erase the weight of what today meant.  

Her room was immaculate, as usual. Her trunk sat closed and ready at the foot of her bed, Narcissa would have approved—she had made sure of it the night before. Still, Lyra crouched beside the trunk and opened it again, running through her mental checklist one last time, fingertips brushing over the familiar edges of her life—her books, the careful notes she’d filled with hours of study, her favorite sweater folded at the bottom.  

A soft knock on the door broke her focus.  

“Come in,” she called, already knowing who it was.  

Narcissa stepped in, elegant even at this hour, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Good morning, darling,” she said softly, her tone carrying a rare warmth as she swept her sharp eyes around the room, taking in the neat bed, the closed trunk, the stack of folders on the desk. “You’re packed?”  

“Almost,” Lyra said, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her hands.  

Narcissa moved closer, adjusting the collar of Lyra’s shirt as if she couldn’t help herself. The gesture was familiar, grounding, one of the few that reminded Lyra of softer days.  

“You’ve grown this summer,” Narcissa said quietly, her gaze soft in a way Lyra rarely saw. “Hold your head high. Promise me you won’t let anyone make you feel smaller than you are. Not this year. I want you to walk in there knowing your worth, Lyra.”  

Lyra met her eyes but didn’t answer. She didn’t need to—Narcissa would understand anyway. Instead, she gave a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the words and the care behind them, letting the moment stretch between them in a way that felt almost like a promise.   

Downstairs, Draco was making a scene over his packing, loudly insisting that he didn’t need help from anyone while simultaneously whining about his missing tie. Lyra smirked as she passed him, earning a dramatic scowl in return. It was almost comforting, his predictability, grounding her in a morning that felt otherwise like a turning point. She couldn’t help but think of how different this year would be for both of them—his as a second-year, hers as someone who had to really start thinking about the future beyond Hogwarts, more than just reading books and those career counseling with Severus.  

Lucius wasn’t at the manor this morning. “Already at the Ministry,” Narcissa said when Lyra glanced at the empty spot by the fireplace. Lyra only nodded, a quiet relief settling in her stomach that she didn’t care to examine. It was her last year and he couldn't even escort her and draco to the train. After everything this summer, she thought he might actually start to act like he cared for more than just his optics, but here she is, once again nothing more than his niece who just so happens to live in his manor, nothing more than a pest he has to take care of.  

When the trunks were finally ready and Draco had finally pulled his head out of his ass long enough to realize they were running late, Narcissa ushered them toward the door.  

Leaving felt like saying goodbye to a place that had never really felt like home but had shaped her all the same. And as the heavy doors closed behind her, Lyra wondered, for the first time in a long while, whether she’d be ready to come back when the year was over—or if she’d ever want to.  

-----------------------------------  

King’s Cross was always loud, but somehow this morning it felt louder.  

The echo of hurried footsteps and the din of countless voices swirled together, an overwhelming contrast to the hushed stillness of the manor. Lyra clutched the handle of her trolley as Narcissa glided ahead, her calm, composed presence parting the crowd as if chaos itself knew better than to get in her way. Draco followed close by her side, his posture stiff and chin tilted upward like he was preparing to look down on everyone else.  

Every so often, Narcissa glanced over her shoulder to make sure Lyra was keeping up, and Lyra couldn’t help but think how strange it was to be comforted by such a small, simple gesture. She wondered if she’d ever be able to carry herself the way Narcissa did—commanding space without asking for it.  

Lyra lagged a step behind, letting the hum of the station wash over her. It smelled like metal and coffee, warm pastries and too many bodies crammed together. Muggle parents bent down to adjust their children’s coats, their voices filled with hurried affection. Wizards and witches moved briskly, their trunks clattering on the tile floor, owls hooting irritably from their cages. A baby cried somewhere nearby. An old witch barked at her grandson to mind the cat carrier he was about to drop. Two older wizards were locked in an animated discussion near the benches, gesturing wildly with newspapers clutched in hand.  

Her gaze caught snippets of Hogwarts students scattered throughout the crowd—first-years with wide, apprehensive eyes, and seasoned upper-years in worn robes who looked utterly at ease. She found herself scanning for familiar faces and felt a pang of recognition when she spotted a few classmates rushing past. Her eyes lingered on one girl balancing a lopsided stack of books taller than her head, and she felt an unexpected rush of fondness for the small chaos of their world.  

When they reached the barrier, Narcissa paused, turning toward them. Her hand rested lightly on Lyra’s shoulder. “You first, darling. I’ll be right behind you.”  

Her voice was gentle but firm, the kind that wasn’t asking so much as telling. Draco smirked at Lyra like it was a competition, his lips twitching with that particular Malfoy brand of superiority. She rolled her eyes but said nothing, focusing instead on the task at hand. She inhaled once, deeply, before walking straight for the barrier, letting herself be swallowed by the magic on the other side. Her hand tightened briefly on the trolley as the wall gave way, a reminder of the first time she’d done this, her aunt had helped her push the cart through then because of how terrified she had been.  

Crossing onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was like taking a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The scarlet train loomed ahead, steam hissing from its engine as the crowd of wizards moved like a current around it. The platform was alive with noise and color—students in fresh robes chattering nervously, older ones laughing with friends they hadn’t seen all summer. There was the distinct smell of oil and smoke mingled with the buttery sweetness of baked goods from the trolley.  

Lyra adjusted her grip on her trolley and let herself pause for a moment, just to take it in. For all her complicated feelings about Hogwarts, there was something reassuring about seeing it all again—unchanged, like a piece of her life that stayed still when everything else seemed to shift. She let herself savor the moment, even as her heart thudded with the anxious excitement of what lay ahead.  

“Lyra,” Narcissa said softly, pulling her from her thoughts.  

She was standing close now, away from Draco, who was already making a beeline toward a group of his friends. “A word?”  

They stepped aside, near a quiet stretch of the platform. Narcissa reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against Lyra’s short curls in a small, affectionate gesture.  

“I know this year feels… heavier,” she said, her voice low so only Lyra could hear. “And I won’t insult you by pretending I can fix that. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone. You understand? You can always write me. Or talk to Severus, if you must. Just… don’t let yourself get lost in the weight of it. Remember who you are, and don’t let anyone take that from you. You’ve been through worse than you realize, Lyra. Give yourself credit for that.”  

Lyra blinked, unsure how to respond. It left her with a strange, prickling feeling in her chest—gratitude, maybe. Or something dangerously close to it. It was rare to hear Narcissa speak like this, to have her peel back the layers of composure and let something soft shine through.  

“I understand,” she said, because it was the only thing she could say without unraveling. Her voice felt smaller than she wanted it to, but the words carried the weight of truth.  

Narcissa’s hand lingered on her cheek for a brief moment. “I love you, my girl,” she murmured, her voice softening even more, before pulling back with all the grace of someone who didn’t allow herself to linger too long in moments like these. Lyra’s throat tightened. Narcissa rarely said that out loud, but when she did, it carried a weight that made her feel warm inside. Lyra wanted to say it back, but the words got stuck somewhere in her chest.  

Lyra hesitated before boarding, her eyes sweeping over the platform one more time. She noticed a tiny girl—Astoria Greengrass—clutching her mother’s hand near the barrier, her eyes wide with fear, Daphne standing off a few feet away chatting easily with Draco. The image stuck with Lyra as she turned away. She thought of herself at eleven, how the world had felt too big and too sharp, and she silently hoped Astoria would find her footing faster than she had.  

And then, just like that, Lyra was climbing onto the train, swallowed by the tide of students, the roar of steam, and the faint, bittersweet ache of leaving one world for another. She found herself glancing back once through the open carriage door, catching Narcissa’s eye one last time before the crowd swept her away. For a fleeting moment, it felt like an anchor—one final, grounding connection before the train carried her off to whatever this year was about to become.  

------------------------------------------  

The train smelled faintly of old wood, coal smoke, and the sugar from half-eaten sweets left behind by past journeys.  

Lyra navigated the narrow corridor, her trunk dragging noisily behind her as she searched for a familiar compartment. The chatter of students spilled out from every doorway—snippets of gossip, laughter, the occasional shriek as someone reunited with a friend. She caught flashes of younger students peeking nervously out from compartments, older ones leaning against the doorframes like they owned the place.  

The corridor felt alive in a way that made her heart ache with nostalgia and nerves at once. Her eyes lingered on passing faces, some familiar, some new, and she felt a pang of bittersweet excitement.  

She found Gemma, Rhys, and Terrence toward the back, their compartment already claimed.  

Gemma and Terrence were sitting side by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed, a quiet comfort that told Lyra everything about what had changed over the summer without them saying a word. Gemma had one leg tucked under her, flipping through a glossy magazine that Lyra was sure had nothing to do with schoolwork. Terrence was leaning back casually, glancing over Gemma’s shoulder at whatever she was reading.  

Rhys, of course, had sprawled across most of one bench, long legs taking up too much space as he idly tossed a Chocolate Frog box from one hand to the other.  

“About time,” Gemma said without looking up as Lyra slid the door open. “We thought you’d gotten lost.”  

“I was saying goodbye,” Lyra replied, lifting her trunk with more effort than she wanted to admit and hoisting it onto the rack. “Not all of us sprint to the train to claim territory like wolves.”  

“That’s because some of us know how quickly the good compartments go,” Rhys said with a grin, not moving his legs. “You’re lucky we saved you a seat.”  

Lyra rolled her eyes and gave his shin a shove with her boot. “Move it, dickhead.”  

Rhys groaned dramatically, pulling his feet up. “Violence. On my own bench.”  

“Your bench?” Lyra scoffed, sliding into the newly freed space. “You’re lucky I don’t kick you off entirely.”  

“Barely,” Gemma muttered with a smirk, finally glancing up from her magazine.  

The door thudded closed, muting the sounds of the corridor, and for a moment the compartment felt like its own small world, separate from the chaos outside. Lyra let the familiar comfort of them settle her nerves.  

They talked in lazy rhythms about their summers — Gemma’s with her family in France, Terrence’s quiet visit to relatives up north, Rhys’s boasting about winning some local pick-up Quidditch matches.  

“Any of them actually good?” Gemma asked dryly, flipping a page.  

“Obviously,” Rhys shot back with mock offense. “You’re talking to the star of the local league.”  

Lyra arched a brow. “Do they hand out awards for that? Or just inflate your ego? Especially since you’re not even on the house team.”  

Rhys clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Lestrange.”  

It was easy chatter, comfortable enough to make her forget, briefly, the heaviness of the morning. Rhys told a ridiculous story about nearly falling off his broom in a storm, earning groans and laughter in equal measure. Gemma rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile, and Terrence added, “You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.”  

For a short while, it almost felt like any other train ride back to Hogwarts, suspended in that magical limbo where the school year hadn’t truly begun yet.  

But inevitably, the topic shifted to the biggest change from the summer.  

“So.” Gemma shut her magazine with a sharp snap, breaking the easy rhythm of their conversation. “The trial.”  

The air thinned a little. Lyra stared at the grain of the wooden table between them, running her finger along a scratch carved into its surface. She felt the phantom of Graham’s voice, sharp and commanding, echoing in her head, a reminder of how much space he used to take up. She didn't want to talk about him—about what happened—anymore.  

“It’s over,” Terrence said simply, his voice steady. “He got what he deserved.”  

“About time,” Gemma added, her tone sharper than usual. “Maybe now people can actually breathe.”  

Lyra said nothing at first. Graham’s absence was loud, even now, in the way no one quite knew how to fill the silence he used to dominate. She hated that part of her felt lighter without him there—hated how guilty that made her feel. Relief mixed with an ache she couldn’t name. He had been awful, controlling, suffocating, but there had been moments when he wasn’t. Those moments haunted her most—the ones where he’d almost been kind, almost been human.  

How do you mourn someone who hurt you and still left a hole when they were gone? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.  

Rhys, ever the one to soften the edges, leaned back and said, “At least we don’t have to hear him bark orders at you lot during Quidditch practice anymore. Just listening to him was exhausting.”  

He tossed the Chocolate Frog box into the air and caught it one-handed with a grin.  

Lyra snorted softly despite herself. “Exhausting?” she said, tilting her head toward him. “You didn’t even have to deal with him directly. Try captaining with that voice in your ear.”  

Rhys shrugged. “Fair point. But watching him shout at everyone was bad enough.”  

“Annoying, more like,” Gemma chimed in, leaning back against Terrence. “He acted like the entire team revolved around him.”  

“Not anymore,” Terrence said simply, his voice low but firm. It was the kind of statement that settled over the group like a period at the end of a sentence.  

The conversation drifted back to safer topics—new school gossip, Quidditch predictions, a heated debate about who would win the House Cup. They spoke of what this year could bring, of NEWTs and Hogsmeade trips, of whether Lockhart would actually live up to his own hype. Rhys suggested they place bets on how quickly he’d irritate Snape, making Gemma laugh.  

But the quiet understanding lingered, unspoken but shared.  

Graham was gone. The team—their house—would move on. And maybe, Lyra thought as she stared out at the blurred countryside through the window, so would she. Or at least, she’d have to try.  

The thought of it—of a year without his shadow over her—felt both freeing and terrifying all at once, like standing on the edge of something she couldn’t yet name.  

----------------------------------------  

Two hours later, the steady clatter of the train had lulled the compartment into a kind of quiet. The easy, teasing energy from earlier had ebbed into a calm that only came after hours of being in the same small space together.  

Gemma had fallen asleep against Terrence’s shoulder, his head tilted back against the wall as though he were dozing too. Their hands were loosely intertwined, resting on the bench between them, and every so often Gemma stirred, murmuring something in her sleep before settling back into stillness. Terrence occasionally glanced down at her with a quiet kind of fondness before leaning his head back, clearly more awake than he wanted anyone to think.  

Rhys sat opposite still, legs stretched out again, but his usual chatter had dimmed to absentminded humming as he doodled aimlessly on a scrap of parchment with a borrowed quill. He occasionally stopped to tap the quill against his chin, lost in some private thought.  

Lyra had taken the window seat and was staring out at the blurred landscape. Fields and forests rushed by in streaks of green and gold, the occasional chimney puffing smoke in the distance. Sheep dotted the fields like flecks of cream on the rolling hills, and once in a while a cluster of small cottages appeared, then vanished.  

She let her forehead rest lightly against the cool glass, breathing in the faint scent of coal, sweets, and the parchment of old letters tucked in her bag. The idea of leaving Hogwarts at the end of the year, her last real sanctuary, gnawed at the edge of her thoughts. She had been planning her life afterword for years but now that its so close, she doesn't know if she will be ready.  

For a while, no one spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just that quiet, unspoken understanding of people who didn’t need to fill the silence. Lyra let herself get lost in the rhythm of the train, in the way her reflection ghosted over the scenery, looking almost like someone she didn’t quite recognize. She pressed her fingers lightly to the glass, feeling the coolness seep into her skin as if it could ground her.  

It was a soft knock on the door that broke the spell. Rhys was closest and lazily reached over to slide it open.  

A small, nervous face peeked inside. It belonged to a first-year girl, petite and pale with a sharp, delicate frame. Her blonde hair was neatly tied back with a ribbon that had begun to slip loose, and her green eyes darted nervously between all of them. Lyra recognized her instantly from the platform—Astoria Greengrass.  

“Sorry,” Astoria said in a small voice, clutching the handle of her trunk. “I… couldn’t find my sister. Everywhere’s full and they won't let me stay more than a few minutes.”  

“You’re Daphne’s sister,” Lyra said before she could stop herself. It came out softer than she intended.  

Astoria nodded quickly, glancing toward the floor. “She’s with her friends. I just…” Her voice trailed off, like she didn’t want to admit that she’d been left behind.  

“Come on then,” Gemma said, sitting up and gently nudging Terrence to do the same. “You can stay here for the rest of the ride.”  

Astoria blinked, surprised, then gave a shy little nod. She tugged her trunk inside with more effort than her small frame should’ve allowed. Rhys stood and helped her lift it onto the rack without comment, giving her a small, encouraging grin as he did.  

“You can sit by me,” Lyra said, scooting over and patting the space next to her. Astoria hesitated, then climbed up, tucking her legs under herself as though trying to take up as little space as possible.  

Rhys leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “First year, huh? You nervous?”  

Astoria nodded quickly. “A bit. I’ve never… been away from home before.”  

“You’ll be fine,” Gemma said with a small, reassuring smile. “The common room’s the best one in the castle. You’ll like it.”  

“And the feast’s worth the train ride alone,” Rhys added. “Just don’t sit too close to the pudding, or you’ll end up wearing it when someone inevitably tries to hex their friend.”  

Astoria giggled, a soft, brief sound that made her look a little less like she might cry.  

Lyra stayed quiet for a moment, then asked, “So, what do you think it’ll be like? Have you heard anything, we would be more than happy to answer any questions for you.”  

Astoria shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve heard Daphne talk about it, but I can’t imagine it.”  

“You’ll see it all tonight,” Gemma said. “The castle has a way of… showing you what you need to see.”  

Astoria’s eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?”  

“You’ll understand when you walk inside,” Gemma said simply, like it was a secret too good to spoil.  

Lyra watched the girl for a moment, remembering herself at eleven—nervous and small and trying to seem braver than she felt. “You’ll get used to it,” she said quietly. “It won’t feel so big forever.”  

Astoria looked up at her, nodding like those words mattered more than Lyra had intended them to. “Do you really think so?” she asked.  

“I know so,” Lyra replied, surprising herself with how certain she sounded.  

The train rumbled on, carrying them closer to the castle, and closer to the first night of a new year—one that would change her in ways she couldn’t yet imagine.  

------------------------------------  

By the time the train screeched to a halt, night had fully fallen.  

The chill in the air was sharper than it had been that morning, carrying with it the damp, earthy smell of the Scottish highlands. Students spilled out onto the platform in a wave of chatter and clattering trunks, the lamps of Hogsmeade Station casting long, flickering shadows across the crowd. Steam hissed from the train, curling upward like ghostly fingers, and the crisp autumn wind bit at Lyra’s cheeks as she stepped down. The sound of Hagrid calling for the first-years boomed over the noise, making Lyra smile faintly despite the unease creeping into her chest.  

Lyra tightened her cloak around herself as she followed Gemma, Terrence, and Rhys off the train, keeping an eye on Astoria trailing nervously at her side.  

The first-years were quickly rounded up by Hagrid, towering above the crowd as he beckoned them toward the boats with a friendly wave. Astoria hesitated, glancing back at Lyra, who gave her a small nod of reassurance before the girl disappeared into the sea of nervous eleven-year-olds. Lyra felt a surprising twist in her chest as she watched the girl go, a protective instinct she hadn’t expected to feel toward anyone but Draco settling in her chest. She remembered her own first night, the fear and awe, the sensation of being swallowed by a world too big for her.  

The older students moved toward the carriages waiting beyond the gates. The skeletal thestrals were nearly invisible in the darkness, their bat-like wings shifting restlessly as they pawed at the ground.  

Lyra spared them a glance—they were strange, eerie creatures, yet there was a quiet dignity to them that made her pause for a moment each time she saw them.  

She climbed into a carriage with Gemma, Terrence, and Rhys, the four of them settling into the creaking wooden seats as the carriage lurched forward. Rhys, breaking the quiet, muttered something about how “this ride always feels longer than it should,” earning an amused hum from Gemma, who rested her head on Terrence’s shoulder.  

“It only feels long because you’re always hungry,” Lyra said dryly, pulling her cloak tighter as the carriage jolted forward. Rhys rolled his eyes, grinning.  

Terrence, in turn, squeezed Gemma’s hand, grounding them both in the hush of the night.  

The ride up to the castle was subdued, the usual chatter softened as the looming silhouette of Hogwarts appeared in the distance. Its towers rose like dark sentinels against the night sky, the windows glowing with warm, golden light.  

The sight made Lyra’s throat tighten—this place had been her refuge for so long, and yet, tonight, it felt different. Heavier. Like the beginning of a chapter she hadn’t decided if she was ready to read. It felt like something was about to change, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know what it was.  

When the carriages finally rolled to a stop, the crowd of students filed into the Great Hall.  

The enchanted ceiling reflected the night outside—a deep, endless black scattered with stars—and hundreds of candles floated above the long tables, their flames flickering gently. The smell of roasted meats, fresh bread, and pumpkin juice filled the air, wrapping the room in an almost overwhelming warmth. The chatter of hundreds of students rose and fell like waves against the stone walls, a comfortingly familiar sound.  

Lyra slipped into her seat at the Slytherin table, scanning the staff table almost without thinking—and froze.  

Sitting among the professors, dressed in warm, elegant robes, was Charity.  

For a moment, Lyra thought she might be imagining it. Charity, here, in this world, like she belonged. The recognition hit her hard, leaving her rooted to the bench as her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. How could she be here? Why hadn’t she said anything? The questions burned hotter than she wanted to admit.  

Charity caught her stare. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she winked .  

Lyra blinked, her confusion mirrored in the tiny furrow of her brows. A hundred unformed questions swirled in her head, but before she could think too much on it, Dumbledore rose from his place at the center of the table, his arms spread in welcome.  

“Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the hall. “Before we begin our feast, I have a few announcements.”  

He spoke briefly of school rules, Hogsmeade weekends, and safety reminders before his tone lightened.  

“We are also delighted to welcome a new member to our staff this year. Professor Gilderoy Lockhart will be taking over the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”  

Lockhart rose with an almost blinding smile, golden hair perfectly styled as he waved to the students like a celebrity on a stage. Seated between Snape and Charity, he radiated a smug self-satisfaction that made Lyra want to sink lower in her seat. Snape’s scowl could have curdled milk, while Charity, ever composed, offered a polite but restrained smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Lyra couldn’t help but wonder if Charity was just as irritated as Snape beneath that calm facade.  

Dumbledore then gestured toward the staff table. “And lastly, we welcome Professor Charity Burbage, who will be teaching Muggle Studies.” Charity inclined her head with that same easy grace Lyra remembered from Salisbury, though her smile seemed just a bit tighter than usual.  

The introductions finished everyone turned back toward Dumbledore expectingly, and with a clap of his hands, the tables filled with food.  

As conversations sparked to life around her, Lyra found herself unable to focus on anything but Charity—her presence here, her secret. She hadn’t told Lyra. Or rather, she had, in her own way. Lyra remembered the vague way Charity had spoken of her new job in the Highlands where she had gone to school, how she’d brushed it off as a coincidence. It was here. Charity had practically said it, and Lyra had dismissed it as nothing. And yet, here she was. Lyra's fork hovered over her plate, untouched.  

The feast went on, but Lyra’s appetite didn’t.  

Every bite of food on the table blurred together, tasteless against the questions swirling in her head. Charity had looked at her like she’d expected Lyra to understand, but Lyra didn’t. The confusion settled deep in her stomach, heavier than any of the food she couldn’t bring herself to eat.  

----------------------------------------  

By the time the feast ended and the students began filing out of the Great Hall, Lyra felt as though she had spent the entire evening in a haze.  

She hadn’t eaten more than a few bites. Every time she’d tried, her eyes had drifted back to the staff table, to Charity. It was absurd, seeing her there so casually, as if nothing had changed, as if this wasn’t a different life than the one Lyra had known her in. The realization still hadn’t settled—Charity wasn’t just part of Salisbury, of a quiet, contained corner of Lyra’s world.  

She was here, at Hogwarts, occupying a space Lyra had never imagined her stepping into. She replayed their last conversations in her head—Charity’s vague mentions of 'returning to the Highlands,' her talk of a new role that would 'feel like going home.' Lyra had brushed it off as idle small talk. She told me, Lyra thought bitterly. And I didn’t even hear it. The sting of that truth dug deeper than she wanted to admit. I thought it was just a coincidence, how did it never cross my mind that she could have been a witch?  

The corridors echoed with the usual start-of-term energy: first-years tripping over themselves to keep up with the 5th year prefects leading the group, older students shouting greetings to friends they hadn’t seen in months. Gemma and Terrence walked ahead of her with a practiced air—both of them wearing their badges and moving through the chaos like they belonged there. Lyra noticed Gemma’s eyes flick briefly toward the Head Girl leading the group of first-years Hufflepuffs and the faint sigh that followed—a small, quickly masked reminder that the role hadn’t gone to her. She covered it with light chatter to Rhys, but Lyra caught the moment anyway.  

Lyra followed Gemma, Terrence, and Rhys down the familiar path toward the dungeons, letting their conversation fill the silence she didn’t trust herself to break. Gemma was already teasing Rhys about how much he’d eaten—“I thought you were going to inhale the pudding,”—to which Rhys groaned that it was “strategic feasting.” Terrence quietly rolled his eyes at their bickering. Normally, Lyra would’ve chimed in, maybe teased Rhys for calling overeating ‘strategic,’ but she couldn’t bring herself to join them. Not tonight. Her mind was too crowded.  

The Slytherin common room was exactly as she remembered: cool and dimly lit, the green glow from the Black Lake casting rippling shadows across the stone walls. The low murmur of students’ voices, the crackling fire, the smell of old books and polished wood—it all felt grounding, yet distant at the same time. She paused in the doorway for a moment, watching her housemates claim their spaces. Some gathered near the fire, sharing stories of their summers. Others already sprawled in chairs with books or played games of Exploding Snap. All of it so ordinary, so unchanged. And yet Lyra felt like she’d stepped into the same room as someone else entirely. After a pause, she mumbled a quick goodnight and slipped away to the girls’ dormitory.  

Her trunk had already been brought up, resting neatly at the foot of her bed. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the canopy above her. She wanted to be angry at Charity—for not telling her, for making her feel like a fool for missing what now felt so obvious—but the anger wouldn’t come. Only confusion, and a strange, aching curiosity. How much had Charity really been keeping from her? Was this all a carefully kept secret, or had Lyra simply been too caught up in herself to listen? And why did it feel like this revelation made Charity both a stranger and yet more familiar all at once?  

Changing into her nightclothes, she moved through the motions of her nightly routine automatically, her mind elsewhere. She tried to imagine how their next meeting would go—if Charity would pretend nothing had happened, if she’d pull her aside and explain everything. Part of Lyra wanted to demand answers, to shake them out of her. Another part wasn’t sure she wanted to hear them. Would they change things between them? Could they? Did she even want them to?  

She climbed under the covers, the weight of the blankets pressing down like an anchor. The dormitory was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of other girls unpacking in the other rooms. The faint hum of the Black Lake beyond the walls lulled her toward stillness. Lyra closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, feeling her chest tighten before it loosened.  

She thought of the way Charity had winked at her, like they shared some unspoken secret—like Charity had been waiting for this moment, for Lyra to put the pieces together. That look wasn’t casual. It had meant something. It had been deliberate.  

Her last thought before sleep pulled her under was simple and persistent: Why didn’t you tell me? And why do I wish you had?  

Chapter Text

The first full week back hit like a Bludger to the ribs.  

By Thursday, Lyra had stopped bothering to count how many hours of sleep she’d missed. Her desk was buried under a tangle of parchment—half-written essays, unfinished translations, ink-stained reference sheets with fraying corners—and none of it seemed manageable. The NEWT-level coursework hadn’t crept up slowly. It had dropped like a curse.  

Ancient Runes had them deep in Anglo-Saxon grammar by the second lecture, Babbling assigning nightly translation work that spilled into every free period. Transfiguration essays stretched past five feet before McGonagall even looked satisfied. Charms had them mapping out the evolution of shielding charms across centuries with hand-drawn spell matrices, and Snape was already cutting down their Potions technique with brutal precision.  

Her notes were messy. Her handwriting had slipped into something tight and cramped, crammed into margins, looping over itself in places. Every time she sat down to study, she felt like she was already behind. The pressure wasn’t loud—it didn’t scream—but it lived under her skin, constant, whispering.  

She tried not to compare, but it was impossible not to notice how some of the other seventh-years seemed to move through the week without stumbling. Gemma had already outlined their Runes assignment before Lyra even found her notes, her handwriting steady and crisp. Terrence always had the correct answer in Transfiguration, calm and confident as ever. Even Rhys—who never took anything seriously—had apparently decided NEWTs were worth caring about, and now sat two rows ahead in Potions with a colour-coded chart and actual focus in his eyes.  

It wasn’t that Lyra wasn’t capable. She knew she was. She’d always been good under pressure, always known how to manage. But this year felt different. The work wasn’t harder—it was just… heavier. Every subject felt like it mattered in a way it hadn’t before, like the walls were closing in and asking her to prove she deserved to be here at all.  

She caught herself zoning out in lectures, not because she didn’t care—if anything, she cared too much—but because her thoughts kept drifting, slipping out from under the weight of ink and parchment. Forward, to the NEWTs, and everything riding on them. Backward, to everything she’d had to claw her way through to get here. Sideways, to Draco. Always Draco. Was he eating enough? Sleeping? Getting into fights? Had he written Narcissa back yet?  

She’d started watching him without meaning to, tracking the tilt of his head at meals, scanning the Slytherin table for signs of trouble—and avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes at the staff table while she did it. He kept glancing her way. Not often. But often enough. She still hadn’t forgotten what he said to her that night in Salisbury, standing under a streetlamp with his traveling cloak trailing behind him, talking about Stonehenge and the weight of names. How he’d asked her—not as Headmaster, but as someone who saw her—who she wanted to be beyond Lestrange, beyond Hogwarts. How he’d looked at her like he was waiting for her to ask a question she’d never quite been brave enough to voice. She didn’t know what he saw when he looked at her now, and she wasn’t ready to find out.   

There were moments in class where the professor’s voice would fade and all she could hear was her own pulse and the scrape of quills around her, and the terrible pressure of pretending she wasn’t falling behind. She’d blink and realize she’d missed half a page of notes, and worse—she didn’t even remember when she stopped listening.  

One night she tried to make a schedule. She wrote out her assignments, her practice time, her readings. She even set alarms. But by morning she’d already missed the first block and scratched the rest out in frustration.  

No one said anything. No one asked if she was all right. The other seventh-years were busy, too. The castle felt full and far away, noise without focus, motion without pause.  

She managed to keep pace, mostly. Turned in what was expected. Showed up. But it didn’t feel like enough. And for the first time in a long time, Lyra didn’t feel ahead of anything. She felt like she was running just fast enough not to fall.  

And she wasn’t sure how long that would last.  

She didn’t remember walking up the stairs. One moment she was seated at the desk in the common room, quill idle and eyes burning from too little sleep—and the next, she was standing in a sun-drenched corridor, half a floor above where she meant to be. Her hands were still ink-stained. Her heart still too fast. She had once again been lost inside the storm her mind had become. The thought of today's classes weighed heavily on her mind.  

The corridor near the upper stairwell was narrow and bright, carved through with slanted autumn sunlight. The castle windows caught the light in long, low angles, casting golden shapes against the floor. Everything felt too sharp—too clear. Lyra stood still, one shoulder grazing the wall, a rolled parchment clutched in her hand more for the excuse of having something to hold than for any academic purpose. Her eyes scanned a line she’d already read three times, though the words had long stopped registering.  

The low hum of voices at the far end of the corridor pulled her attention up.  

Two professors had just emerged from the stairwell, moving at an easy pace. Babbling, as usual, was mid-gesture, her arms slicing through the air like punctuation. She was grinning about something—probably a translation quirk no one else cared about. And beside her—  

Charity.  

It felt like someone had grabbed Lyra by the collar and yanked her straight out of her skin.  

Charity’s hair was down. Her robes slightly askew, like she'd thrown them on without checking the mirror, and she was laughing—freely, effortlessly—at whatever Babbling had just said. Her shoulders moved with the rhythm of the laugh, her whole body relaxed in a way Lyra had only seen outside the castle. It was the kind of laugh that belonged in candlelight and noise, with a half-finished drink in hand and music humming low in the background—not here, not in the middle of a Hogwarts corridor.  

Seeing her like this felt wrong. No—not wrong. Distant. Like watching someone from behind glass. Lyra had seen her at the staff table every day since the Feast, of course. But only in brief glances, across distance and noise and expectation. Charity surrounded by other professors, laughing with Flitwick, nodding along to something Sinistra said, passing notes to Babbling with a smirk. She looked like she belonged there. Like she always had.  

Lyra hadn’t realized how tightly she’d held on to the image of Charity as someone outside all this—someone from the Wild Hare, from smoke-filled corners and dark wood booths and long walks under Wiltshire skies. She hadn’t been ready to see her folded so easily into castle life.  

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.  

They hadn’t spoken since that last night in Salisbury.  

Charity turned slightly as she passed, catching sight of her just before they crossed paths.  

Her smile didn’t falter. She raised a hand in greeting—casual, open, unbothered. Like nothing was wrong. Like they’d never been anything but passing acquaintances. Like she hadn’t once brushed her fingers against Lyra’s in the dark and whispered that she didn’t want the night to end.  

Lyra stopped short. Her throat locked. Her thoughts scattered so fast she didn’t know where to reach for them.  

She managed a stiff nod—just a flick of her chin—then turned sharply and walked away. Past them, past the curve in the corridor, past the hum of their conversation fading behind her, past the point of pretending her heart wasn’t pounding so loudly she could hardly hear her own footsteps.  

She ducked into the nearest side hall and didn’t stop until the stone wall pressed cool and solid against her back. Her palms were clammy. Her shoulders tense. She held her breath and let it out slowly, like it might slow the racing in her chest.  

Just a smile. Just a wave.  

But it hadn’t been. Not really.  

Charity had looked at her like nothing had changed. Like none of it had mattered. Like she hadn’t sat across from Lyra in a booth in Salisbury and asked her what she wanted, what she really wanted. Like she hadn’t waited for an answer that never came.  

And that was the worst part, maybe—the fact that Charity could look at her that way and mean it. The fact that she could smile and keep walking and not look back.  

For the rest of the day, Lyra couldn’t stop seeing it—how easily Charity had passed her by. How easily she hadn’t looked away. And how desperately Lyra had wanted to.  

By the time her heart stopped trying to punch its way out of her chest, Lyra had missed the first half of Ancient Runes. Babbling didn’t comment—likely too busy fluttering over some new translation chart to notice—but Lyra slid into her seat with her head down, hand trembling slightly as she reached for her quill. She didn’t even remember walking the rest of the way there. Her limbs felt foreign, like her body was just going through motions while her mind stayed somewhere two corridors back.  

The rest of the day blurred.  

She made it to her classes. Spoke when spoken to. Took notes that looked more like scribbles. Every hallway felt too loud, every classroom too full. Somewhere between Potions and Charms, she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She hadn’t meant to skip lunch, but the sight of food had made her stomach turn. She wasn’t sure if it was from stress, exhaustion, or something else entirely.  

The usual drone of student chatter barely registered until she heard the words "flying car."  

"—and they say it was a Muggle car!"  

Lyra glanced up without meaning to. Two second-year Hufflepuff boys were walking ahead of her near the lower stairwell, voices pitched just loud enough to be overheard. One of them—Zacharias Smith, if she remembered right—had once asked her what it was like being raised by Lucius Malfoy, loud enough for half the corridor to hear. She hadn’t answered then either.  

"Yeah, Potter and Weasley took it right from King’s Cross," the taller boy said, his tone bright with mischief. "Flew the bloody thing to Hogwarts. Crashed into the Whomping Willow."  

"Bet they thought they’d get a trophy for it," sneered the other.  

Lyra didn’t say anything, but her pace slowed.  

Up ahead, Potter and Weasley came into view—shoulders hunched, expressions drawn. The first-years were staring at them like they’d grown second heads. A few older students made a show of ignoring them. Someone muttered something about how Gryffindors always thought they were above the rules.  

The second-years weren’t so subtle.  

"Not so golden now, is he?" one of the boys said under his breath, but loud enough that the words carried. A few others laughed.  

Lyra glanced at Harry. He kept his eyes on the ground, his face set in a quiet kind of misery. He looked smaller than usual. Not physically—but in presence. Like he was trying to fold in on himself.  

She didn’t pity him. But she didn’t enjoy watching it either.  

There had been so much weight on his name from the moment he arrived. She knew what that was like. Different names, different expectations, but the same pressure to be something—someone—before you even knew who you were.  

She ducked into the next hall without a word, cutting toward the library.  

Evening fell slowly, stretching the shadows long. By the time she reached the far corner of the library, the windows had dimmed to slate grey and the candles cast uneven bars of gold across the stone. The quiet was immediate and welcome. No one spoke here. Even Madam Pince had gone silent behind her desk, flipping through a book with stiff, reverent fingers.  

Lyra found her usual spot near the back, wedged between two towering shelves of ancient magical theory. She spread her Runes work across the table and took a long, centering breath. The ink smelled clean. The parchment had weight. For a little while, at least, she could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.  

The work helped. Runes always did. Line after line, breaking apart the meanings, tracing etymology, mapping phonetic shifts from one dialect to another. It was like sorting the bones of language—silent and intricate and rigid in a way nothing else in her life ever was. Here, there was no pretending. No masks. Just the certainty that each mark meant something if you studied it hard enough.  

But eventually, her eyes drifted. Her fingers stilled.  

Her mind followed.  

Back to the corridor.  

Back to Charity.  

The smile. The wave. The way she hadn’t looked back.  

Lyra pressed her palm flat against the page in front of her. She’d come to the library to breathe, to focus, to forget .  

But it wasn’t working.  

This year already felt different. The air felt thinner. The corridors felt longer. Everything heavier. Less forgiving.  

It wasn’t just the NEWTs, or the pressure, or the unrelenting pace of the school year. It was the sense that something had shifted. That she had shifted. Like the foundation she'd been building for years wasn’t as solid as she'd thought.  

She’d thought she could compartmentalize. School. Charity. The future. The past. But it all bled together the moment she let herself pause.  

She blinked down at her notes, the runes swimming slightly. Her throat ached with a familiar tightness. Her fingers curled around her quill like a lifeline.  

And no matter how deeply she buried herself in language or schedules or ambition, she couldn’t stop thinking about her .  

Chapter Text

The common room was still quiet when Lyra stepped out from the girls’ corridor, the floor chilled beneath her socks and her hair still damp from an early shower. Pale green light filtered through the lake-glass windows, pooling like mist across the stone floor. The air held that early-morning hush, still and heavy, like the castle itself hadn’t quite woken up. Most of Slytherin was still asleep or draped over furniture like ghosts recovering from the first week back. A few scattered candles flickered low in their sconces, casting long shadows across the walls. The sound of the lake shifted faintly behind the windows—a slow, pressing current against the glass, rhythmic and cold.  

She crossed the room without speaking, the rolled parchment in her hand already curling at the edges. The tryout schedule was written in her sharp, no-nonsense script—time, date, expectations. No frills. No room for excuses. She pinned it to the noticeboard just above a crooked announcement about Gobstones Club and stepped back, arms crossed, reading it again like it might have changed since she wrote it.  

It hadn’t. But it felt important to double-check. Triple-check. There couldn’t be mistakes—not this year. Not with people watching her like they were.  

She stared at it for a long moment, the way the ink bled slightly on the thick parchment. The simplicity of it made her stomach turn. She hated this part—the waiting. The silence before movement. The stretch of minutes where things were still fragile.  

A moment later, a voice drifted down from one of the nearby chairs. “Should I be worried that you look like you're going into battle?”  

Lyra didn’t have to turn. “Only if you’re still planning to show up late.”  

Terence stretched, arms behind his head, clearly unbothered. His practice jersey was folded on the chair beside him, boots scuffed and damp from yesterday’s pre-dawn solo practice. His hair was rumpled, half-dried, and he looked every bit like someone who hadn’t thought about stress since fifth year. “Please. I’ve only been late to one thing in my life and it was Herbology, which doesn’t count.”  

“It counts when I’m the one waiting.”  

He grinned at her around the edge of a book. “Noted, Captain.”  

She rolled her eyes but didn’t fight the smile. They’d had this conversation—versions of it—dozens of times before. He always pushed, and she always pushed back, but it was easy. Familiar. Something solid to step on.  

From the far end of the room, Gemma emerged with a yawn, hair pulled back and expression mildly amused. Her prefect badge was already pinned in place, robes neatly pressed like she’d been up for hours. "You’ve been up for hours, haven’t you?”  

Lyra tilted her head in mock-thought. “Since five.”  

Gemma let out a low whistle. “Merlin. We haven’t even had our first match yet.”  

“We also haven’t replaced two Beaters or named a Seeker,” Lyra replied, crossing her arms and giving a pointed look toward Terence. “And after last year, I’m not gambling.”  

The last few words landed heavier than she meant them to. Graham’s name didn’t pass her lips, but it hung in the space between them anyway. Unspoken. Uninvited. It didn’t need to be said and she didn't want to think about him .  

Gemma didn’t push, she never did. Instead, she gave a small nod and came to stand beside her, glancing up at the parchment. "It’s clean. Scary, but clean."  

Lyra let out a breath. “Good.”  

She stepped back from the board, adjusting the parchment even though it didn’t need it. Her fingers lingered on the pin longer than necessary. Everything had to be perfect. She thought about the drills she’d rewritten at least four times, the names she’d circled and crossed out in her notes. The sleepless nights. The silence where her old team used to be.  

This was her last year. Her last team. She had to get it right. Because after everything that happened with him , people were watching. Wondering if she could lead again. If she could control the pitch like she used to. If she still belonged up there.  

She could feel the weight of it every time she walked the corridors—expectation masked as curiosity, glances that lingered just long enough to set her teeth on edge. This wasn’t just about Quidditch anymore. It was about legacy. Reputation. Control. It was about showing she hadn’t broken. That he hadn't broken her.  

She wasn’t about to give them a reason to doubt it.  

Behind her, the common room started to stir—books thudding closed, someone complaining about breakfast, a first-year tripping over their own bag with a muttered curse. A group of fourth-years passed behind her, already speculating about who’d make the cut. She caught her own name in their whispering and didn’t react.  

Gemma had drifted away again, offering a low, reassuring word to a first-year near the fireplace. By the time she returned, she leaned lazily over Terence’s chair and began absently messing with his hair, fluffing it just to annoy him. He batted her hand away once, half-heartedly, but she only grinned and ruffled it again. Terence was now upside down in his chair, legs hanging over the backrest, the book balanced on his chest like he didn’t have a care in the world.  

Lyra squared her shoulders, jaw tight.  

Time to get to the pitch.  

---------------------------------  

The sky above the Quidditch pitch was the kind of flat grey that threatened rain without delivering it. The clouds hung low, stitched across the sky like an old wool blanket—thick, unmoving, and indifferent. The kind of sky that pressed down, heavy and dull, muting colours and sharpening edges. The wind came straight off the lake, sharp as a hex and twice as rude, slipping beneath cloaks and stinging at fingers.  

Lyra tugged her sleeves down past her wrists and narrowed her eyes at the sky. Brisk, cloudy, unflinching—she preferred it like this. Flying weather. Training weather. The kind that stripped everything back to focus and movement.  

She crossed the grass with long, steady strides, broom slung over one shoulder and clipboard tucked beneath her arm. The turf squelched softly underfoot, damp from the night before. The pitch smelled like wet earth and last year’s sweat, like leather oil and half-faded chalk lines. It smelled like pressure. Like home. And this—being first on the pitch, before the rest of the team arrived, before the shouting and wind and bludgers—this was the moment that always steadied her. Before it began, before anything could fall apart.  

But of course, she wasn’t the first one there.  

A crowd of hopefuls had already gathered near the southern edge of the pitch. Some perched on the edge of the stands, trying to look calm and alert at once. Others huddled in loose knots, chattering nervously or rechecking the straps on borrowed brooms. Most were younger—second and third-years putting on their most serious faces, trying to hide the way their hands twitched or their knees bounced.  

Lyra noted each twitch, each darted glance, each overcompensating smile. There was eagerness in their eyes, but also a barely-contained panic. She remembered that kind of desperation—when Quidditch still felt like the only chance to matter.  

A few wore brand-new gear. Gleaming pads, pristine gloves, robes still stiff from packaging. As if looking the part might earn them a place. It wouldn’t. Lyra had played too long to be fooled by shine. Showy gear just meant they’d be the first ones to flinch. New gear meant they didn't take time to break it in, to get used to it, they were always the first to be excused from the pitch.  

Her first year on the team, Lyra’s captain had told her something that stuck: the state of your gear says more about you than anything you do on the pitch. If it’s brand-new, you’re either lazy or untested. If it’s flashy, you’re cocky—too focused on image to notice your own weak spots. If it’s falling apart, it’s not brave, it’s reckless—you’ll injure yourself or someone else. But if it’s worn-in, well-used, and cared for—if it’s broken in and still holding—you’ll hold too. That’s the gear of a player who knows what they’re doing.  

She kept walking, scanning faces, posture, stances. Evaluating without comment. There were always a few with raw talent—but raw wasn’t enough. Not on her team. Not this year. Not after last year’s collapse. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t lead another team like that again.  

Off to the far side of the field, Cassius, Adrian, and Flint were already in motion. They glided through slow, familiar loops, a Quaffle arcing lazily between them. It was a rhythm older than the robes on their backs—three years of instinct and bickering and perfect timing. Cassius darted forward and veered sharply, Adrian weaving beneath him to catch the toss before Flint thundered in from the side. It was effortless. Unpolished, but effortless. They didn’t need her eyes on them anymore—they knew what they were doing, and they trusted each other to do it.  

Lyra didn’t need to watch long. They were locked in. Cassius’s lean, fluid dodging. Adrian’s sharp hands and sharper eyes. Flint’s blunt aggression. Together, they made something brutal and effective. Something honest.  

She jotted a quick check mark next to their names on her clipboard without breaking stride. There was comfort in certainty.  

Near the goalposts, Terence stood alone.  

He was loosening up his shoulders, rolling his neck, one foot planted, the other bouncing in a steady rhythm. A borrowed Beater’s bat spun slowly in his hand, more out of habit than warm-up. His broom—his same old Comet—rested in the grass, bristles splayed and handle worn smooth. He looked calm. Focused. Coiled, almost.  

When he spotted her, he didn’t wave. Just straightened and offered a short nod. Quiet. Confident. Like the decision had already been made.  

They’d talked about this all summer. Long letters, some folded with creases from rereading, others scratched out and rewritten. He was the one who suggested it—giving up Seeker, trying for Beater instead. Lyra had agreed instantly. Terence flew like someone picking a fight, and that was what they needed this year.  

Now, watching him adjust his gloves with steady hands, the bat tapping softly against his thigh, she felt something settle. Not relief—but the edge of something solid. The feeling of a foundation forming.  

He was ready.  

And if Terence was ready, maybe this wasn’t a rebuilding year after all. Maybe they weren’t just patching holes. Maybe they could win without hurting themselves in the process.  

The wind tore across the pitch again, this time stronger. It snapped a loose bit of parchment from someone’s clipboard and sent it fluttering toward the stands. A first-year scrambled after it, cheeks red and eyes wide.  

Lyra exhaled slowly.  

Another gust of wind kicked up. She closed her eyes against it, just for a second, letting it sting.  

Then she planted her feet, eyes narrowing.  

Its go time.  

Lyra stepped onto the center of the pitch, one sharp whistle slicing through the morning air. Every head turned. The chatter snapped off like a light.  

"Fall in!" she called, her voice clipped but clear, honed by years of captaincy. "We’ll keep this short."  

The crowd of hopefuls shuffled forward—awkward, eager, bristling with nerves and the kind of restless energy that came from too little sleep and too much adrenaline. Some still fidgeted with broom straps or whispered last-minute encouragements to each other. One boy dropped his bat and scrambled to retrieve it, cheeks burning red. Another girl tightened her gloves with shaking fingers, glancing furtively at Lyra like she might be disqualified for blinking wrong. A pair of second-years looked like they might be sick. Lyra waited until the group had formed something resembling a line before continuing, her stance firm, clipboard in hand.  

"Three positions are open this year," she said, unrolling the parchment and glancing down its contents, for effect. "Two Beaters. One Seeker. If you’ve been watching the team for more than five minutes, you already know who our Chasers are, and I’m not moving them. Keeper’s spoken for, obviously ."  

There were a few chuckles—tense and scattered. Marcus Flint smirked from the far sideline, lazily tossing the Quaffle into the air and catching it one-handed with a slap of leather. He’d clearly found the entire display amusing. Lyra didn’t look his way.  

"We’ll start with Seeker," she continued. "You get one go. One snitch. I don’t want a chase—I want to see who spots it first, who makes a clean pursuit, and who knows how to close without killing themselves or breaking someone else’s broom. Understood?"  

The assembled group nodded, though some slower than others. One of them tried to look confident and failed spectacularly.  

Lyra gave a sharp nod to the crate beside her. Cassius, already anticipating, stepped forward and flipped the latch open. The golden snitch burst into the air with a high, metallic hum, wings buzzing furiously as it shot skyward and vanished into the cloudy horizon.  

Lyra began calling names in order, her voice steady and unyielding.  

The first two hopefuls—a wiry third-year girl and a fourth-year boy who couldn’t stop glancing at his own broom—flew like they'd forgotten how wind worked. The girl overcompensated on every turn, gripping her broom so tight her knuckles went white. The boy stalled out entirely mid-pitch, hovering awkwardly as he scanned the sky in vain. Neither came close to tracking the snitch, let alone chasing it.  

It was like watching first-years chase butterflies with blindfolds on.  

The third was better. A tall fifth-year with a clean mount and confident air, he had a good eye and even better reflexes. For a moment, Lyra thought he might pull it off. But he lost the snitch on a feint and nearly clipped one of the goalposts pulling out of his dive, wobbling just enough to erase the goodwill he’d earned.  

Lyra didn’t flinch. She didn’t sigh. She simply marked each name with a line on her parchment—straight, unemotional, final. It wasn’t personal. It was precision.  

The fourth was forgettable. The fifth never even saw the snitch.  

Then she called, “Malfoy.”  

Draco stepped forward with the ease of someone who knew he wouldn’t be denied. His boots clicked once against the wood planks as he moved, each motion deliberate. His broom—the gleaming Nimbus 2001—looked like it had been polished that morning. He mounted without hesitation, expression calm, almost clinical.  

He didn’t grin. Didn’t showboat. Just kicked off and rose cleanly into the air. Every movement was sharp, practiced, and economic. No wasted effort. No flash. Just focus. There was none of the twitchy eagerness the others had carried—just quiet, poised determination.  

Lyra didn’t look away. She couldn’t. He seemed to have taken her suggestions this summer to heart.   

The snitch shimmered again—low this time, near the edge of the pitch, dancing just above the grass before darting back toward the stands. Draco spotted it immediately. His eyes narrowed, and without a flicker of hesitation, he banked hard and cut across the field. His broom responded with perfect compliance, slicing through the wind in a clean arc.  

His turns were tight. His pursuit clean. He handled the speed and sharp changes in direction like someone far older, more seasoned. When the snitch darted upward in a sudden burst, Draco leaned in and rose with it, adjusting mid-air with a fluid grace that would have made most Seeker coaches take notice.  

Lyra felt her breath catch in her throat.  

The rest of the field watched, silent. A few murmurs rippled across the sidelines. Flint raised an eyebrow. Cassius crossed his arms. Even Adrian had paused his warm-up to watch.  

Then—Draco caught it.  

Fingers snapped around the delicate golden wings mid-dive. The contact was so clean, so sudden, it was almost anticlimactic.  

He landed smoothly, dismounted with a practiced motion, and turned to face her. The snitch fluttered once in his hand, wings ticking like a metronome.  

Lyra didn’t smile but she nodded once firmly.  

Draco lit up. Not in a smug way and not for the others. Just a flash of something sharp and real—a spark of pride aimed entirely at her.  

She made a note on the clipboard, then glanced skyward again. The clouds hadn’t shifted. The wind hadn’t changed. But something in her chest—tight since the start of the morning—loosened just slightly.  

He’d earned it.  

And whether he knew it or not, he’d done it for her.  

And she was proud .  

Lyra tucked her quill behind her ear and glanced over the top of the clipboard. “Beaters next,” she called, letting her voice slice through the low murmur of nerves and chatter. Cassius moved into place beside her, dragging the crate of bludgers across the grass with a soft thunk-thunk as it bounced over uneven patches.  

There was a noticeable shift in the group of remaining hopefuls. Some let out the breath they’d been holding. Others stiffened. The kid in second-hand gloves looked like he might faint. One girl nervously cracked her knuckles, again and again, like she was working herself up for a duel. A tall boy adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, unnecessarily, three times. Lyra let her gaze sweep across them, but most of her attention had already moved ahead.  

Beaters didn’t just hit things. They watched everything. Controlled space. Guarded their team. Made noise when they needed to—but more importantly, they knew when to shut it all out. The wrong Beater turned a match into chaos.  

Lyra had lived through that once. She wasn’t going to do it again.  

Terence took off before she could say his name. He had the bat already in hand, swinging it once in a lazy arc like he was greeting an old friend. His shoulders looked broader than they had in June—more grounded. No dramatic grin today, no wink. Just that familiar tilt of his head, that unspoken I’ve got this .  

He met Lyra’s eye. She raised a brow in silent challenge. He nodded.  

Cassius popped the latch and the bludger screamed into the air.  

Terence was on it like he’d been waiting all week. His first swing made a noise that echoed off the stands—sharp and loud, but not uncontrolled. He angled his broom hard to the left, tracking its rebound without even glancing back at the others. It was like watching someone argue with gravity—and win.  

From the sidelines, Cassius lobbed him a second bat. Terence caught it easily, swapped hands, and brought it down hard against the returning bludger, sending it howling toward the far goalpost.  

Lyra watched without blinking.  

It wasn’t flashy, but it was clean. Thoughtful. Controlled. More than that—he looked like he was thinking three moves ahead. She liked that.  

She didn’t mark anything yet. Not until the next name.  

Madison Avery.  

A few students leaned forward.  

She looked like a fourth-year trying to fake being a sixth. A tidy braid and nervous jaw, but her eyes—her eyes were sharp. Watching everything. That wasn’t nerves, it was the kind of focus Lyra was looking for.  

Lyra called her up, and Madison didn’t hesitate. She took off in a clean vertical rise, legs tucking neatly beneath her broom. She wasn’t fast like Terence, not in raw speed. But her transitions—how she moved in response to the bludger—were almost instinctive. She shifted before the ball did. Almost like she could smell it coming.  

One clipped her shoulder, and she didn’t even flinch. Just turned and swung . Not for show, not out of panic but decisive—like she belonged there.  

Lyra felt something lift in her chest. That was the difference. Not the hit—the stillness . The steadiness.  

Madison didn’t smirk or look around for approval. She finished her pass, hovered for a few seconds, and waited. Calm. Present. Ready.  

Now Lyra made her mark.  

Fourth year. Small frame. No reputation. And still, she’d handled that tryout better than most sixth-years would have. Madison wasn’t just promising—she was a balancing force. Lyra could see it already: the way she’d offset Terence’s force with control, her quick reads against his blunt power.  

Lyra gave one low whistle. “That’s it.”  

Cassius wrangled the Bludgers back into the crate while Adrian muttered something about losing a tooth if one more got loose. Terence dropped down beside her, winded but grinning, and tossed the bat back with a soft clunk. Madison landed next, quiet but not shy, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve like it was just another Thursday.  

Lyra stepped forward and cleared her throat. “Both of you,” she said, tone low but final, “you’re in.”  

Madison blinked once, then gave the smallest nod. Terence grinned wider.  

No applause or ceremony. Just a team taking shape.  

The rest of the hopefuls stood off to the side, waiting for their chance that never came. Lyra didn't call another name. She didn't have to. One of them—a fifth-year boy with a scuffed broom and bruised knuckles—shifted from foot to foot before muttering something under his breath and walking off. Another stood frozen for a moment, eyes on the sky like maybe someone would change their mind. But no one did. They began to drift away in clumps, some looking disappointed, others resigned. A few looked angry. A few didn’t even pretend not to be.  

Lyra watched them go with a weight pressing against her ribs. Some of them probably had potential. A couple might’ve surprised her. But not today. Not when she had already seen what she needed. Wanting it didn’t make you ready.  

It was harsh. Maybe even unfair. But this wasn’t a club. It was a team. And she wasn’t going to waste their time—or hers—chasing maybes. Not when she’d found two players who could win .  

As the last few trailed off the pitch, she caught one of the younger girls glancing back. Eyes bright. Set jaw. Something halfway between tears and defiance. Lyra held the stare a moment longer than necessary, then looked away.  

She remembered what it felt like to be overlooked.  

But she also remembered what it felt like to be the one knocked off her broom because someone flinched when it counted. There wasn’t room for sympathy in the lineup.  

Only certainty.  

---------------------------------  

The locker room smelled like polish, old leather, and the sharp tang of air that always lingered after a team gathering—even if it hadn’t been a full practice. Across the meeting room, the boys’ side echoed with familiar voices and the occasional thud of a locker closing. Damp boots lined the benches, half-buttoned robes hung over lockers, and someone had left a Quaffle wedged under the bench with a muddy heel print on it.  

They trickled in slowly, still riding the energy of tryouts. Cassius and Adrian were already ribbing each other like they hadn't just spent the morning on opposite ends of the pitch most of the time. Terence claimed the bench closest to the lockers and leaned back like it was his second home. Madison followed more cautiously, her gaze flicking over the benches, hooks, and lockers like she was committing every inch to memory. The sleeves of her robes were streaked with grass, and one of her boots squeaked slightly when she walked. She hadn’t said much since they came in, but Lyra caught the way her eyes moved. Taking it all in. Becoming part of it.  

Flint barked a laugh as Draco came through the door last, tossing his gloves toward the hooks. "Thought you were going to dive straight into the lake, Malfoy."  

"You’re just mad I caught it faster than you ever could," Draco shot back, not even bothering to look.  

Cassius let out a low whistle. "Ooh, bold talk for a second-year ."  

"He’s not wrong though," Adrian added, grinning. "You did look like you were trying to fly with both hands behind your back last season."  

Lyra let the noise swell, just for a moment. The ease of it. The normalcy. It was the first time since the start of last year that the team had sounded like one.  

Madison peeled off her gloves and tossed them at Cassius, who barely caught them in time, looking momentarily startled. She didn’t say a word—just arched a brow with a shrug, like she was daring him to make a comment. Cassius blinked, then gave a crooked grin as if to say, fair enough .  

Lyra cleared her throat.  

"Alright, listen up."  

The chatter died quickly. Even Flint straightened up.  

She didn’t pace. She didn’t raise her voice. She just looked at them, steady and level.  

"That was good work today. But this is just the start. If you want to stay on this team, I expect discipline, attention, and pride—in your playing, and in Slytherin. We’re not here to look impressive during tryouts. We’re here to win."  

Her eyes swept the group, pausing briefly on each face. Draco looked alert. Cassius had stopped chewing gum. Madison didn’t blink from her spot next to him.  

"We’ve got a few weeks until our first match. That’s time to sharpen every corner. Miss a drill, and you run laps. But if you show up and play like you did today—every day—we’re going to crush them."  

There were no cheers. No claps. Just that focused, electric quiet before things move.  

"You're dismissed," she said.  

They filtered out slowly, still buzzing with leftover energy. Most of them veered off toward the boys’ changing room on the other side of the meeting hall, already falling back into their usual rhythms. Terence tossed an arm around Cassius’s shoulder. Adrian was halfway into a story about a broom malfunction that probably never happened. Flint muttered something about needing new broom polish. Madison lingered a moment longer in the center, glancing back toward the girls’ side like she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Lyra gave a small nod, tilting her head toward the door behind her. Madison nodded once more, then slipped through into the girls’ changing room.  

When the room had emptied, the silence settled thick.  

A few minutes later, once the echo of footsteps faded through the central meeting room and into the corridor beyond, Lyra sat on the edge of the bench and let the quiet settle around her. Her fingers moved absently to the inside of her gloves, still fresh despite her loosening them up.  

She brushed her thumb across the seam. Wondered if she’d ever know who sent them.  

This was her last season. Her final year with the team. With the pitch. With the weight of the gear that had come to feel like part of her.  

She swallowed hard and looked around the empty room.  

So much she hadn’t said.  

She crouched beside her bag, carefully stowing her gear one piece at a time. Shin guards, robes, goggles—each tucked in like they mattered. Like they were part of something sacred.  

When she got to the gloves, she paused, her fingers brushing over the smooth leather. Then, gently, she laid them on top—last and deliberate.  

At least they had a damn good team this year. No weak links. No baggage. Just strength, grit, and talent. There was no way they were losing—not this year. The Cup was staying right where it belonged.  

Lyra zipped the bag shut and slung it over her shoulder.  

It was a good day to bleed green.  

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with the low drone of morning conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery against plates. Platters of kippers and toast hovered lazily over the long tables, trailing curls of steam into the grey light streaming down from the enchanted ceiling.  

The sky overhead was bright and clear, sunlight catching on the castle’s stone floors and gleaming silverware. It promised a perfect day—sharp shadows, high contrast, the kind of weather that made brooms fly cleaner and faster. For once, Lyra didn’t mind the good weather. Cloud cover meant fewer distractions on the pitch, fewer excuses for missed catches or poor visibility. Just the game and the players. That was all she wanted but for some reason she felt like the clear sky might be better.  

She had a feeling today was going to be good, she wasn't used to feeling like this. It felt strange but Draco seemed happy, not just with the weather but with life in general. Lyra couldn't help but smile when she saw his eyes light up and his smile widen as he talked to his friends down the table.  

She sat with her back to the Hall’s main entrance, her plate barely touched as she picked at scrambled eggs more out of habit than appetite. At least someone was having a good time. All she could think about this morning was Rodolphus. Lyra let her smile drop as looked around at everyone.  

The Slytherin table carried on in its usual early-morning pattern—half asleep, half alert, fully judgmental. Terence was on her right, hair flattened awkwardly on one side and sticking out at odd angles on the other. He blinked slowly, as if unsure whether he was actually awake Gemma was basically attatched to his hip and was far to chipper for anyones good.  

Cassius was on Lyra's left, already halfway through a plate stacked high with toast and sausages. He had a folded parchment open beside his goblet, absently comparing broom specs while shoving bites of food into his mouth without looking.  

Madison sat directly across from her, hands in her lap, spine rigid. Her plate looked untouched save for a triangle of toast she hadn’t moved since sitting down. Her new practice robes were neat, her hair tied tightly back, and her eyes kept darting from Terence to Cassius and back again—as if waiting for someone to suddenly laugh and tell her the tryout had been a joke.  

Lyra couldn’t help the flicker of jealousy that passed through her chest like a phantom pain. All around her—her friends, her teammates—there were traces of something she’d never really had. Loving families. Parents who smiled without agendas. She knew, in her heart, that Bellatrix had loved her, in her own way. And maybe, maybe Edgar had too. But it was Rodolphus who lived sharpest in her memory.  

Rodolphus didn’t love anything but control. Power. Himself. And what he’d done to her—what he’d tried to shape her into—had broken something deep inside. Lyra knew it. She’d known it for years. But lately, the damage had been harder to ignore. The nightmares had crept back in full force.  

She’d had one just last night.  

She could still smell the smoke when she closed her eyes. Still hear the panicked screams and the crackling flames licking up the sides of houses as Rodolphus dragged her along behind him on another raid. Could still feel the sharp edge of his wand pressed into her hand—his hand wrapped over hers, forcing her to aim at the Muggle woman crumpled at their feet. Could still hear his voice, low and furious and demanding, trying to will the Cruciatus out of her.  

She’d refused. She always had. But refusing didn’t make the memory any less real.  

A shiver ran through her, and she forced herself to blink, to pull herself out of it.  

She hated Rodolphus. That would never change. But she refused to let him take up any more space inside her than he already had. Not today. Not here.  

She glanced around the table again—at Terence’s half-awake grin, at Cassius muttering to himself through a mouthful of toast, at Madison trying not to look too nervous. At the ease of it all.  

This was her family. These were her people. Just like Draco. Just like Narcissa. And yes—even Lucius, in his own overbearing, calculating way. They were hers. And she was done looking back.   

Lyra watched her for a beat longer, then broke the silence. “We’ve got the pitch today,” she said, voice low but firm enough to cut clean through the sleepy buzz around them. “Ten sharp. Full kit.”  

Cassius glanced up with a crooked grin, flipping the parchment over. “Hope you’re ready to run her into the ground, Higgs. I heard Avery’s reaction time is quicker than yours.”  

Terence swatted vaguely in his direction. “She’s got fresher legs. Doesn’t count.”  

Madison blinked. "I—wait, I thought Gryffindor had the slot today?"  

Her voice was tentative, still not used to the rhythm of this part of the table, the sharpness beneath the teasing. Lyra arched a brow, reaching for her tea. “Not anymore. I had Madam Hooch shift the booking last week, even got a slip of parchment from Snape confirming it. We’ve got new players. I’m not wasting the first match figuring out if we can work together.”  

“You had her shift it?” Terence asked, giving her a sidelong look. “Did you threaten her or bribe her?”  

Lyra sipped her tea and didn’t answer.  

Madison looked faintly horrified. Cassius just chuckled and shook his head. “She probably just stared at her until she gave in. You know how she gets.”  

Further down the table, Adrian snorted into his pumpkin juice. “You know Gryffindor’s going to throw a tantrum. Probably sob into their breakfast all the way to McGonagall.”  

“Let them,” Cassius said, not bothering to lower his voice. “It’s not our fault they can’t hold onto a schedule.”  

Lyra leaned back slightly, rolling her shoulders once, letting the movement pull a faint pop from the tight muscles along her spine. Her spoon clinked gently against the rim of her teacup as she set it down.  

Today’s training would be worth whatever blowback came from it. She needed to see how Madison flew when no one was watching but her team. She needed to see how Terence moved when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She needed Cassius sharp, not just smug. And most of all, she needed them to start feeling like a team again—because if they didn’t, it was going to fall apart before the season even started.  

No time for hesitating. No time for second chances. And certainly no time for apologies.  

If Gryffindor wanted to make a scene about the pitch, fine.  

Let them try.  

Lyra barely had time to take another sip of tea before a shadow fell over the table.  

A first-year, eyes wide and posture stiff, stood holding a folded scrap of parchment. He looked like he expected to be hexed just for interrupting. "Uh-I-It's from Professor Snape," he mumbled, thrusting the note toward her.  

Lyra took it, already knowing what it said.  

Your presence is required in my office immediately.  

She sighed through her nose, folded the parchment once more, and stood.  

Terence leaned around her. "You in trouble?"  

"Aren’t I always?" she muttered with a slight smile, brushing off the crumbs from her lap. "Hold the gossip until I get back."  

Cassius smirked. "No promises."  

As she exited the hall, she felt the weight of a few curious stares at her back. Not many, but enough to know her absence hadn’t gone unnoticed. The staff table was a blur in her periphery—Snape no longer seated.  

The walk to his office was familiar. Too familiar. The stone corridor sloped cool and narrow toward the dungeons, the torchlight flickering unevenly as she descended. Lyra didn’t bother knocking. She just pushed the door open.  

Inside, the office was dim and sharply scented with astringent potions and dried herbs. The usual bottles lined the walls in their ominous rows. But what stopped her short wasn’t the jars.  

It was her uncle standing calmly in front of Snape’s desk, his cane resting lightly against one gloved hand. The posture was familiar: polished, proud, and infuriatingly unreadable. Lyra took one look at his perfectly composed expression and immediately felt the urge to needle him into cracking it, if only for her own amusement.  

He turned as if her entrance had been precisely timed. "Lyra," he said, voice smooth and unreadable. "Punctual."  

She shut the door behind her. "You asked for me?"  

Snape was seated behind the desk, hands steepled, expression blank. But his eyes flicked to Lucius, then to Lyra, as if already bracing for something.  

"A brief matter," Lucius said, gesturing toward a narrow crate near the fireplace. "They’ve arrived."  

Lyra’s eyes flicked to the crate, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Finally," she said. "Took them long enough."  

Lucius inclined his head, just slightly. "Customs were slow. I didn’t want to send an owl until I had confirmation, but yes, the full set of Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones has arrived—one for each member of your team to match yours and Draco's, just like I promised"  

Snape shifted behind his desk, his eyes narrowing. "You ordered brooms for the entire Slytherin team?"  

"Of course," Lucius replied smoothly, with just a trace of offense in his tone. "You didn’t think I’d let Gryffindor strut onto the pitch thinking their Cleansweeps were good enough to close the gap?"  

Lyra didn’t say anything more, but she met Lucius’s eyes and gave a single approving nod—the kind that meant thanks, but don’t get smug about it.  

He continued as if it were routine. "With the Cup so firmly in our sights, I saw no reason not to level the playing field."  

Snape’s voice, quieter than before but edged with something unreadable, broke the silence. He glanced once at the crate and then at Lyra. "You might’ve given me some warning."  

Lyra tilted her head. "You’re not surprised."  

"No," he admitted. "But it would’ve been courteous."  

He straightened in his chair, tone returning to its usual smooth caution. "It’s a generous gesture. And one I hope you understand comes with expectations.""  

Lyra gave a slow nod. She knew what that meant. Don’t give them a reason to doubt you. Don’t let the other Houses twist this into something ugly. And above all, don’t fail.  

Lucius smiled faintly, "I assume you’ll put them to good use. And how’s Draco settling back in? He wrote that you haven’t hexed him yet this term, which I suppose counts as progress."  

"I always do," she said flatly, then added with a smirk, "Draco hasn’t been that insufferable—yet. But it’s not even October, he’s still got time."  

"Excellent." Lucius said with a slight chuckle.  

He gave Snape a slight nod, then stepped past Lyra—pausing, just briefly, to rest a gloved hand on her shoulder. His voice dropped, so only she could hear it. "Write to Narcissa. She’s been asking after you more than usual. Something about missing your opinion."  

Lyra gave a slight smile, and the weight of the day felt lighter.  

As he turned to leave, she called after him, voice dry. "Thanks for the brooms, Lucy."  

Lucius paused in the doorway. He didn’t turn around, but she saw the faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You're welcome, brat," he said lightly.  

Then Lucius swept out of the room, footsteps echoing against the stone as the door clicked softly shut behind him.  

Lyra didn’t move.  

Snape let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "You know what this means."  

"That I have to win," she said.  

He gave her a look. "That you have to be seen winning fairly."  

Lyra crossed her arms. "Since when has anything about this school been fair?"  

Snape’s mouth twitched like he might’ve smiled, if he were a different man. "Just keep them in line."  

She nodded once, then turned to leave, the soft click of her boots the only sound in the room.  

Before the door shut behind her, she circled back and levitated the crate of brooms with a quiet swish of her wand. It floated beside her through the stone corridors, gleaming green lettering just visible on the side.  

By the time she reached the common room, the team was scattered across their usual corner—Terence sprawled on the couch, Cassius perched on the arm with a game of Exploding Snap forgotten in his lap, and Madison flipping through her practice notes with a quill tucked behind one ear.  

The crate thudded lightly to the ground. Heads turned.  

"Delivery," Lyra said dryly, popping the lid open with another flick of her wand.  

Five Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones gleamed inside, polished and perfect.  

Cassius let out a low whistle. Terence’s eyes went wide.  

"Holy shit," he breathed. "No way."  

"Way," Lyra replied, arms crossed. "Courtesy of Lucius Malfoy. And yes, you’re all officially out of excuses now."  

The common room erupted into chatter, everyone crowding closer to see. Madison just stared, jaw slack.  

Lyra let herself lean back against the wall, arms still folded, a small satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. This was going to be a good year—one way or another.  

------------------------------  

The sun was bright and high overhead by the time Lyra and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team stepped out into the courtyard, broomsticks in hand and green-trimmed practice cloaks rippling with every step. The new Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones gleamed like polished silver in the midday light, impossibly sleek, the kind of brooms that turned heads without effort. Students paused mid-conversation to watch them pass, some whispering, others gawking openly. The Slytherins walked as one, a perfectly coordinated unit with just enough swagger to make it clear they knew exactly how impressive they looked—and they weren’t pretending otherwise.  

Cassius rested his broom over his shoulder and gave a low whistle. "We're going to look like a bloody exhibition team out there."  

"Good," Lyra said, adjusting the strap of her gloves. Her tone was clipped, unreadable. "Let them stare. It’ll give them something to remember when they lose."  

"And cry about after," Terence added, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If they thought we were insufferable last year..."  

"Wait until they see the scoreboard," Adrian finished with a grin, glancing down at the brand-new broom in his hand like it had just whispered sweet nothings to him.  

Madison trailed slightly behind, cradling her broom like it might vanish if she blinked. Lyra caught the expression on her face—a mix of awe and disbelief—and felt the barest flicker of pride. It was going to be a good season.  

They rounded the far arch of the courtyard, laughter still low in their throats, when the red-and-gold blockade came into view. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was gathered at the opposite end, just beyond the carved steps that led down toward the pitch. Wood stood front and center, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar. Fred and George were on either side of him, looking like two thunderclouds ready to explode. Behind them, Harry Potter held his broom a little too tightly, and Hermione Granger hovered close to Ron Weasley, whose ears had already turned an angry shade of red.  

The Slytherin team slowed. Brooms lowered. The energy shifted—more charged now, electric.  

"Well, well," Wood said as they approached, voice cold. "Didn’t expect to see you lot on the pitch today."  

Lyra didn’t slow her pace. She stopped only when she was a few feet from him, expression calm, unreadable. "Funny," she replied. "We were just thinking the same about you."  

Wood stepped forward, indignant. "We booked the pitch for this afternoon. Madam Hooch confirmed it—last week."  

"Madam Hooch changed the schedule," Lyra said smoothly, her tone like polished stone. "You were notified this morning. Maybe check the board next time before dragging your team out here."  

George scoffed. "Let me guess— Lucius Malfoy waved a few Galleons and got what he wanted."  

"Probably tossed in another donation," Fred muttered. "New uniforms next? Gold-trimmed gloves?"  

Draco stepped up beside Lyra, one hand resting lightly on his new broom, the other tucked casually into his cloak pocket. The smirk he wore was pure provocation. "Don’t be sore just because you’ve still got charity brooms."  

Harry bristled. "It’s not about the brooms."  

"Of course it’s not," Draco said, eyes glinting. "It’s about how Gryffindor can’t stand being outclassed. Again."  

"You wish," Ron snarled, stepping forward.  

Draco’s grin sharpened. "I suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Weasley? Not much to show when your whole family’s still scavenging hand-me-downs."  

Lyra shot him a look. "Draco," she said under her breath. Warning tone. Cold edge.  

But he wasn’t done.  

Hermione stepped between them. "Come on, Ron. Let’s go."  

Draco’s eyes locked on her next. "You’d better take your Mudblood and scurry off before someone mistakes her for something useful."  

Everything froze.  

Even the breeze seemed to die.  

Ron’s face drained of color, then flushed dark red. His wand was out before anyone could blink.  

"Ron—don’t—!" Hermione’s hand grabbed for his arm, too late.  

The spell fired.  

Lyra moved fast—too fast to think. She stepped in front of Draco on instinct, but the charm never made it that far. The moment Ron’s wand let it loose, the spell went haywire, shooting straight upward before spiraling off like a pinwheel. The broken wand sputtered in his hand, sparks flying from the cracked wood. With a loud, wet bang, the magic reversed itself entirely and shot back down—slamming Ron squarely in the chest.  

Ron doubled over, retching slugs onto the stone.  

Gasps rippled through the courtyard. A few younger students screamed. A group of Ravenclaws by the fountain backed away quickly. Someone whispered, "Merlin’s beard."  

Cassius stared, wide-eyed. "Bloody hell."  

"Serves him right," Draco sneered, voice thick with smugness.  

But Lyra spun on him, eyes flashing. Without a word, she reached out and grabbed him by the ear—hard—dragging him two steps back and shoving him firmly behind Marcus and Adrian.  

She leaned in, her voice a razor-thin whisper. "I will deal with you later."  

Draco blinked, stunned, but said nothing. He stayed put, ears red, face pale.  

Lyra turned to Hermione. "Get him to Pomfrey. Before he decorates the flagstones."  

Harry stepped in. "Come on."  

They started to go. Fred couldn’t resist. "We’ll keep the pitch warm for you!"  

"You’re not touching the pitch," Marcus barked. "You’re down a player. Looks like your practice is over."  

That did it.  

George’s grin vanished. Fred’s hand hovered near his wand. Wood stepped forward, posture rigid with fury.  

"We can still run drills," he snapped.  

"Not on our time," Terence replied flatly.  

The shouting began again—snapping words and rising voices—until the heavy oak doors behind them opened.  

Percy Weasley stormed into view, prefect badge gleaming like a warning. "What’s going on here?"  

Penelope Clearwater followed close behind, her eyes locking immediately onto Lyra with visible disdain.  

Lyra didn’t flinch. She folded her arms across her chest and stared Penelope down, jaw clenched, daring her to say something.  

The courtyard, once a quiet passage to the pitch, now simmered with tension. Every breath felt heavy. Every word teetered on the edge of explosion.  

And no one was backing down.  

The silence that followed lasted only a breath—just long enough for Penelope Clearwater to seize it.  

"Typical," she muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. "Of course you’re at the center of it."  

Lyra, who had just started to turn toward the pitch becuase this clearly wasn't going anywhere good, stilled. She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable. "It’s been dealt with."  

"Really?" Penelope’s tone dripped with sarcasm. "Because it looks to me like you let your Seeker throw slurs, and then stood around while a Gryffindor projectile-vomited slugs across the courtyard."  

"I said it’s handled," Lyra replied, turning fully now. Her voice was steady, but there was a coldness there—dangerously close to breaking.  

"Handled," Penelope scoffed, arms folding. "By what? Letting them insult half the school and walk away like nothing happened?"  

"We don’t need you or Weasley stepping in to play heroes," Lyra said tightly. "This doesn’t concern either of you."  

Percy, to his credit, seemed like he wanted no part of this fight. His gaze flicked between the teams. "Pen, maybe we should—"  

But Penelope waved him off. She wasn’t done.  

"You always think you’re above everyone else," she snapped, stepping closer. "Just because you’ve got a fancy last name and a talent for smirking doesn’t mean you’re untouchable."  

Lyra’s jaw tensed. "Walk away, Clearwater. I’m not in the mood."  

"Or what?" Penelope sneered. "What are you going to do, Lyra—write home to Mummy and Daddy? Oh, wait . They don’t allow owls in Azkaban, do they?"  

The insult hit like a slap.  

The courtyard fell utterly still. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike froze, the weight of Penelope’s words hanging heavy in the late morning air. A fourth-year gasped. Someone dropped their broom.  

Terence swore under his breath. Adrian muttered something sharp that earned him a glance from Flint. Even Draco, standing quietly behind the others, blinked and looked down.  

Percy’s face drained of color. "Penelope—"  

But it was too late.  

Lyra stepped forward with terrifying calm. She didn’t rush. She didn’t shout. She just moved until the space between them was razor-thin, until Penelope had to look up slightly to meet her eyes. Her expression hadn’t changed, but the air around her seemed to thrum with cold energy.  

Her voice, when it came, was a whisper that felt like a blade pressed against the skin. "You better get your Mudblood back on her leash before she hurts herself, Prissy."  

The last word was deliberately angled toward Percy. A flick of tone, a glance—and the implication landed hard.  

Penelope’s breath hitched. Percy went rigid beside her.  

Lyra didn’t wait. She turned on her heel with perfect composure and called back over her shoulder, "Team—let’s go. Pitch isn’t going to run itself."  

The Slytherins followed instantly, a wall of green and silver moving in practiced unison. Brooms over shoulders, eyes narrowed, they didn’t even spare Penelope a glance as they passed. Even Madison, who normally kept her head down, looked straight ahead with measured defiance.  

Penelope stood there frozen, her jaw clenched, her hands trembling at her sides. Her cheeks burned with color, her mouth parting in disbelief.  

Percy, still at her side, didn’t speak. He didn’t move either.  

Finally, the silence cracked.  

"You bitch," Penelope spat, her voice shaking.  

Lyra turned slightly but didn’t flinch. She just raised one gloved hand in a lazy, dismissive wave as her boots echoed against the flagstones. The sound was sharp, final, and echoing like punctuation. Every step away from Penelope felt like a rejection, a refusal to rise to bait that everyone in the courtyard had heard. She didn’t even look back.  

Penelope stood there, trembling with fury, lips parted like she might still have something else to say. Her whole posture was tight, her arms rigid, the indignation rolling off her like heat from a flame. Her eyes were locked on Lyra’s back, brimming with something vindictive. A few Gryffindors stood with her, caught between gaping silence and awkward disbelief. The air was taut, like a bowstring stretched to its breaking point.  

Then—without warning—Penelope stepped forward, closing the last bit of distance between them. She reached out and grabbed Lyra’s shoulder, spinning her just slightly, just enough to force her to meet her eyes. Then her hand moved—fast, reckless, and with no thought behind it, just pure rage .  

The slap cracked across Lyra’s cheek like a misfired curse, loud enough to silence the entire courtyard. Her head jerked to the side, and her short fringe flew briefly across forehead as she staggered back a full step. The sharp sting bloomed immediately, and the sound echoed through the air like something sacred had just been violated. It wasn’t just a slap—it was a line crossed. A rule broken. And everyone felt it.  

Gasps followed instantly. A Hufflepuff dropped her satchel. A Ravenclaw looked like he wanted to vanish. The clatter of a broomstick echoed somewhere behind them. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Then came silence—sharp, breathless, watching silence. A frozen snapshot of the moment before everything shattered.  

Lyra’s hand rose to her mouth. Her fingers touched the corner of her lip with measured slowness, like she wasn’t entirely in her own body. When she pulled her glove away, it was streaked with crimson.  

Blood .   

And that was all it took.  

She wasn’t in the courtyard anymore. She wasn’t surrounded by classmates, teammates, or prefects. She was in a corridor. A dark room. A locked door. The sound of leather against skin. The choking stench of firewhisky and blood. A laugh too close to her ear. A man’s voice whispering cruel things she couldn’t forget.  

Rodolphus. 

Her stomach clenched. Her ears rang. The buzzing sound swallowed everything else.  

The rage didn’t explode. It didn’t even rise. It simply appeared—total and cold. A tidal wave cresting in silence, as familiar to her as breathing. It slid into her bones like it had been waiting.  

She lunged.  

Penelope barely had time to blink before Lyra’s shoulder slammed into her torso. The sound of the impact was a thud that vibrated through the ground. They went down hard, Penelope hitting the flagstones with a cry. Her arms flailed, but Lyra was already on top of her.  

Fists met skin.  

The first punch broke her nose with a crunch that made several students flinch. Blood sprayed across the stones, a shock of red on pale stone. The smell of it hit the air like copper and iron.  

The second tore through Penelope’s eyebrow, opening a gash that started pouring blood instantly. It ran down the side of her face and dripped onto her collar.  

The third, brutal and fast, cracked across her mouth. Her lip split. Her head hit the stones again with a dull thump. Her cry this time was muffled—choked.  

Students were shouting now. Someone screamed. A younger student backed away in horror, clutching a bookbag to their chest. A second-year started crying. A few others scattered entirely, running for a teacher or simply too afraid to stay.  

Penelope writhed, tried to shield her face, but Lyra’s weight pinned her. Every blow came down with the weight of years behind it—of silence endured, of nightmares ignored, of pain swallowed. The rhythm of the hits wasn’t chaotic. It was methodical. Controlled. Terrifying.  

Someone—maybe Wood—swore loudly and moved forward before stopping short, unsure of what to do  

"Lyra! Bloody hell—stop!"  

Terence’s voice cracked through the chaos. He was running now, Cassius right behind him, both pushing past frozen classmates.  

"Get off her! You’ll kill her!"  

They grabbed her—Cassius at her waist, Terence at her shoulders—straining to drag her away. She didn’t make it easy. For one terrifying moment, she thrashed against them like she hadn’t heard a word. Her eyes were wide, wild, unfocused. Her breath came in gasps, teeth bared, blood dripping from her gloves.  

Her focus hadn’t returned. She was still somewhere else. Somewhere darker.  

Then—  

Stillness.  

Her arms dropped. Her body sagged. Her breath hitched like something had caught in her chest.  

Terence and Cassius held on, panting slightly, watching her like she might snap again.  

Penelope was still on the ground, curled in a tight, bleeding heap. Her robes were stained red. Her nose bent at the wrong angle. Her eyes glazed and unfocused. Every inch of her trembled. She whimpered softly, one hand pressed to the side of her head.  

The courtyard had turned to chaos. Students were backing away, whispering, staring. Some ran for help. Others stood frozen in disbelief. Even Draco looked unnerved. His smirk was gone. His posture stiff. He wasn’t saying anything.  

And then—  

"What in Merlin’s name is going on?!"  

Professor McGonagall’s voice tore through the space like lightning splitting the sky. She descended the steps with frightening speed, her cloak flaring, wand already drawn. There was no hesitation in her stride—only fury.  

Gasps parted for her like waves.  

She reached the scene, her expression thunderous, eyes taking in Penelope’s crumpled form, the blood on the stones, and Lyra—stiff, heaving, wild-eyed, held back by two stunned teammates. The entire courtyard had gone dead silent.  

Lyra didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her voice was somewhere far beneath the rising tide in her head.  

The roaring in her ears was louder than ever.  

She looked down at her blood-soaked gloves, still trembling slightly in the air. Her whole body felt numb, like she had dropped back into it only halfway.  

And for the first time all morning, she didn’t feel powerful.  

She felt like she’d broken something that wouldn’t fix.  

And everyone was staring.  

Some in fear. Some in awe. Some in silence.  

But no one—absolutely no one—looked away.  

Lyra blinked, chest still heaving, as the roar in her ears began to fade into something quieter—and worse. Her hands felt too heavy. The blood smeared across her gloves wasn’t just Penelope’s. It was a mirror. A memory. Her stomach twisted.  

What did I do? The thought came sudden and sharp, cutting through the numbness like a blade. I—I was just like him.  

And somewhere deep in her mind—unbidden, unwanted—came the sound of Rodolphus’s laugh.  

Chapter Text

Fuck!  

What the fuck did you just do?  

Lyra was out of it. She knew there were voices—McGonagall speaking to someone, maybe Percy, maybe Sprout—but they floated around her like echoes from another room. None of it reached. None of it mattered. Her feet ached. Her cheek still throbbed faintly, but that wasn’t what hurt. What hurt was deeper. Older. Her breath came shallow and uneven. She couldn’t look at Penelope. Couldn’t look at anyone.  

Thoughts flooded in fast, jagged, relentless.  

You’re just like him.  

You hit her.  

You wanted to.  

Her heart twisted. It wasn’t real. None of it felt real. It felt like a dream, a memory, something foreign—but the blood on her gloves told her otherwise.  

And then—  

"Miss Lestrange. With me. Now."  

That voice broke through. Sharp. Authoritative. Impossible to ignore.  

Lyra blinked, her vision stinging. McGonagall’s eyes were on her, hard as granite.  

She nodded.  

And followed.  

Her body moved instinctively, detached from conscious thought. Her limbs felt far away, sluggish and disconnected, like she was moving through a Pensieve memory rather than reality. Terence called her name—quiet, shaken—but she didn’t turn. She couldn’t. Her ears rang with the echo of Rodolphus’s laugh, twisted and smug and buried somewhere deep in her mind. It echoed off the walls of her thoughts, dragging with it memories she had buried.  

Behind her, Percy Weasley’s expression was caught somewhere between horror and control as he knelt beside Penelope’s battered form. Professor Sprout was already waving her wand in gentle, practiced movements, conjuring a stretcher with quiet urgency. Penelope’s face was slick with blood, her breathing shallow, her body limp. Someone conjured a blanket, someone else whispered a spell to keep her stable. Lyra didn’t look back. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to look away. If she saw what she had done, really saw it, she wasn’t sure what she’d do next.  

Her boots moved on their own.  

The castle swallowed them. The shift in light from sun to stone shadows hit her like cold water. Halls she had walked a hundred times now stretched too wide, too bright. The stone walls, usually cool and grounding, seemed to pulse and lean. Whispers slithered after her like vines—soft, urgent, barbed with her name, her legacy, her curse.  

Lestrange.  

She caught pieces of them: "Did you see—?" "That was her—" "Is she mad—?" "No wonder—" "Blood everywhere—"  

A second-year flattened herself against the wall as Lyra passed. A sixth-year Gryffindor stared open-mouthed. A portrait of a witch in battle robes stepped out of her frame entirely, muttering something Lyra didn’t catch. The whispers were growing teeth now, biting at her heels.  

She kept her eyes on the floor. Not out of shame, exactly. More because if she looked up, she might see herself reflected in the faces of the students staring. She might see what she had become. And worse—what she’d always feared she already was.  

Her gloves were still on. The blood had dried tacky against the leather, darkened like old ink. She could feel it crusted beneath her fingernails, clinging like memory. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling slightly inward. Her wand hand ached from tension. Her stomach rolled. She could still taste copper in the back of her throat, like the violence hadn’t entirely left her.  

Every footstep echoed with too much weight. The rhythm was wrong. Loud. Accusing. The castle itself felt like it had turned its eyes toward her—walls narrowing, doors watching. The portraits didn’t smile. The torches seemed dimmer. Her own shadow felt like it was pulling away from her.  

What did I do?  

The thought looped in her mind, over and over again, though it no longer even felt like a question. It was a fact now. Something irreversible. She had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross. She could still feel the give of skin beneath her knuckles, the spray of blood, the stunned silence afterward. Her breath stuttered. Her chest hurt. Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.  

She remembered the look on Penelope’s face—surprise, fear, pain. She remembered the color of the blood, how quickly it came, how warm it had felt on her fists. She remembered how it had felt to be the one who caused it. And she hated herself for how familiar that feeling had been.  

McGonagall didn’t say a word. Her pace was brisk but not rushed. Her jaw was set in a line of stone. Her silence was heavier than shouting, more damning than any scolding. It told Lyra exactly how serious this was. Not just a school infraction. A warning bell. A pivot point. A crossroads she hadn’t seen coming until it was already behind her.  

They climbed staircases, crossed corridors, passed paintings that all seemed to go still as they approached. Even the suits of armor, which normally bowed politely to teachers, remained frozen. A trio of Hufflepuff first-years ducked into an alcove as they passed, staring with wide, anxious eyes.  

At the top of the last stairwell, the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office loomed ahead, mouth curled in a permanent sneer. Lyra had never felt less worthy of passing it. It reminded her of Rodolphus somehow—cold, judging, ancient. Like it knew what she was. Like it had been waiting for her.  

McGonagall stopped just short of it, finally turning to look at her.  

Her expression was grim—not cruel, but carved with exhaustion and disappointment. Like she was already preparing herself for what might happen next. Like she didn’t want to be right about this, but suspected she was.  

“This is very serious, Miss Lestrange.”  

The words were soft but final. They didn’t need elaboration. They were a sentence unto themselves. A verdict, even without judgment. A mirror being held up.  

Lyra nodded once. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Her throat burned. Her mouth tasted of blood and bile.  

The gargoyle moved aside with a slow grinding sound. The spiral staircase began to turn.  

And Lyra followed it up, blood on her gloves, weight in her lungs, and a sinking feeling that she’d just rewritten the ending of her story. Something vital inside her had cracked. Maybe it had always been cracked—maybe this was just the moment it finally broke apart.  

And she didn’t know yet if it could be put back together. Or if she even deserved to try. Or if anyone would ever look at her again without seeing the blood.  

Dumbledore was waiting.  

He didn’t rise when the office door opened, didn’t lift his wand or raise his voice. He simply looked up from behind his desk, his expression unreadable, hands folded calmly atop the polished wood. The fire in the hearth crackled gently. Fawkes rustled on his perch. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel like a scream. The warmth of the room felt suffocating, like the walls themselves were watching.  

The door closed behind Lyra with a soft, definitive click. It sounded too final. Like the closing of a cell door. Like judgment.  

McGonagall crossed the room with long, clipped strides and stopped just shy of Dumbledore’s desk, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. Her spine was straight, her expression neutral, but there was a storm gathering behind her eyes.  

“I walked into the courtyard as Miss Lestrange was being pulled off Miss Clearwater by Mr. Higgs and Mr. Warrington. Miss Clearwater was near unconscious. Professor Sprout and Mr. Weasley have taken her to the hospital wing.”  

Her voice was clipped, professional, but tight at the edges. Controlled, but barely. She didn’t look at Lyra. She didn’t have to. The disappointment hung in the air like smoke.  

Lyra didn’t move. She didn’t know where to put her hands—so she kept them at her sides, trembling faintly. The blood on her gloves had dried, but it still felt wet. Still felt hot. Her fingers curled slightly inward, twitching from the phantom echo of clenched fists. She focused on a crack in the stone floor near Dumbledore’s desk and didn’t look up.  

Her chest was tight. Her lungs ached. It felt like her ribcage had collapsed inward. She wanted to disappear—fade into the crack in the floor and vanish from the weight of their gazes. She didn’t deserve to be here.  

“You may wait outside, Minerva,” Dumbledore said softly. “Just for a moment.”  

McGonagall hesitated. A pause stretched in the air between them, heavy with unspoken doubt. Then she nodded once and swept back toward the door, the swish of her tartan robes the only sound as she exited.  

When it clicked shut, the silence expanded.  

Lyra’s heartbeat felt too loud. She didn’t know how she was still standing. Her knees threatened to give way beneath her, but she kept upright out of some stubborn instinct to not fall apart in front of him. She’d already lost enough.  

Dumbledore didn’t speak right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, calm. Measured. It filled the room without pressing down on her. But it still made her flinch.  

“I know what happened.”  

Lyra’s breath caught. Her throat burned. She didn’t breathe for several seconds.  

He didn’t sound angry. Not yet. Not anything, really. And that was worse. He sounded tired. Old. Like someone who’d seen too many students fall into the same darkness.  

He stood slowly and circled around his desk, moving toward the fireplace. His robes whispered softly with each step, a gentle rhythm that didn’t match the chaos thrumming through Lyra’s body. She watched the hem of his robes, unable to meet his eyes.  

“I’ve received accounts from at least six students, three professors, and Madam Pomfrey herself, in the time it took Professor McGonagall to bring you to me,” he continued. “Each of them consistent. Graphic. And concerned.”  

She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. She didn’t think anything she said would matter. What could she say? I’m sorry felt insulting. It won’t happen again felt like a lie. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her voice was lost in the roaring tide of shame.  

“I am not going to take points from Slytherin,” Dumbledore said, turning toward her. “You’ve already lost more than that today.”  

Lyra flinched. She hadn’t realized how tightly her jaw was clenched until she felt it loosen, muscles trembling. Her eyes stung, but she refused to let anything fall. Not here. Not now.  

“But,” he said, more gently now, “violence cannot go unanswered. Regardless of what provoked it. No matter how understandable the provocation.”  

She nodded. Once. Her eyes stayed on the floor. She wanted to disappear into it. To be gone. To wake up and have this all undone.  

“Miss Clearwater will serve detention with Professor Snape tomorrow evening if she is able.”  

Another pause. He gave her time to hear it. To let it settle.  

“And you, Miss Lestrange, will serve detention with Professor Burbage.”  

That made her look up.  

Charity.  

Her stomach dropped like a stone into freezing water. Her mouth went dry. Her fingers twitched again.  

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened.  

“You will report to her classroom at eigth o’clock tomorrow morning. She is expecting you.”  

Lyra said nothing. There was too much in her throat. Too much in her head. Her heartbeat had moved into her ears now, thudding in time with her racing thoughts.  

He stepped closer. Not invading, not accusing—just present.   

“What you do next matters more than what you just did,” he said. “We are more than our worst moments. Or we can be, if we choose to be.”  

His eyes held hers for a moment longer before he stepped back. She couldn’t hold the gaze long. Her shame clawed at her ribs.  

Dumbledore hesitated and looked to Fawkes fo a moment.  

"One more thing," he said quietly.  

Dumbledore looked at Lyra again—properly this time, not as the Headmaster, but as the man who’d waited for her in the shadowed streets of Salisbury. The one who asked her, weeks ago, who she wanted to be.  

"I meant what I said," he told her. "What comes next will define you more than this moment ever could. But you must understand something, Lyra. If you allow yourself to fight like that again—if you lose control in that way—there will be consequences I can’t protect you from."  

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.  

"Suspension. Or expulsion. Those are not words I use lightly."  

Lyra’s breath hitched.  

Dumbledore’s tone softened.  

"And yet," he continued, "what I saw today—was also loyalty. Fierce, unflinching loyalty. To your House, to Draco, to your family. That kind of loyalty... it’s rare."  

He folded his hands in front of him, voice low.  

"Your mother had it too. For her family. For you."  

Lyra’s eyes flicked to him then, uncertain.  

He didn’t smile. But his expression gentled.  

"You said last year you would help me," he reminded her. "That you wanted to do something good. And I believe you meant that. But I need someone who can hold their nerve, not just their fists."  

A long silence passed.  

Then he said, more quietly, "There will come a time when you’ll need to act—not for revenge, but for something better. And I need you ready for that. I need someone who can stand in both worlds and see clearly."  

He gave a small nod.  

"Go on now. Minerva will take you down."  

As if summoned, the door opened again. McGonagall stood waiting.  

Lyra nodded numbly and followed.  

And this time, she didn’t hear the whispers. Not because they weren’t there.  

But because she couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her own thoughts tearing her apart. The pounding, frantic drum of What if you are like him? beating harder with every step. And no matter how she tried, she couldn’t unhear the echo of her own voice in her head: You didn’t stop.  

You didn’t stop. . There was something there—conflicted, restrained—but she didn’t speak.  

“Come along,” she said.  

Lyra followed her professor once again, a thought came to her then.  

What if I don't want to be anyone at all, what if I don't want to do this anymore.  

---------------------------------  

The dorm was empty when she stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a muted thunk, muffled by the thick stone and quiet magic of the dungeons. The air inside felt heavier than usual, like it had been holding its breath for her return. Gemma was still at the library. She wouldn’t be back for hours—not that Lyra wanted her to be.  

Lyra stood at the threshold, frozen. Like if she moved, something would snap inside her. Her hands hung limp at her sides, leaden with exhaustion. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. She didn’t pick it up. Couldn’t. She just stood there, listening to the silence press against her from every side, every corner of the room whispering guilt and violence back at her.  

The silence wrapped around her like fog—thick, inescapable, impossible to breathe through. It coated the walls, the ceiling, her skin. The low, distant murmur of the Black Lake beyond the stone walls only made it worse, like the world outside was still turning while hers had ground to a halt. Her ears rang with a sound that wasn’t there—blood, maybe, or memory.  

The room felt too large. Too quiet. Too still. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for her to break. Like it already knew what she was about to do. Everything felt off-kilter, too sharp, too real.  

She moved eventually. Not because she wanted to, but because standing still hurt worse. She sat on her bed slowly, like someone made of glass, and stared across the room. Her reflection in the tall mirror didn’t look back. Or maybe it did, but it didn’t feel like her anymore. Her arms hung at her sides. Her shoulders slumped forward. There was a smear of blood dried on her chin that she hadn’t noticed.  

Her gloves sat on her desk, where she’d dropped them hours ago. The blood was flaking along the fingers, crusted into the seams. They looked like someone else’s hands. A stranger’s crime. She remembered them hitting Penelope’s face. Again. And again. And again. The crunch. The recoil. Her eyes shut.  

Her gaze didn’t move.  

You didn’t stop.  

The thought echoed again. And again. And again. It was in the walls. In the stone. Behind her ribs and underneath her skin. She didn’t know how to breathe around it. Her chest tightened like iron bands.  

She leaned forward and opened the drawer of her desk with stiff fingers, retrieving a small, old knife—her quill knife. The blade had dulled over the years. It wasn’t for precision anymore. But it would do. She hadn’t needed it like this in months. Hadn’t wanted to need it. The cold metal felt familiar. Too familiar.  

She hadn’t planned this. But she didn’t stop either.  

It was hidden beneath parchment scraps and broken sealing wax, tucked into a corner like a secret she hoped would stay buried. Her fingers curled around it, pale and shaking.  

She didn’t think. She didn’t speak. She just sat back on the edge of her bed, rolled up her sleeve with trembling fingers, and pressed the cold metal to the inside of her arm. She drew it across the skin. Not deep. Just enough.  

A small, sharp line bloomed red. And then another. And another. The pain was sharp and real. The only thing that still felt like hers.  

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t wild. It was methodical. Controlled. A quiet rhythm. Her breath came shallow, but steady. She watched the blood rise with a detached kind of focus, as if it belonged to someone else. As if she were watching herself from outside her body. The sting was grounding, almost sacred.  

“I just want it to stop,” she whispered. “I just want it to go quiet.”  

The words barely left her lips. A prayer to no one. A confession to an empty room. A plea to a world that wasn’t listening.  

Her hand trembled.  

The cuts weren’t enough. Not this time. Not now.  

She brought the blade up, slowly, deliberately, and pressed the flat of it to the soft skin of her throat. Just enough to feel the edge. Just enough to imagine what it would take. The mirror caught her movement. Her eyes met her own in the reflection.  

She looked wrecked.  

And then the face changed.  

Rodolphus. That sneer. That look of satisfaction when he hurt something. The darkness in his eyes that had always followed her. The shadow she’d never escaped.  

She pressed harder. Just slightly. Her hand trembled.  

And then Bellatrix.  

Not the madwoman from the papers. But her mother, the way she’d looked in Lyra’s dreams. Beautiful. Cold. A woman with fire in her eyes and ruin in her voice. A woman who had lived for loyalty, even when it could kill her. Even when it broke everyone else.  

Then Edgar. Kind eyes. A warm smile. A memory too distant to be real, but heavy enough to ache. He would’ve hated this. He would’ve knelt in front of her, taken the knife gently from her hand, and said something that made her believe she could be saved.  

Narcissa. Elegant. Her voice gentle. Her presence grounding. A touch to the cheek. A firm warning in the eyes. She’d seen Lyra once after a nightmare and said, “You’re allowed to be angry, but you’re not allowed to disappear.” That voice echoed now, soft and firm.  

Draco, twelve years old and trying to look brave, standing behind her at the Manor last summer. The way he clung to her sleeve like she was the only thing solid in his world after finding out everything that had happened to her that year. She had to be strong for him. She was strong for him.  

Susan.  

She didn’t even know what her other cousin’s voice sounded like. But she saw red hair. A freckled nose. Eyes that might’ve looked like hers if they’d grown up together. A life they should have shared. A name they both should have carried. Bones. A family she didn’t know how to reach.  

Her fingers slipped.  

The knife fell. It hit the stone floor with a metallic clang and skidded across the floor, disappearing beneath her trunk.  

She collapsed to her knees, fists pressed to her mouth, the sobs already tearing out before she could stop them. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t graceful. It was ugly, gasping, choking. She rocked forward, curled in on herself on the cold floor, her whole body trembling with the weight of everything she’d held in for too long. Her nails dug into her palms. Her ribs hurt from the force of it.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Over and over again. To no one. To everyone. To herself. To Penelope. To her parents. To the girl she was supposed to be. To the girl she might never become. To the ghost of who she once thought she could be.  

Tears soaked her sleeves. Her shoulders shook. Her arms ached. Her heart splintered in slow, cruel cracks. It felt like her whole body was unraveling.  

She screamed into the silence. Wordless. Raw. Her voice cracked. Her throat burned. The sound ricocheted off the stone walls and came back to her like someone else’s pain. She gasped for breath, tried to pull herself together, and failed.  

She thought maybe she had broken something inside her. Maybe it had always been broken. Maybe she’d only now realized the pieces didn’t fit back together.  

And then she grabbed the knife again, not to use it—but to hurl it.  

It slammed into the mirror. The glass shattered, splintering outward in a spiderweb of cracks before collapsing inward with a terrible crash. A rain of shards. The sound was deafening.  

Her reflection was gone.  

She didn’t move again. Just slumped there on the floor, blood on her arms, glass on the rug, the storm inside her finally too loud to fight. Her eyes burned. Her fists clenched and unclenched, useless. She breathed in silence and regret. Her body was still shaking.  

Eventually, she curled on her side. Her breath slowed. Her skin was cold. Her fingers found the edge of her blanket, dragged it halfway over her legs. The weight of the world didn’t lift. But it settled. Heavy. Familiar. Her eyes fluttered shut.  

The world narrowed to the sound of her breath and the sting of her skin.  

And she cried herself into sleep.  

-------------------------------------------  

Lyra woke slowly.  

The air in the dormitory was dim and still, thick with the quiet weight of morning. The faint glow of lake-filtered light drifted through the enchanted windows, casting greenish shadows across the walls. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was—and then a few more to remember why her arms ached, why her throat felt raw, why her eyes burned behind closed lids. Everything inside her felt hollowed out. Like someone had scraped her clean from the inside and left only a shell behind.  

She blinked up at the green velvet canopy above her bed. Her blanket had been pulled up to her shoulders. The stone floor was no longer under her cheek—just her pillow now, soft and slightly damp from tears. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat. Even her lungs felt sore from the force of crying. She barely had the strength to shift her weight, every limb slow and aching like she’d aged a decade overnight.  

She turned her head and flinched.  

Gemma was sitting at the foot of the bed. Legs crossed. Arms folded tight across her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes that struck deeper than anger or pity.  

Something raw. Something that hurt far more than the knife.  

"You're awake," Gemma said, her voice low and scratchy, like she hadn’t spoken in hours. "Good."  

Lyra didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her throat was dry, and her mouth tasted like blood and sleep and silence. Her tongue sat heavy in her mouth. Even swallowing felt like effort.  

The mirror was still shattered. Its jagged remains glinted faintly in the low light like sharp little truths scattered across the rug. The desk nearby was stained with red smudges. Her gloves were gone.  

She felt her stomach turn. A sick kind of shame crawled up her spine.  

"You’re a fucking idiot ," Gemma said after a moment, voice shaking—not from fury, but from something far more fragile. "You know that?"  

Lyra turned her face away, shame crashing through her like cold water. She didn’t want to see the glass. Didn’t want to see Gemma looking at her like that. Like she might break again.  

Gemma didn’t move. "You left the door unlocked. I thought you were asleep at your desk. But then I saw the mirror. And the blood. And you—"  

She broke off. Raked a hand through her hair, fingers trembling at the ends. Her voice faltered like it had hit something too painful to cross.  

"I thought—"  

Another pause. Longer this time. Her jaw clenched. She took a shaky breath, her eyes were glassy and red.  

"I cleaned you up," she said finally, quieter. "I healed what I could. I didn’t tell anyone. Not Snape. Not Madame Pomfrey. Not even Terence."  

The words hung there. Heavy. Final. Like a vow and a warning all at once.  

And then, in a voice that cut through the quiet like a curse: "But if you ever do something like that again," Gemma leaned forward, voice low and trembling with something almost violent, "I’ll kill you myself."  

Lyra made a small noise. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something in between, cracked and breathless. Her eyes stung again, but no tears came this time.  

Gemma sat back again. She didn’t blink. "Don’t make me patch you up just to bury you, Lyra. I won’t do it. I won’t —"  

Her voice caught. She looked down at the floor, swallowed hard, then looked back up. Her expression was fierce and unguarded.  

Lyra looked at her then. Really looked. At the tired shadows under her eyes. At the tight lines in her jaw. At the fear behind the fire.  

And nodded.  

No thank you. No apology. Just that one silent motion, loaded with everything she didn’t know how to say—how sorry she was, how much it meant, how impossible it all felt. How scared she still was. How she hadn’t meant to scare anyone but herself.  

Gemma didn’t ask for more.  

She sat there, silent, watching like she was afraid Lyra might fall apart again any second. Like she was daring her not to.  

Lyra sat up slowly. Every movement hurt. Her limbs were stiff, her back ached, and the cuts along her arms pulled sharply beneath the bandages. The wrappings were thin but neat. Gemma had used the emergency kit Lyra kept hidden behind the wardrobe, the one she hadn’t touched since third year.  

Her ribs throbbed. Her eyes stung. Her hands shook as she reached for the edge of the bed. She looked down and saw a basin of water on the floor with a cloth stained faintly pink. Gemma had cleaned her carefully. Gently. Without being asked.  

She dressed slowly, deliberately, like each motion required extra thought. Her uniform hung from the hook on the wall. She pulled it down and laid each piece out in order: black skirt, pressed shirt, green-striped tie, robes, socks, boots. She dressed like someone building armor. One layer at a time.  

She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for help. Just ran a hand through her cropped curls, coaxing them to lie somewhat flat, though they never really behaved. The gesture was habitual, grounding in its own way. Then she buttoned her cuffs with trembling fingers. The fabric scraped against her skin, but she said nothing.  

Her detention would start soon. With Charity .  

The mirror was still shattered, and the space where it once stood looked too bright, too exposed, like a wound the room hadn’t learned how to hide yet. She didn’t know if she would ever replace it.  

She didn’t look at it.  

Didn’t look at herself.  

Just stood in silence while the shards on the rug caught the pale morning light like scattered stars.  

And Gemma, still sitting on the edge of the bed, didn’t say anything else.  

She just watched.  

And stayed.  

-----------------------------------  

Lyra arrived at the Muggle Studies classroom just before eight.  

The corridors were mostly empty—most students were on the way to Hogsmeade or curled up somewhere cozy in the castle, not roaming this section of the first floor. The Sunday hush felt too soft for how sharp she still felt inside.  

Her body moved automatically, each step measured and careful, like the floor might fall away if she walked too quickly. The soft tap of her boots echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway, each footstep a reminder of how exposed she felt. Everything about her posture screamed restraint, the careful control of someone who’d spent the night clawing her way back from the edge. There was a hollowness behind her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A silence that lived beneath her skin.  

She hesitated at the threshold. Just for a second. The door was already open, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor like a hand reaching out. She swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside.  

The room was warm and quiet, the windows cracked just enough to let in the early autumn breeze. A faint smell of ink and parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of fallen leaves and the stone of the old castle. The sunlight streaming through the windowpanes hit the desks at a soft angle, casting dappled shadows like something out of a painting. Charity sat at her desk, quill paused mid-note, her calm gaze already on Lyra.  

She didn’t look surprised to see her.  

"Miss Lestrange," she said calmly, nodding once. "Have a seat."  

There was no smile. No reprimand. No warmth. No chill. Just stillness. Professional, but not detached. It made Lyra feel both grounded and raw, like the steady tone was a quiet mercy she didn’t deserve.  

She moved to the front table silently, set down her bag, and took the seat furthest from the windows. The chair creaked beneath her as she sat. Her hands folded in her lap, tightening once, then relaxing. Her sleeves tugged awkwardly at the bandages hidden beneath them, and for a second she thought she saw Charity glance down at them, but if she did, she said nothing.  

The silence stretched. Not awkward, exactly, but fragile. Waiting.  

Charity folded her hands in front of her. "One fight doesn’t define you, you know."  

Lyra didn’t answer. She didn’t nod. Her throat tightened as she stared down at the grain of the desk, tracing the familiar grooves in the wood. Her hands twitched slightly on her knees. She wished she could sink into the floor, vanish into stone. The words hovered at the edge of her mouth and died before they could form.  

Charity looked like she was going to say something else but decided against it. She gestured to the materials already laid out—several thick books, two scrolls of parchment, ink, and a freshly sharpened quill.  

"You’ll be writing a comparative analysis of the 1641 Irish Rebellion and the 1965 Watts Riots in Los Angeles," she said evenly. "Focus on the causes. How fear drives violence. How systems fail the people they’re supposed to protect."  

Lyra blinked slowly, letting the words filter through the haze in her head. It was heavy, political history—more than she’d expected for detention—but maybe that was the point. Maybe thinking hard about someone else’s fight would keep her from drowning in her own.  

She pulled the books toward her. Opened one at random. Began to read.  

Charity returned to her own work without another word, moving with quiet efficiency. She didn’t hover. Didn’t watch. The distance felt deliberate—respectful. Lyra was grateful for it.  

The only sounds in the room were the scratching of quills and the rustle of paper. The calm was eerie. Not comforting. Just... empty. But it gave Lyra space to think. To breathe. To gather what little pieces of herself still felt solid.  

Lyra worked slowly, building her essay line by line. Her handwriting was neat, if a bit tight. She underlined important passages. Sketched rough outlines. For the first time in hours, her thoughts held still long enough to organize. There was something soothing in the structure, the act of giving shape to chaos—even if it wasn’t her own. She wrote with purpose, even if it was borrowed.  

Every so often, her gaze drifted up.  

Her gloves sat on Charity’s desk.  

They’d been cleaned. Every inch. Not a trace of blood. Not even in the seams where it had dried. They looked like new. Except they weren’t. They were still hers. Still the ones she just broke in on Penelope's face.  

Charity sat beside them, slowly working oil into the leather with a soft cloth. Her movements were methodical, focused. Careful. Like she knew exactly how much those gloves mattered. Like she’d touched more than just the surface. Lyra couldn’t look away.  

Once, Charity looked up and met Lyra’s eyes. Just for a second. Then looked away again.  

No judgment. No pity. Just quiet understanding. It was more grounding than anything anyone had said to her in days.  

When Lyra finished her essay, she rolled the scroll carefully and placed it on the desk. Her hand hovered over it for a second longer than necessary.  

Charity reached into the drawer and pulled out another parchment.  

"One last thing," she said, holding it out. "A personal reflection. Why what you did was wrong."  

Lyra took it wordlessly. The parchment felt heavier than it should.  

"It’s not for a grade," Charity added, gentler now. "It’s for you."  

Lyra nodded, throat tight. She didn’t trust her voice not to crack.  

The rest of the hour passed in silence. The second parchment remained blank for a while before Lyra began writing. Her words were slower this time, less academic. Harder. She didn’t know if she was doing it right. She only knew she had to try. One word at a time. One thought after another. She wrote until the words began to soften something in her chest.  

When she finally stood to leave, the silence between them felt full rather than empty. Like it had meant something.  

"I was a Seeker here," Charity said suddenly, just as Lyra reached the door. Her voice was casual, but not careless. "For Hufflepuff. Spent six years on the team. I remember seeing you during my seventh year. You were in second and had just been given the keeper position."  

Lyra turned slightly. Surprise flickered behind her tired eyes.  

Charity gave a small smile. "You were fast. And stubborn. I remembered, it always stuck with me, your confidence. Made me want to be better."  

A strange warmth bloomed in Lyra’s chest—sharp at first, then soft. The memory surfaced hazy, but real. A blur of yellow robes and a game that had nearly ended in a draw. A flash of golden hair.  

"The gloves," Charity said, her fingers resting on them now. "They were from me. I didn’t want you to know until you were ready."  

The memory hit like a slow, delayed wave. The note. The handwriting. The mention of someone who had been a Seeker.  

Lyra hadn’t seen it. Not really. The clues had been there, and she’d missed them.  

"You didn’t tell me you were a witch," she said quietly.  

Charity tilted her head. "You didn’t ask."  

Lyra flushed. Shame crept up her spine like cold water. But this time, it didn’t consume her.  

She gathered her things, gloves last. The leather felt different in her hands now. Familiar. Forgiven. Seen.  

She walked slowly toward the door, each step heavy but not hopeless. Her mind buzzed with questions, but they didn’t need answers. Not yet.  

Just before leaving, she paused. Looked back over her shoulder.  

"Thank you."  

Charity didn’t respond.  

She just nodded.  

And that was enough.  

Lyra stepped out into the corridor. The weight in her chest was still there—but for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like it was winning.  

She wasn’t fine.  

But she was still here.  

And for today, that was enough.  

Chapter Text

It was the morning of Halloween, and the Gryffindor common room still smelled faintly of pumpkin scones and the lingering ash from last night’s fire. Somewhere near the hearth, the embers gave off the occasional pop, casting flickering light against the stone walls. Harry rubbed his eyes as he sat up in bed, blinking blearily at the soft, misty grey light that filtered through the tower windows. The weather outside looked drab and damp—fitting, somehow.  

Below, he could already hear the morning rustle of castle life beginning. Seamus and Dean were debating in half-loud whispers whether or not you could charm a pumpkin to scream when bitten, and whether the ones at the feast would. Ron, buried beneath his blankets, let out a half-coherent mumble about bats in the showers.  

Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his robes, shoulders stiff. As he dressed, his mind drifted to the fight.  

More than a week had passed, and Penelope Clearwater still hadn’t returned to classes. Madam Pomfrey claimed she’d recover fully, but Harry had overheard a sixth-year girl say that Penelope’s nose had to be regrown in stages, and that her face was still badly bruised. Whispers followed wherever her name was mentioned. The talk hadn’t died down. If anything, it had grown louder, carried in the gaps between class and the shuffle of corridors.  

And then there was Lyra Lestrange—  

She hadn’t looked the same since.  

Even from afar, Harry had noticed it: the way her posture had changed, how she seemed to fold in on herself without ever physically shrinking. Her gait was still deliberate, still graceful in that eerie Slytherin way, but there was something ghostlike in her steps now. Her gaze passed over people as though they weren’t really there, like she was looking through them instead of at them. She kept to herself. No drama or scowls, just silence.  

After dressing, Harry made his way down the spiral stairs into the common room. The fire had been rekindled, and a few students milled about in their pajamas or half-buttoned robes, clutching mugs of tea or pumpkin juice. Hermione was already there, seated primly near the fireplace with a book open on her lap, her bag tucked neatly by her feet.  

Harry dropped onto the sofa beside her. She looked up briefly, offered a small smile, then returned to her reading. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the flicker of the flames casting soft shadows over their faces.  

He didn’t feel like talking—he was not in the mood considering what today was. It was hard to believe that just last year he had learned he was a wizard, that his parents had been wizards, and that they had died to protect him—11 years ago today.  

But sitting next to Hermione, listening to the low murmur of students and the occasional flutter of turning pages, gave him a small sense of normalcy—of home. He stared into the fire, letting his thoughts wander back to Lyra, and the way she hadn't once looked anyone in the eye since that awful day.  

Footsteps thudded down the stairs behind them. Ron emerged with his jumper half over his head, still muttering to himself as he yanked it down with a grunt.  

"I’m telling you," he muttered, brushing his hair out of his eyes, "she’s just like the rest of them. Dangerous. Arrogant. Probably grew up hexing house-elves for fun."  

Hermione glanced up sharply. "That’s not fair, Ron. You don’t know anything about her."  

He scoffed. "I know enough. She broke Clearwater’s face in front of the whole courtyard. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘harmless,’ does it?"  

Harry stayed quiet. He remembered the blood. The way Penelope had looked as she was floated into the Hospital Wing—her face swollen and caked in red, one side of her face had clearly taken the brunt of the attack.  

But it wasn’t just the fight that had Harry thinking. It was Lyra afterward.  

Harry had passed her later that same day, near the Charms corridor. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her lip had been split and clearly not healed, her eyes were low to the ground. He remembered how she didn’t even glance up as he passed. No defiance. No arrogance. Just... emptiness. A hollow kind of quiet that didn’t match the rumors this school liked to throw around.  

Draco, on the other hand, hadn’t changed a bit. Still the center of his group. Still strutting about, all teeth and taunts. If he had any feelings about what Lyra had done, they were buried beneath layers of swagger. The other Slytherins carried on as usual—most of them, anyway. Some glanced Lyra’s way when she entered the room or passed by in the hall. But nothing overt. No whispers. No confrontation. Just distance. Like they weren’t sure what to do with her anymore.  

He wasn’t sure what he felt about it. He didn’t particularly like Lyra—she’d always had a sharp tongue and that pure-blood chill to her—but he couldn’t shake the look on her face that day. Not rage. Not guilt. Just blank. So different from the girl he had met in Diagon Alley that day. He still remembred the way she talked to him, to Draco. He wondered how she was the same person then and she was when she fought Penelope.  

Something had changed.  

But it wasn’t just with her.  

He had a feeling things were about to get worse for everyone.  

As they stepped through the portrait hole and began the descent toward the Great Hall, Ron was still grumbling about Lyra and Slytherins and how “just because you look miserable doesn’t mean you didn’t mean it.” Hermione said nothing, though her jaw was tight.  

Harry kept walking, his mind elsewhere.  

It was going to be a strange day. He could feel it pressing at the back of his neck like a chill.  

And Harry had learned to trust that feeling.  

----------------------------------------  

The Great Hall was dressed to impress that morning, as it always was on Halloween, but this year it seemed especially extravagant. Enormous pumpkins floated high above the long house tables, each one carved into elaborate, sinister faces that flickered with warm candlelight from within. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the cloudy, slate-grey sky outside, casting a faint silver glow over the room, while golden candlelight danced lazily in the air. Garlands of black velvet and orange satin coiled like creeping vines along the stone walls, occasionally shimmering when they caught the light just right.  

Despite the moody weather outside, the hall itself buzzed with excitement and easy laughter. Halloween always brought a unique energy to the castle—half anticipation, half mischief. Students leaned across their plates of eggs, toast, and porridge, exchanging predictions about the feast that evening, whether Peeves would try to set something on fire, or whether the Bloody Baron would actually speak this year. Someone at the Ravenclaw table swore Peeves had been seen dragging a bucket labeled 'GUTS' up the Astronomy Tower. The Hufflepuffs cackled in response.   

Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way to their usual seats near the middle of the Gryffindor table. Ron immediately reached for a heaping pile of sausages, stuffing half a bite into his mouth before he’d even properly sat down. Hermione, ever composed, scooped a tidy portion of porridge into her bowl and topped it with honey and cinnamon. Harry poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice but didn’t touch his food. His eyes kept drifting toward the staff table, where the professors were chatting in subdued tones.  

Before he could lose himself in his thoughts, a cheerful voice cut through the morning din.  

"Harry, m’boy!"  

Nearly Headless Nick floated smoothly into view, his plumed hat bobbing merrily with each step of his ghostly glide. His appearance, as usual, was immaculate—save for the wobbling, nearly severed head, which hung at a sharp angle no matter how carefully he adjusted his collar.  

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," Hermione greeted warmly, pausing mid-spoonful.  

"Yes, happy Halloween," Harry added.  

"Indeed, indeed," Nick said, puffing up with pride. "And on that note—I was hoping to extend to you the great honor of attending my Deathday Party this evening. Five centuries! Quite the accomplishment, even among the deceased."  

Ron’s brow furrowed in horror. "Deathday?"  

"Yes, yes, in the dungeons. A respectful gathering of spirits and other dearly departed. There’ll be music—well, chains and wailing mostly—but quite atmospheric! And refreshments—though I’ll admit they’re not the freshest." He chuckled softly. "The Headless Hunt is expected, though they’re terribly rude."  

Hermione looked intrigued in that way she always did when someone mentioned obscure traditions. "That sounds fascinating. I've read about Deathday observances, but I never thought I’d see one."  

Ron mouthed fascinating with a grimace behind her back, then gave Harry a helpless look.  

Still, Harry nodded. "We’ll come. Thanks for inviting us."  

"Splendid! Splendid! Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late!"  

Nick beamed, adjusting his hat before floating straight through the table and vanishing into the far wall, humming something long and tragic.  

Just as they returned to their breakfast, a drawling voice sliced through the cheerful noise like a knife.  

"Figures Gryffindors would spend Halloween dining with ghosts," Draco Malfoy sneered as he passed by with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him like twin shadows. "You’ll need the practice—your Quidditch team’s already dead."  

Ron bristled instantly. His hand jerked toward his wand, but Hermione, well-practiced by now, kicked him under the table hard enough to make him wince.  

"Don’t," she muttered through gritted teeth.  

Harry didn’t respond to Draco. He was already looking past him.  

At the far end of the Slytherin table, Lyra Lestrange sat with the two Slytherin seventh-years he usually sees her sit with—Farley and Higgs. Harry recognized them easily: Farley was often seen leading the younger students through the corridors with the kind of stern confidence that reminded him of McGonagall, while Terence had played seeker for Slytherin last year and if what he heard was true, was now one of the new beaters.  

Despite the company, Lyra looked isolated. She sat stiffly between them, more like a statue than a student—rigid, expressionless, her posture unnervingly still. Her plate was barely touched, save for a slice of toast she nudged absently with her fork. Her quidditch gloves were folded neatly beside her. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked toward the staff table—quick, uncertain glances. Harry couldn’t tell who she was watching. Snape, maybe. He was her Head of House. Or perhaps she wasn’t watching anyone at all.  

There was no trace of anger in her expression. No sadness either. Just… nothing. Like someone had hollowed her out and left the shell behind.  

"It’s creepy," Ron muttered, following Harry’s gaze. "She just sits there like she’s about to bite someone."  

Hermione’s head snapped around. "She’s been through something, Ron. What happened clearly wasn't just about that arguement with Clearwater. You can’t just—"  

"I can and I do," he cut her off, stabbing at his plate. "She’s a Lestrange. That name speaks for itself. Her and her whole family are as dark as they come."  

Harry stayed silent. He didn’t like Lyra. He supposed he hadn’t always felt that way. He remembered seeing her in Diagon Alley before first year—how sharp her words had been, but also how dryly funny she’d seemed, especially when she told Draco to shut up in that way that made even him listen. And over the years, he’d seen how she kept Draco in check more than anyone else ever could. There was something almost protective about it, like she took responsibility for him in a way no one else dared to.  

But that was before.  

He'd seen the aftermath of the fight with Penelope Clearwater. The blood. The bruises. The way Penelope hadn’t woken up for hours. He’d heard the whispers— Lyra lost control , Lyra snapped , Lyra went mad . And what bothered Harry most wasn’t the stories—it was that she hadn’t denied any of them. She just... carried on.  

And then there was Draco. Draco, who swaggered through the corridors like nothing had happened. If they were family—and everyone knew they were—then maybe they weren’t so different. Maybe all that cold detachment, that ruthlessness, that superiority was just part of who she was too. Maybe whatever snapped in her that day had always been there, waiting.  

It seemed that everyone else in Gryffindor thought the same. Even the Hufflepuffs seemed wary of her. The Ravenclaws obviously sided with Clearwater and shunned the Slytherins as a whole. The Slytherins though, they were different.  

The Slytherins didn’t whisper about her, but they gave her space. Like they didn’t know what to do with her now. And Harry... Harry didn’t know what to do with her either.  

Percy Weasley appeared, sliding onto the bench beside them with the air of someone arriving to deliver an official report. His badge gleamed obnoxiously in the morning light.  

"What are you lot muttering about now?" Percy asked, spearing his egg with mechanical precision.  

Hermione opened her mouth, but Percy barreled on before she could get a word out.  

"Lestrange? Frankly, I’m not surprised. Her entire family’s in Azkaban. Her mother, her stepfather, and her uncle—each one worse than the last. Rodolphus Lestrange even made a statement a few years ago that she wasn’t his biological daughter. Said he regretted ever raising her. Whole thing made headlines in the Prophet.  

"Seriously?" Hermione asked, her voice tinged with both shock and scholarly interest.  

"Oh yes," Percy continued, clearly enjoying the attention. "After that, the Malfoys took her in. Narcissa Malfoy is her aunt—her mother's sister. But no one knows who her father really is. Some say he was a Ministry official, others think it was someone even darker."  

Hermione made a face. "And people just speculate like that?"  

"Of course they do. Look at her. The fight with Penelope—well, it confirms everything. I’ve said it before—some things are simply in the blood."  

Hermione’s expression darkened. "Penelope is your girlfriend. That sounds like bias."  

Percy flushed but held his ground. "She is but I’m not blinded by it. I saw the damage. I heard what Lyra said before she threw the first punch. There’s something off about her. Always has been."  

He hesitated, then added more quietly, "I don’t know. I used to think she might be different. I thought... well, never mind. I just hoped I was wrong about her. But I wasn’t."  

Harry turned his head again. Lyra still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t touched her toast.  

She might not have heard them.  

Or maybe she had.  

And she just didn’t care.  

Which, somehow, was worse.  

----------------------------------  

The dungeons were always colder than Harry remembered—deeper, darker, and heavy with a chill that clung to his robes and crept down the back of his neck. The walls, slick with moisture, glistened like they had been sweating in anticipation of the event. A faint smell of mildew and burnt wax curled through the corridor as they stepped into the vast chamber where Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party was already in full swing.  

Hundreds of black candles hovered just above their heads, each one burning with a ghostly blue flame that flickered without warmth. The dim, flickering light cast strange, elongated shadows along the uneven stone floor, making it feel more like a mausoleum than a banquet hall. Everything about the space had been crafted to repel the living—chilling draughts slithered beneath cloaks, and every surface radiated discomfort.  

A ghostly orchestra shrieked from the far end of the hall, their instruments emitting long, keening notes that sounded more like banshee wails than music. The violins scratched mercilessly, and the cellos groaned under their bows. Harry winced at every off-key note, his ears ringing slightly, but Nick—beaming with pride—clapped in time as if it were a triumphant overture.  

Along the damp walls, banquet tables were lined with food—if it could be called that. There were wheels of moldy cheese crusted with blue-green spores, gray puddings that jiggled with an unsettling consistency, and bread so stale it looked like it might shatter rather than tear. A massive cake dominated the center of the room, sagging under the weight of its own history. It read: "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington: 500 Years Dead" in delicate, curling script that had begun to droop from the candle heat.  

The hall was filled to its spectral brim. Ghosts floated in and out of view like drifts of fog—some laughing in hoarse, rattling tones, others wailing softly to themselves. Chains rattled from the ghost of a former jailer who hovered solemnly over the buffet, while Moaning Myrtle lingered in a damp corner, sniffling over a broken teacup someone had apparently passed through her.  

The arrival of the Headless Hunt was heralded by a sudden whooshing of air and a galloping sound that didn’t make sense on solid stone. Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore entered dramatically, tossing his own head from hand to hand and laughing boisterously with every bounce. The other members of the Hunt followed suit, showing off with gleeful enthusiasm and clanging swords. They were loud, boastful, and entirely insensitive to the more somber tone Nick had intended for his milestone celebration. Nick forced a strained smile as he attempted to guide their energy elsewhere.  

Ron leaned closer to Harry, shivering slightly. "Why did we say yes to this again?"  

Hermione, ever the one for etiquette, nudged him sharply. "Because it’s important to Sir Nicholas. And it’s a rare cultural experience. You should be paying attention."  

Ron grimaced. "The culture is dead , Hermione. Literally."  

Harry tried to chuckle, but the sound died in his throat. He tried to focus on Nick’s speech, tried to nod politely when a ghost drifted past and greeted him, but his mind wandered. No matter how many distractions floated by, he couldn’t stop thinking about Lestrange.  

She’d looked hollow that morning. Her posture rigid, her eyes unfocused, like she was somewhere else entirely. She sat among her housemates but didn’t seem part of them. As if she’d been placed there like a prop. As if moving or speaking might shatter the fragile stillness surrounding her.  

And now, standing in this room, Harry saw the same expression mirrored on dozens of ghostly faces—detachment, distance, disconnection. Even among the dead, there were those who didn’t seem to fit. The way Nearly Headless Nick tried to belong to the Headless Hunt, to be welcomed by them despite the technicality that denied him full membership—it all echoed something Harry couldn’t quite articulate.  

He watched Nick bow deeply and try to hush Sir Patrick’s jabs with graciousness, even though his eyes looked a little dimmer with each insult. The way Nick stood at the center of the room, half-honored and half-mocked, made something twist in Harry’s chest.  

Was this how Lyra felt? Like she had to stand in the middle of people she didn’t fully belong to—never fully accepted, never fully wanted? Too dark for the light, too scarred for comfort, too proud to beg for space?  

Maybe that was it. Maybe it wasn’t about right or wrong, good or bad. Maybe it was about not knowing how to be seen . Like she was always too much and not enough all at once.  

It wasn’t pity Harry felt. It was a strange, sharp ache of recognition. Because he knew what it was to be surrounded by people and still feel alone. To carry something heavy and invisible that no one else seemed to notice.  

He looked again at the cake. The stale bread. The screeching music. This place wasn’t made for the living. The air itself resisted breath. And no matter how much the ghosts celebrated, it was a world carved out of what had been lost, not what remained.  

Maybe that’s what Lyra lived with every day.  

Maybe she wasn’t like the rest of the Slytherins or her family. Maybe she wasn’t like anyone at all.  

Maybe she was like a shadow trying to live in daylight—and constantly reminded that she didn’t belong there.  

As they made their way back up from the dungeons, the chill of the Deathday Party seemed to cling to them like smoke—seeping into their clothes, their skin, their bones. The deeper gloom of the lower levels gave way to slightly warmer air, but it was still far from comfortable. The torches lining the narrow corridor flickered weakly, their flames casting long, shuddering shadows that stretched across the cold flagstones like grasping hands.  

Ron was still grumbling as they walked. "I’m never eating grey pudding again, even if it’s just for a dare," he muttered. "And what was that music supposed to be? Sounded like someone trying to drown a violin in a bathtub."  

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t even hearing him.  

The voice was back.  

He stopped dead in his tracks, breath catching in his throat. One hand reached instinctively for the wall beside him to steady himself. The cold stone bit into his palm, grounding him, but only just.  

It slithered through the air like smoke, like a whisper with teeth.  

Kill... kill... time to kill...  

The words crawled into his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose. He had heard that voice before. He knew he had. It wasn’t just noise—it wasn’t just some imagined thing stirred up by the gloom and dread of the Deathday Party. It was the same voice he’d heard during his detention with Lockhart, the night he’d been forced to help the man respond t his fan-mail. He hadn’t spoken of it since—not really. A part of him had hoped it would go away. That he’d imagined it. That the castle had played tricks on him.  

But this wasn’t imagination. This was real.  

So hungry... for so long... kill...  

Harry’s heart pounded. He spun around, his eyes darting along the corridor, searching for something— anything —that could explain what he was hearing. The torches hissed quietly, and the shadows danced, but there was no one there.  

"Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice sharp and low.  

Ron pulled up beside him, looking alarmed. "Hear what?"  

Harry turned toward Hermione. She’d paused a few steps behind them, brows knit with concern. "It was a voice. It was... it was talking about killing."  

Ron blinked at him, trying to process the words. "You’re not serious?"  

Harry’s jaw tightened. "I’m serious . I heard it weeks ago too. During detention with Lockhart. I didn’t say anything then because I thought maybe I was going mad or something—but I’m not. It’s real. I swear."  

Hermione’s expression had shifted from concern to something more alert. "Where did it come from?"  

Harry tilted his head slowly. He could feel it—not hear it anymore, but feel it, like the air itself had memory. "Up ahead," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It was moving... fast."  

And then, without warning, he took off down the corridor, his shoes scuffing against the stone as he chased after the direction he knew the voice had come from.  

Ron groaned audibly. "Brilliant. We’re chasing invisible murder-whispers now. Next thing you know, we’ll run into Fluffy again."  

Hermione hurried after them, catching up to Ron with a disapproving huff. "Harry, wait! If you’re hearing something no one else is, this might be important . We need to tell a professor, maybe Dumbledore—"  

"I know what I heard," Harry called over his shoulder. "It wasn’t nothing. It wants something. It’s looking for something."  

The hallway bent sharply, the walls narrowing. The torchlight was dimmer here, their flickers shorter, more strained—as if whatever Harry was chasing had sapped the warmth and light right out of the air.  

His feet slowed. He could feel the tension in his chest, in the space behind his eyes, like a coiled spring. The silence was absolute now. Even Ron had stopped muttering. Even Hermione’s footsteps had softened. The only sound left was the echo of their breath and the distant, fading memory of the voice.  

Harry turned the corner first.  

And he knew.  

Something was waiting for him.  

They turned the next corner—and there it was.  

The corridor ahead looked drenched, like something enormous had passed through and left it soaked in its wake. Water glistened across the uneven stone floor, pooling in the dips between the flagstones and streaking down the walls in long, winding trails. The air smelled faintly of mildew and something sharper—like iron. The torches lining the hallway flickered weakly, their flames hissing and sputtering from the damp, casting a trembling, uneven glow that made shadows warp and twist along the stone walls.  

And then Harry saw it.  

The message was scrawled high on the wall in jagged, wet strokes of something dark and glistening. It looked horrifyingly like blood. The letters were crude, as though scratched by clawed fingers. The words were bold, unmistakable, and glistening slightly in the candlelight:  

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.  

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.  

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she stumbled back a step. Ron froze, his face going white, eyes locked on the writing as if it might come alive. The silence in that stretch of corridor was unnatural, the kind that feels like the world itself has paused.  

Below the message, hanging from a torch bracket by her tail, was Mrs. Norris.  

She dangled stiffly, her body twisted into a grotesque arch, as though she’d been startled mid-scream and had never come down. Her fur was soaked, clumped in twisted strands, and her wide, glassy eyes stared out in silent horror. A thin stream of water trickled from her whiskers to the floor, joining the growing puddle at Harry’s feet.  

Harry’s stomach turned violently. He could hear Hermione’s breathing—short, panicked gasps—and Ron’s complete silence. It wasn’t just shock. It was fear, thick and unspoken, pressing against all of them like a weight.  

"What—" Hermione began, but her voice faltered.  

Then came the scream.  

"MY CAT!"  

Argus Filch’s footsteps thundered down the hall, a frantic storm of movement. He skidded into view, his eyes wild with panic and rage, his gray hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His gaze flicked to the trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—then landed on the hanging form of Mrs. Norris.  

His face twisted into something terrible.  

"YOU!" he roared, pointing a long, shaking finger at Harry. "YOU’VE MURDERED MY CAT!"  

Harry stumbled back instinctively, hands raised. "We didn’t—"  

"I’LL HAVE YOU EXPELLED!" Filch screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "OUT OF THIS CASTLE! OUT!"  

He lunged toward them, but before he could reach anyone, the pounding of more footsteps echoed through the corridor. Students poured in from every direction—upstairs, side hallways, staircases. Whispers bloomed instantly, frantic and breathless.  

"What’s happening?" "Is that blood on the wall?" "Is that... is that Mrs. Norris?" "Who did this? Was it a student?"  

Gasps and murmurs swelled like a tide. Faces pale, eyes wide. Someone whispered Harry’s name. A few first-years looked ready to bolt.  

Then a calm but authoritative voice sliced through the noise.  

"Move aside, please."  

Professor Dumbledore had arrived, his long cloak sweeping silently over the wet stones. His presence was quiet but commanding, and the crowd instinctively parted. Professors McGonagall and Snape were right behind him, both grim-faced.  

Dumbledore’s gaze swept over the message, then down to the cat. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened. He studied the wall, taking in every stroke of the words, then looked to Mrs. Norris with reverent care.  

Snape moved like a shadow, his black robes absorbing what little light the torches gave off. His cold gaze shifted to Harry, then Ron, then Hermione.  

"Explain yourselves," he said, voice low and pointed.  

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his thoughts spinning. The whispering voice from earlier still echoed somewhere deep inside his mind. He wanted to say they had only just arrived. That they’d heard something. That it wasn’t them. But the words stuck.  

Hermione looked like she might faint. Her eyes were fixed on the message above. Ron’s fists were clenched at his sides, jaw tight. No one moved.  

The silence became oppressive.  

The dripping of water. The shifting of fabric. The unspoken question hanging in the air: What does it mean?  

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the message either. It burned itself into his memory, branding the words into his thoughts.  

Something had changed.  

This wasn’t a prank or a joke, it was a threat.  

Something terrible had begun.  

And it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.  

Chapter Text

The November air bit sharper on the Quidditch pitch than it did anywhere else. The sky stretched wide and pale above them, low clouds rolling like bruises. Wind tugged at cloaks and hair and fingertips, whistling through seams, seeping into gloves.  

It stung. It woke you up. It reminded you that you were alive, even when everything else felt numb. Even when your thoughts refused to settle, and the ground never quite felt steady under your feet. 

Lyra stood near the center of the pitch, boots sunk slightly into the frozen turf, breath curling visibly from her lips. Her voice cracked across the wind like a whip. “Again! Higgs, weight forward—don’t drift. Malfoy, eyes on the Snitch, not the Chasers. Flint, Pucey, pass tighter. Warrington, if you knock Avery out of the sky, you’re flying solo.” 

The Slytherin team wheeled back into formation, groaning and laughing in equal measure. Their broomsticks carved the sky into motion, green robes fluttering like banner flags in a storm. They were fast. Too fast, sometimes. But there was instinct there, the kind that couldn’t be taught in drills. They moved like they wanted it. 

Lyra didn’t need want . She needed precision. 

She tracked them all as they flew. Marcus’s long frame tilted into each turn like he’d been born midair. Adrian darted between plays like he thought speed could cover for his temper. Cassius was powerful, but he was losing control too easily—especially around Madison. She was still new, still raw, but she never flinched, never hesitated to swing at what came flying toward her. Lyra liked that. There was steel beneath the stumbles. 

A Bludger cracked through the air like cannonfire. Terence lunged right to intercept, Madison streaking behind him like a shot of green light—but her swing came too late, too wide. The Bludger hissed past Terence’s shoulder, barely missing him. 

He twisted in midair, jaw clenched, clearly ready to snap, but Cassius got there first. “Oi! Trying to take my head off, Madison?” 

“You were in my line,” she shot back, cheeks flushed red beneath her goggles.  Her nose and the tips of her ears were pink from the cold, but her voice carried a spark beneath the embarrassment. 

Cassius only grinned, drifting beside her like it had all been part of the game. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, but her smile twitched despite herself. Cassius's did too. Flint whistled from above, and someone burst out laughing, the sound unguarded and fleeting. 

Lyra felt it. A flicker of something warm in her chest. She didn’t smile—she didn’t have room for that right now—but she lifted the whistle and blew, sharp and loud. The laughter vanished. The team straightened. 

Draco landed first, skidding a little before recovering with the kind of overconfident flourish only he could make look deliberate. He tore off his gloves like he’d just finished a show. “Told you I had it under control,” he said, all smugness and gleam. 

“You stayed on your broom,” Lyra said flatly as she stepped beside him. “That’s progress.” 

His grin faltered, then steadied. “Progress? You just don’t want to admit I’m better than Higgs already.” 

“Dream on,” Terence muttered as he passed, voice dry enough to freeze. 

Draco stuck out his tongue at his retreating back. Lyra didn’t react. She was watching the sky again—watching birds fly through the hoops. 

Draco was improving. He still led with his mouth, but there was focus in his flight, the drive and confidence that earned him a spot on the team. Like he finally understood this wasn’t a game you could charm your way through, that it wasn’t just a single tryout that he had to impress for. Lyra saw it in the set of his jaw, the way he leaned into the cold instead of shying from it. He was growing into his broom. Slowly and unevenly but he was growing, and he would be an amazing player if he gives it time and effort. 

The rest of the team began descending. Flint muttered about frostbite. Adrian fake-coughed like he’d gotten a cold. Terence, as always, threatened to quit. Again. Cassius and Madison touched down together, arguing lightly over the Bludger play. She nudged his arm; he nudged her back. Their laughter was quieter now, private. 

Lyra let them have it. Let them walk back to the lockers with the wind at their backs. She didn’t follow yet, she needed the silence for a moment. 

“Same time tomorrow,” she called. “And if you’re late, I’m docking points.” 

A collective groan rose from the cluster, but no one argued. 

She waited until they were out of earshot, then turned back toward the pitch. The cold had settled into her joints, making her shoulders ache. Her fingers twitched inside her gloves, stiff from gripping the whistle. She stared across the pitch, eyes fixed on the far end. 

The hoops stood tall and skeletal against the grey. They reminded her of something ancient, something older than the game itself—three bones of fate set against the sky. They could be victory. Or failure. Or worse—indifference. Some days, she couldn’t tell the difference. 

Seventh year, her last chance. After this, everything changed. No more pitch or uniforms or structure, at least the way she was used to. And she didn’t know what her name would mean when it wasn’t attached to a win—to something  good —she didn’t want the looks people have been giving her since that day in the courtyard. 

She refused to be Rodolphus. 

The Lestrange girl. The one who broke a muggleborn’s face in the courtyard. The one who flew too hard, too fast. The one who had something to prove and no idea how to stop proving it.  

The Cup wasn’t about Quidditch. Not really. It was about legacy, control. About walking away from this place with something she chose for herself. Something that couldn’t be twisted by headlines or whispers or pitying glances in the corridors. 

It was the one of the few things she had left that was hers.  

She blew into her hands and rubbed them together until the sting came back. Her gloves were as clean as when Charity cleaned them a few weeks ago. They were the best part of her gear in her opinion, though part of her felt that it might just be because Charity gave them to her.  

Charity understood. She understood what quidditch meant to her and she knew she needed something to cling to, some normalcy in her deranged life. 

She turned toward the locker room, breath ghosting behind her, and followed the path the others had taken. 

She didn’t think she could handle losing anything else. 

----------------------------------- 

The stone corridors of the castle were colder after practice, or maybe it was just that Lyra’s robes were still damp from the mist clinging to the pitch. Her hair curled slightly at the edges, frizzing from the cold, and her knuckles ached faintly despite the gloves she still hadn’t taken off. 

Footsteps echoed around her as she walked the long stretch from the dungeons to the common Slytherin routes, the sounds of the castle shifting around her. But there was something different in the way the students moved now—quieter, more watchful. Conversations stopped when people passed too close. Others leaned into their clusters, whispering behind raised hands. Even Peeves, who usually had no respect for tension, hadn’t been seen all day. 

She passed a group of Hufflepuffs gathered near the window alcoves, their heads bowed together. One of them—Ernie Macmillan, she thought—was whispering animatedly while another girl nodded along, eyes flicking toward Lyra as she walked by. Their voices dropped instantly. Her stomach clenched. 

“—I heard it was blood, not paint—”

“—no, they said she was just hanging there—”

“—someone said it’s the Heir of Slytherin—” 

The words chased each other through the corridor like a wind she couldn’t shut out. 

It had only been two days since they found Mrs. Norris strung up and stiff outside Filch’s office, but the school had turned electric with it—too much speculation, too much fear. Whispers of the Chamber of Secrets buzzed in every corner, and the theories multiplied by the hour. Everyone had something to say. Everyone had someone they suspected. 

And Lyra had never felt so visible. 

Everywhere she walked, she could feel eyes on her. Some subtle. Some not. It was like her name had been scraped raw and smeared across her skin again, as if everything she’d done to claw her way back into normalcy had been for nothing. Her boots thudded dully against the flagstones as she kept walking, jaw set, gaze low. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t snap. But she saw them. 

Another group stood clustered near the grand staircase, mostly younger Ravenclaws. One of the girls—tall, pale, with hair pinned up in two braids—glanced Lyra’s way and leaned in close to her friend. 

“She’s a Lestrange, isn’t she?” 

“I heard her father was one of the worst Death Eaters.” 

“I heard no one even  knows  who her real father is.” 

“She was the one who fought Clearwater. Nearly killed her and all she got was a detention.” 

“She hasn’t even denied it. That says something, doesn’t it?” 

“That says everything!” 

Lyra paused at the top of the staircase landing, spine rigid. The wind outside moaned against the tall windows, and for a moment the whole castle felt too quiet. 

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. Just kept walking, slow and steady, her heartbeat loud in her ears. If she let it in—if she stopped now—it’d spiral. 

The words weren’t new. But they cut differently now. 

This wasn’t just gossip anymore. It was suspicion. Fear. A name people didn’t just whisper about—they avoided. 

Her name. 

----------------------------------- 

Transfiguration had always been one of her favourite classes and one she was actually good at, truly good at. Runes was her favorite but transfiguration would always have a home in her heart, and a rather large one at that. But lately, even the familiar comfort of McGonagall’s classroom felt cold. 

Lyra slipped into her seat near the back and set her bag down quietly. She didn’t speak. No one did. The air was thick with something unsaid, and the space around her desk stayed conspicuously empty. A few students glanced up as she entered, then quickly looked away, as if eye contact might turn them to stone. She was used to that look—uneasy, curious, vaguely afraid—but it used to come from other Houses. Now it came from everyone. Even some of her own. 

Professor McGonagall stood at the front, lips thin and posture rigid. Her tartan robes were impeccable, as always, but there was something withdrawn in her face—a cool, distant professionalism that hadn’t been there last month. Not like this. Her usual sharpness was intact, but it had lost its warmth. She looked through the class, not at it. Not at her. 

She didn’t look at Lyra. 

Not once. 

Instructions were delivered evenly, almost mechanically. They were reviewing inanimate-to-animal conversions—teacups into tortoises. McGonagall demonstrated once, crisply and efficiently, her transfigured tortoise blinking calmly on the desk. Then, with a brisk flick of her wand, it reverted back to porcelain, and she turned them loose to try it themselves. 

Lyra stared at her teacup. Lifted her wand. Drew the movement cleanly, said the incantation just under her breath. The cup wobbled, shifted, and then, with a sound like stretching cloth, it snapped into shape—an anxious-looking tortoise that blinked up at her in quiet confusion. 

She reached down and smoothed its shell absently, heart not in it. Her fingers moved in slow, thoughtless circles, tracing the spiral pattern at its centre. She should’ve been proud—it was a clean transfiguration, one of the best in the room—but it felt hollow.  

No praise would come, no nod of approval, not from McGonagall.  

She’d thought—hoped, maybe—that after the dust had settled, McGonagall would soften again. That the look she’d given her in the hallway had been stress and exaperation, not total disappointment. That the silence hadn’t meant anything.  

But now, watching the woman move between desks without once glancing her way all this time later, Lyra knew better. It wasn’t just silence, it was withdrawal. Intentional, controlled, and quietly cruel. 

The pang was sharper than she expected. 

She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. That McGonagall had never really liked her to begin with. But it wasn’t true. She’d respected her deeply and part of her—the part that still wanted to be more than what they whispered—had looked up to her. Still did.  

The disappointment in McGonagall’s eyes, or worse, the absence of them, felt like a door that had quietly shut. Like a chapter had ended and she hadn't even been told. And there was no knocking loud enough to open it again. 

Her hands stilled over the tortoise. 

McGonagall glided past her desk as if it didn’t exist, and she felt like she didn't even exist. Like it wouldn't even matter if she just vanished. 

She looked down at the tortoise. It blinked up at her again, slow and patient, its claws scratching faintly against the desk. It didn’t judge her. It didn’t expect anything. It just existed—small and alive and real. It was more present than most people had been to her lately. 

Her wand lay still in her hand. 

She wished she could explain it. Wished she could say something clever or biting or brave. Something that would make her feel like herself again. But her throat was thick, and the words caught somewhere between her ribs. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like choice, but surrender. 

So she just sat in the quiet, the tortoise breathing softly beneath her fingers, while the class carried on around her as if she weren’t there at all. As if she’d already disappeared. As if she'd become invisible in the one place that used to see her clearly. As if her worth had been measured, judged, and quietly dismissed. 

And that, somehow, was worse than being hated. Because at least hatred meant you still mattered enough to be felt. 

------------------------------------- 

The afternoon light had gone a little grey by the time Lyra reached the third-floor corridor. The castle always felt heavier in this part of the day—like the stone itself was holding its breath. The warmth of morning had faded into a flat, sullen hush, and the flagstones beneath her boots felt colder than they had hours ago. Her bag hung low on her shoulder, and the hem of her cloak dragged slightly behind her, damp from a puddle in the courtyard she hadn’t bothered to avoid. 

The crowd had thinned between periods. The usual noise—the clatter of voices, the hiss of swinging doors—had dulled to a murmur. Just the occasional scuff of shoes against worn flagstones or the low rustle of parchment as students shuffled past. Somewhere nearby, a portrait muttered in its sleep, its subject draped in snores and a moth-eaten bonnet. 

She was rounding a corner near the tapestry of Baldric the Bewildered when she heard it.  

"—Lestrange, right?" said one boy, somewhere just ahead. "That’s who everyone’s talking about." 

"She  has  to be the Heir," said another, a girl this time. "I mean—come on. Her whole family’s in Azkaban. Didn’t she nearly kill that prefect last month? Beat her unconscious and everything, she only stopped because she was pulled off of her." 

"Who even  is  her father? Didn’t that Death Eater say she wasn’t really his? Maybe she’s cursed or something. Would explain a lot." 

"Honestly? I bet it  was  her. She’s always looked... wrong. Like she knows something the rest of us don’t. Just ready to strike at us the second we turn our backs." 

The voices crackled like dry leaves, sharp and careless and full of thrill. There was no fear or caution in their voices, just excitment. The kind that bloomed when children brushed up against something forbidden—some juicy little horror story they could toss around like a game. The kind that was always at someone else’s expense. 

Lyra stopped walking. 

For a long second, she didn’t move. Her hands stayed loose at her sides. Her pulse didn’t race. She just stood there, listening. Letting the words thread through the air like smoke, each syllable curling around her ribs, tightening. 

Then she stepped forward. 

They were third-years—two boys and a girl—huddled near the archway leading toward the Charms corridor. Their faces were flushed with gossip, eyes bright with that cruel gleam that came when you thought you were safe. None of them noticed her at first. Not until her shadow stretched across the stone. 

Then the girl saw her. 

She froze. The others turned. 

Lyra didn’t speak at first. She just looked at them, expression unreadable, back straight, arms relaxed. But there was a precision in her stillness, the kind that made people uneasy. Like watching a hawk sit silently just before it dropped.  

It was the posture and expression Lucius made sure she could emulate before she started Hogwarts, for this reason. So that if people thought her weak then she would show them exactly who they were draging through the mud. That she was not weak or cruel, she was the one with the power and only a fool would not show them their place. 

“Say it again,” she said softly. Her voice was low, but it cut through the corridor like glass. Cold, precise. 

No one answered. 

She stepped closer. Not quickly. One even stride, then another. Her boots made no sound, but her presence filled the space like smoke. “Go on. Finish your little theory. You were so confident a moment ago.” 

The boy on the left—the taller one with freckles—swallowed hard. His eyes darted from Lyra’s face to her hands, to the corridor behind her, like he was calculating how quickly he could get away. 

“I—we weren’t—we didn’t mean—” 

“You think a name makes a person a murderer?” Lyra asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was quiet, conversational, but there was steel underneath it. “That blood decides who we are? That being a Lestrange means I’m just waiting to snap?” 

Silence. 

She took one more step forward. The third-years flinched. 

“I wonder,” she said, almost to herself, “when you’re older, and someone whispers  your  name in a corridor—will you flinch? Will you wonder what lie they’ve decided is true? What crime they’ve pinned on you to make the world easier to understand?” 

None of them spoke. The girl’s lips trembled. One of the boys took a step back. 

“Next time,” Lyra said, voice still cool and clear, “you decide to start a story, make sure it’s one you’d survive being the subject of.” 

She held their gaze for another second. Let them squirm. Let the silence stretch. 

Then she turned and walked away. Her boots echoed down the corridor in even, deliberate taps. And she didn’t glance back. 

But as soon as she was around the next corner, out of sight, her hands started to shake. 

Why?   What did I do to them?  

She ducked into an empty side hall and braced her palms against the stone wall. Her heart was thudding now, hard and high in her chest, like it had waited until she was alone to panic. Her breath came shallow. Her knuckles scraped against the rough stone. 

They were just children. Stupid, whispering children. But their words had hit like spells. 

She closed her eyes. She thought of her mother, of Rodolphus. She thought of Prophet headlines. The ones that still said the name Lestrange like it was a curse. She thought of her own face in the mirror, and how often she saw someone else’s shadow there. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. They didn’t know her. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? No one ever really had to. 

She didn’t cry. But her throat ached with the effort of not letting it happen. She stayed there a long time until she was sure they were gone from the corridor. 

When her hands finally stilled, she stood upright and straightened her robes. Fixed the collar. Smoothed the lines. She ran a hand through her hair, slightly longer than usual, felt the curls spring back into place. 

And then, chin high, eyes dry, she stepped back into the corridor. 

And kept walking. 

----------------------------------------- 

The dormitory was quiet, save for the slow, steady breathing from the other bed across the room. From where she lay, Lyra could see the dim, shifting light of the lake painting soft shadows across the ceiling. The lanterns outside flickered beneath the water, their glow casting gentle ripples that never quite reached the corners of the room. Fish moved past the windows now and then, silent and indifferent. It felt like being in a world apart—deep, cold, and slow. 

She couldn’t sleep. 

She lay on her back, arms folded over her chest, eyes wide open and dry. Her mind wouldn’t stop. It kept replaying everything in fragments. The hallway. The whispers. The look on McGonagall’s face. The third-years huddled like children around a scary story they didn’t really understand. 

"She has to be the Heir."  

The sentence clung to her. Louder and somehow more real now that she was alone with it. 

She turned onto her side, then her back again, then gave up entirely and sat up, the covers falling away. The air was cold, but she welcomed it. At least it made her feel something. 

She crossed the room and knelt beside her trunk, working by memory more than light. Her hand slid past her sketchbook and stopped on the small velvet pouch buried beneath it. She hesitated. Then pulled it free. 

She had buried it so it might not haunt her, so maybe she wouldn’t be tempted to use it again. Maybe if she couldn’t see it, if she could forget the feeling of it in her hand, of the blade on her skin, then maybe she was healing. Or maybe… 

Maybe I am insane. What is that saying, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Seems like they were always right about me in the end.  

She brought it back to her bed and sat with her legs crossed, placing the pouch on the blanket. She unwrapped it slowly.  

The knife was as familiar as breathing. The brass handle had dulled from years of use, the blade worn down to something barely sharp. The engravings had always been a comfort when she traced them with her fingers. 

She rested it against the inside of her arm. Just the flat of the blade. No pain, just pressure. 

Across the room, Gemma shifted under her blankets. 

Lyra looked over. Gemma was curled toward the wall, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, breathing slow and even. She looked younger when she slept. Not softer, exactly, but unbothered. She hadn’t spent the day being dissected by rumors, the world hadn’t tried to write her story without her permission. 

Lyra exhaled. 

She wrapped the knife back up and set it aside. She had promised, and she would not hurt Gemma or Draco or anyone else. It has been proven again and again, that her feelings don’t matter, but she refused to make anyone else feel the pain and grief that made up her mind and heart. 

So she reached for her sketchbook instead, already waiting near her pillow. She pulled it into her lap, opened to a blank page, and picked up a stick of charcoal. 

She didn’t think or plan, it never ended up like she wanted if she did. She just started drawing. 

The curve of a braid. A profile she knew better than her own. Hands wrapped around a teacup. That soft expression that was on her face more often that not, eyes turned toward something out of frame. 

Charity. 

She sketched the way Charity looked at breakfast that morning, still a little sleepy, her tea steaming in her hands. The calm that clung to her like a second skin. The way she made the room quieter just by existing in it. 

Lyra drew the slope of her shoulders, the twist of her coat, the smudge of ink that always seemed to find her fingers by midday. Her mouth slightly parted, as if caught in thought. She shaded the lines under her eyes, the softness that came with staying up too late marking essays. 

She turned the page and drew her hands. Her fingers when she explained something. Lyra remembered every divot and line better than most of her textbooks. Perhaps she had stared at them for too long when they had been getting to know each other all those months ago in The Wild Hare.  

Then she turned tha page again, this one of Charity standing in the corridor, caught in a breeze, her expression unreadable. 

Another—seated, cross-legged on the floor, half-smiling over a cup of tea. 

Lyra didn’t stop. 

With every line, every shaded corner, something loosened in her chest. The tightness in her ribs uncoiled, just a little. Her throat didn’t burn quite so much. 

She didn’t know what she was trying to draw anymore. It wasn’t really about Charity, or not only about her. It was about stillness. About capturing something that felt certain when everything else felt like it was slipping away. 

By the time she looked up, the lake had started to glow faintly with the first threads of morning light. Her legs had gone numb. Her hand ached. Her blanket had pooled around her ankles. 

She closed the sketchbook and slid it under her pillow. 

She still felt heavy but not like she was sinking.  

She wasn’t sure if she would ever feel free. 

Lyra moved through the motions of getting dressed and ready for class without really feeling present in her own skin. Her limbs ached and all she wanted was to crawl in her bed and go back to sleep, but she knew it would elude her, and NEWTs were only a few months away. 

Her fingers fumbled with buttons and clasps, her wand slipped from the bedside table, her hair refused to sit right with its new length. She barely registered any of it. Her body felt distant. Her mind was underwater.  

By the time she was ready, Gemma had already left and she was already late. 

The castle had taken on that strange hush that came just after the bell, when the corridors emptied and the air turned expectant. Her footsteps echoed too loudly as she rushed down the hallway, the stone beneath her boots slick from damp air. Her bag kept slipping from her shoulder, the weight of her textbooks digging into her ribs with each jostling step. Her robes clung to the backs of her knees and her fringe stuck to her forehead in big lumps; it honestly made her want to just chop it all off. 

She wasn’t thinking, her mind felt blank, broken. She was just moving. 

And then she wasn’t. 

She rounded the corner too fast and slammed into someone with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. 

Papers exploded between them like startled birds. Dozens of them, scattering across the cold stone floor in a messy, fluttering storm. Lyra staggered back, blinking fast. 

"Merlin—sorry—" 

"Lyra." 

The voice was soft and even, and it cut through the storm in her head like a steadying hand on the shoulder. 

Charity. 

She was crouched already, gathering the scattered parchment with careful fingers, moving with the same quiet ease she always carried. Lyra dropped to her knees, reaching to help, but her hands fumbled the edges, clumsy and trembling. 

Charity reached out and placed her hand on Lyra’s wrist, just a gentle touch, barely there. But it stilled her. The movement was simple, almost casual, but it held enough grounding force to stop Lyra from chasing the papers any further. 

"Come with me," Charity said softly, her eyes locked on Lyra’s. The offer was quiet, yet it sounded like a cannon when it registered in her mind. 

Lyra stood without speaking. Her heart was hammering, her face felt warm, her fingers cold. She looked into Charity’s eyes, looked at the blue that haunted her thoughts, at her golden hair pulled up in a braid with that tartan ribbon woven through—and she nodded. 

Charity led her into the sanctuary of her office, a quiet, sunlit room that didn’t match the chill stone corridors outside. It was warm, full of soft, mismatched furniture and overstuffed shelves. A tartan scarf hung from a hook beside the door, and a little tea kettle hummed in the corner, as if it had been expecting company. Curtains filtered the grey morning light into something gentler, and the whole space smelled faintly of ink, wool, and something floral. 

It was strange how different it was than what Lyra had imagined. How different it was from Charity’s classroom even, with its bright colors and posters hung on the wall. This was subdued and yet so—Charity. 

The door closed softly behind her and without a word, Charity crossed to the kettle, poured two mugs of tea, and passed one to Lyra. But she didn’t sit behind her desks—she sat beside her. 

Not across. Not opposite.  Beside . 

Lyra took the mug with both hands and held it tightly, the warmth bleeding into her skin. Yet she didn’t drink. Her thumb found the chip near the rim and rubbed it over and over, grounding herself with the small imperfection. 

"Everyone thinks…they think I’m just waiting to lose control again," she said eventually, her voice low, rough around the edges. "That what happened before... wasn’t an accident. Like it was proof. Proof of what I am. Who I’ll always be." 

She stared into the tea, fingers wrapped tight around the cup. "Like none of it surprised them. Like they were just waiting for it to happen so they could say, 'See? Told you so.'" 

Charity didn’t interrupt. She didn’t nod or hum or offer comfort, she just sat with her. Let the space exist, let Lyra say what had consumed her mind. 

"Some days, I believe them," Lyra continued, still staring into her tea. "I know what they say—about my mother, about Rodolphus, about the fight. And sometimes I start to think... maybe they see something I don’t. Something I can’t stop. Maybe it’s already happening. Maybe it’s always been there." 

Her shoulders curled forward slightly, as if she could fold herself small enough to be missed. Her fingers tightened around the mug until her knuckles turned white. 

"Maybe I am becoming it. The thing they’re all so sure I am. Maybe I am going mad, just like the rest of my family. Maybe they truly are right about me." 

Her voice cracked on the last word, small and sharp like glass underfoot. It wavered, thin and raw, like something had finally slipped through the cracks she’d been holding shut for days. She didn’t try to swallow it down this time. She let the weakness show, just a little. Just enough.  

Just to Charity.  

Charity reached over, slow and steady, and took Lyra’s hand in both of hers. Her palms were warm. Her grip gentle, but firm. 

"You're not your bloodline," Charity said softly, her fingers still wrapped around Lyra's. "You're your choices. The ones you've already made, and the ones you're still allowed to make. No one else gets to decide who you are." 

Lyra’s breath caught. She blinked hard, but the tears clung stubbornly to her lashes. 

"But it’s not that simple," she whispered. "Everyone already thinks they know. I walk into a room and I can feel it—what they expect. What they want me to be. And part of me... part of me thinks it’d be easier to just give in to it. At least then they’d stop looking at me like I’m going to snap." 

Charity's thumb brushed gently across the back of her hand. "Easy doesn’t mean right. And it doesn’t mean true. You are not their expectations. You are not their fear. They don’t get to write your story, Lyra. They don’t get to define you with their whispers in corridors or theories or bets." 

Lyra looked down again. Her lip trembled. 

"But what if they’re right? What if I do become like her? Like  him ? What if I already am?" 

Charity's voice remained steady, never rising, never pushing. "Then you’ll make a new choice tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that. That’s how we prove them wrong. Not by being perfect, but by being  ourselves . By refusing to let anyone else put us into cages they built out of fear." 

Lyra’s shoulders shook once, barely visible, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. 

"You're allowed to be angry," Charity added. "You're allowed to feel everything you're feeling. But you’re not alone in it. And you don’t have to carry their shadows just because they cast them. You are  not  your parents. You are not their sins." 

Lyra took a slow, shaky breath, then another. The warmth of the tea seeped into her fingers again, and for the first time in what felt like years, she felt it. Really felt it. 

"I want to believe you," she said. 

"Then start there," Charity replied, squeezing her hand. "That’s all you have to do today. Just believe that you can be more." 

The clock ticked on softly behind them. Outside the window, the world continued on, uncaring. Lyra wasn’t fine. But she wasn’t breaking anymore. She was choosing to stay. Choosing to breathe. 

And in that moment, she understood something she never had before: 

Her story wasn’t written yet. 

And she was the one holding the quill. 

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was unusually bright that morning, with shafts of late autumn light slanting through the tall windows and pooling on the Slytherin table like melted gold. Outside, the sky stretched a pale, paper-thin blue, dotted with slow-moving clouds that looked as though they were unsure whether to linger or drift. The air buzzed with the kind of tension only a Quidditch match day could bring—equal parts anticipation, anxiety, and unspoken bets. 

Draco Malfoy sat near the end of the Slytherin bench, one leg crossed over the other, idly poking at his eggs with the side of a silver fork. He hadn’t taken a bite. He didn’t plan to. His stomach was a churning pit of nerves and adrenaline, and had been since before dawn, when he’d woken with the sort of restless energy that made it impossible to stay still. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the sharp-edged awareness of how much today mattered. 

The Slytherin vs Gryffindor matches always did. 

Across from him, Lyra sat dressed in full Quidditch gear, her posture tense, almost statuesque. She wasn’t eating either. Her elbows rested on the table, fingers wrapped tightly around a goblet of untouched pumpkin juice. She stared straight ahead, not at the food, not at anyone, just through the floating candles and toward some invisible point far above them all. 

It wasn’t the unfocused stare that caught Draco’s attention. 

It was her hair. 

It had grown out again. 

Not wildly, but noticeably. Long enough now that the sharp edges were softening, the defined lines of her signature cut blurring into something more unruly. It curled at the ends, especially near her ears, and flattened awkwardly at the back. One stubborn strand clung to her temple like it had fused there overnight. The fringe that had once been ruthlessly short now hung over her right eye, tickling the brow she kept furrowing. 

Draco tilted his head. "You look like a mop." 

Lyra turned toward him slowly, blinking like she was surfacing from deep water. Her expression was unreadable at first, but then her mouth twitched into something vaguely resembling a scowl. "Gemma’s been busy." 

He snorted into his tea. "So you’ve just decided to let it grow into sentience? Bold move. You’ll be casting spells through your bangs by December." 

She didn’t rise to it, just huffed and nudged the hair out of her face with the heel of her palm. "It’s hair, Draco. I’ll cut it after the match." 

But her voice lacked the usual bite. It came out flat. Exhausted. 

He paused, fork still in hand. That tone—it wasn’t annoyance or sarcasm. It was fatigue, the kind she never let anyone see. 

He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, and let himself really look at her. The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual and her cheekbones looked sharper from lack of sleep. She wasn’t just tired, she was worn thin. 

His mind drifted back to the last time her hair had been long—properly long, the way Mother had styled it during her childhood. Waist-length, parted and plaited or pulled into intricate braids that shimmered like polished ink under the chandelier light of the Manor dining room. Sometimes she wore it in loose curls, charmed to fall delicately around her shoulders, framing her face just so. It had taken time, effort, patience—none of which Lyra had in any abundance. 

That summer after her third year, Lyra had worn her hair the way pure-blood daughters were expected to—waist-length, half-down in soft, neat curls, with braids pulled back from her temples and tied together behind her head to keep it out of her face. It was polished, graceful, and entirely performative. She wore it not because she wanted to, but because it was easier to comply than to argue—at least for a while. 

Until on night, Father made a comment over dinner. Something about how she was nearly of age, how it was time they started thinking seriously about finding her a proper match. 

Lyra had gone very still. 

Then she’d stood up from the table without a word. 

Draco remembered the shouting later. The glass breaking. Father’s voice rising—measured, disapproving. Hers, louder, sharp with something brittle and furious. She didn’t want a match. Didn’t want to be chosen or bartered or shaped. She wanted to be left alone. 

The next morning, Lyra showed up at breakfast with her hair sheered to her scalp on the sides, the top jagged and uneven, barely two inches long. It looked like she’d done it with a cursed blade and no mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her jaw set like stone. She’d sat down, poured herself tea, and dared anyone to speak. 

No one had. 

Draco had watched her from across the table and thought, for the first time, that she looked more like herself than she ever had before. 

He watched her now, how the hair kept falling into her face no matter how many times she brushed it back. How she didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she didn’t care. How she held her goblet like it was anchoring her to the table. 

Something twisted in his chest, low and unfamiliar. Not pity. She would hex him for that. But maybe something closer to unease. 

Lyra Lestrange never looked like she wasn’t in control. Even when she wasn’t, she could fake it better than anyone. 

But today? 

Today, she looked like someone else entirely. Someone trying very hard not to unravel. 

Draco glanced down at his plate and pushed the eggs aside again. He could hear the clatter of knives and forks all around them, laughter from the Gryffindor table, Hufflepuffs whispering about the game. The usual noise of a Saturday morning at Hogwarts. But it all felt distant. 

His fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the edge of his plate. The sky outside was still bright. 

Clear skies meant fast brooms and less distractions. 

Draco swallowed hard. 

They had a game to win. 

And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if Lyra would be there to carry them. 

The light shifted across the table. Lyra didn’t move. 

Draco looked down at his hands, then back across the table at his cousin. 

She always hated when things were quiet. 

And yet, that morning, she hadn’t said more than three words. 

The air felt heavy. 

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Draco Malfoy felt sick to his stomach. 

---------------------------------- 

The Slytherin locker room was quiet, the kind of quiet that meant something. A hum under the surface, like the building pressure before a storm. No one was talking much. Just the occasional scrape of a boot, the clink of a buckle, the muted thud of someone testing the grip on their broomstick. 

Draco sat near the end of the bench, bent over his shin guards, adjusting the straps until they were just tight enough to bite. He wasn’t really thinking about the gear. He kept glancing up. 

Lyra was standing in the middle of the room, still as stone. 

She hadn’t said a word yet. 

Her hands were behind her back, her shoulders square, head bowed slightly like she was trying to keep her thoughts from spilling out. Her robes hung a little off one shoulder, and there was a thread loose on the cuff she’d rolled and then clearly given up on fixing. Her jaw looked locked. Not tense—braced. 

Then finally, she looked at them. 

"I don’t care about the points," she said, voice low. "I don’t care what the crowd shouts. And I really don’t care what Potter does." 

A couple smirks flickered around the room, but she kept going. 

"We win today because we’ve trained for this. Because we know every pattern they’ll fly before they do. Because Madison watches angles better than most people see. Because Terence hits like a curse when it counts. Because Cassius and Adrian don’t miss." 

She glanced around at each of them, just for a second at a time. Her expression didn’t change, but something in the air did. 

"We win," she said again, "because we’re better. Because we’ve earned it." 

Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to. 

Madison shifted her weight. "You alright, Lestrange?" 

Lyra’s lips twitched like she wanted to lie well. "I’m fine." 

Cassius raised an eyebrow. "You look like a ghost." 

"Good. Maybe I’ll haunt the Gryffindor chasers." 

That got a few laughs and everyone focused back on checking their gear. Draco watched as she pulled on her gloves. Her hands weren’t steady. 

He looked down at his own, flexed them. He wanted to say something—he didn’t know what. It felt like anything might tip her over right now. But she was still here. Still standing. 

She turned toward the door. 

"Let’s go." 

The team stood and followed her out. Cassius muttered something to Adrian that earned a grin, and Terence nudged Madison lightly with the butt of his broom. They weren’t loud, but the tension had cracked just a little—enough for whispered banter and quiet smirks. Just enough to feel like a team again. The corridor echoed with the sound of boots and brooms and low voices, steady and grounded. 

Draco stayed close behind Lyra. That stupid fringe kept slipping into her eyes. She didn’t brush it away this time. 

He didn’t know if it was stubbornness or if she just didn’t have it in her anymore. 

He hoped the game would give her something to hold onto. 

He hoped it would be enough. 

The roar of the crowd slammed into Draco like a wall of noise and wind as they stepped onto the Quidditch pitch, the kind of overwhelming sound that rattled through his ribs and echoed in the back of his throat. It wasn’t just loud—it was alive, pulsing with the heartbeat of the school, the electric tension of house pride and rivalry, all coiled into one singular, breathless moment.  

Hogwarts Quidditch had never been subtle. It wasn’t just a game—it was spectacle, tribal warfare in the form of flying blurs and cracked ribs. 

The stands were a swirling sea of color, banners and scarves snapping in the cold breeze. Green and silver rippled through the Slytherin side like waves of approval, met with equally fierce flashes of red and gold across the pitch. Even from above, the contrast was dizzying.  

The sky overhead was cloudless and bright, a clear blue that stretched wide and endless above the stadium. Sunlight poured down, making every color look sharper, every motion seem more vivid. The wind smelled like wet grass, leather polish, and something faintly metallic. 

Draco adjusted his gloves, tugging at the wrist straps even though they were already tight. His grip tightened on the polished handle of his Nimbus 2001, the familiar wood warm beneath his fingers. 

Lyra was already mounted beside him, balanced on her broom like it was an extension of her spine. She looked calm—too calm. Her face was unreadable, a careful mask of cool detachment. Her eyes were scanning the pitch with surgical focus, and Draco could tell by the set of her jaw that she was she was calculating how this could go. She looked like she belonged here. But he knew better than most that appearances weren’t always truth. 

Behind them, Madison leaned in toward Cassius and whispered something that made him snort under his breath. Terence launched into a low hover, circled twice like a hawk testing the wind, then settled back down beside Adrian, who was tapping the butt of his broom against the turf rhythmically. A nervous habit, though he’d never admit it. The usual pre-match rituals played out around them, grounding. Familiar. Steady. 

Overhead, the crackle of the enchanted megaphone cut through the air, Lee Jordan's voice booming with practiced enthusiasm as he rattled off names and positions. He was already throwing in biased jabs and spirited commentary, favoring Gryffindor as usual. Draco rolled his eyes at the theatrics and let himself float a few feet higher, giving his legs a shake to loosen them. 

Below him, the team shifted into position like clockwork. There was confidence in how they moved now compared to the start of the season—less jittery, more precision. Whatever Lyra had said in the locker room was still ringing in their heads.  

Then Draco noticed Lyra had stopped scanning the pitch. 

Her head was tilted slightly upward, her gaze fixed on the professor’s box—specifically on the far right where a few less-frequent guests sometimes sat. Her eyes had settled on the end of the row, where a pair of unmistakably polished figures had just taken their seats. 

He followed her line of sight. 

And his heart caught. 

His parents. 

His mother sat with perfect posture, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. Her expression was impassive, but her eyes were narrowed slightly, focused and sharp. His father sat beside her, cane across his knees, his pale blond hair gleaming like silver in the low light. His face was unreadable, but his stare—sharp, expectant, unblinking—landed on Draco like a hex. 

They never came to matches.  

Not once, not for Lyra.  

Draco felt his chest tighten. It was like an invisible cord pulled taut inside him. His father’s eyes locked with his for just a moment—and in that silence, Draco heard it anyway. 

Win.  

He looked away quickly, rising further into the air to escape the sudden weight in his limbs. He would not let it shake him. 

The whistle blew. 

The match exploded into motion. 

The Quaffle was shot skyward like a cannon blast. The Bludgers followed, shrieking through the air with deadly speed. Players peeled off in all directions, trailing robes and noise and momentum. The wind caught Draco’s robes as he surged upward, sharp and biting. But it felt good—bracing. Clearing. 

Cassius snatched the Quaffle first, twisting mid-air to dodge a Gryffindor and flicking it to Adrian in a blur. Terence was already angling after one of the Bludgers, bat up, shoulders tense with anticipation. Madison, high above the line, hovered with precision, watching the formations like she could see things three seconds before they happened. 

They were fast. Relentless. There was something ruthless about Slytherin when they played like this. No hesitation. No wasted motion. 

Draco climbed higher. 

There he was. 

Potter. 

Already heading for the top of the pitch, because of course he was. His broom tilted upward in a dramatic vertical climb, cloak flaring behind him like some sort of heroic banner. The ridiculous show-off aura never faded with him. Even now, he looked like he thought he was the main character in some great battle for justice. 

Draco veered in to tail him, loose but present. He didn’t need to crowd him yet. Just let him know he was there. 

A flicker caught the corner of his eye. 

His heart jumped—but no. Just light off one of the Weasley twins’ polished bats. He exhaled and glanced sideways. 

"Keeping up, Scarhead?" 

Potter glanced over. "Not with your hair, Malfoy. That comb-over drag must be murder in the wind." 

Draco smirked. "Jealousy's a nasty look on you." 

But then a dark shape blurred between them—a Bludger. It shot through their path like a missile, so close Draco flinched back instinctively. 

Potter dodged left, Draco right. 

The Bludger didn’t keep flying. 

It curved. 

Draco stared. 

It was circling back. 

That shouldn’t have been possible. 

The Bludger was supposed to fly in chaotic patterns, to keep the game unpredictable. But this one had a target. 

It zeroed in on Potter again. 

Draco angled up to follow. His stomach twisted with unease. 

Fred and George had seen it too. Fred zoomed in from above, swinging hard and knocking it away with a crack that echoed through the stands. 

But the Bludger didn’t spin off. It bent mid-air, like it had changed its mind. 

It was going after Potter again. 

"That thing cursed?" Draco shouted toward George. 

George’s jaw was tight. He didn’t answer. Just swung again, missing by inches. 

The Bludger whipped around and dove back toward Potter, shrieking with uncanny precision. 

Draco followed, eyes locked on the scene below. 

Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

And the game had only just begun. 

The cursed bludger shrieked through the air, arcing sharply toward Potter with a force that made even the upper stands go still. Fred Weasley darted across the pitch, his bat raised high, and swung with all the practiced confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times before.  

The connection was clean—a sharp, cracking thwack that echoed through the pitch—but the sense of safety was brief. Instead of sailing off in the opposite direction, harmless and spent, the bludger twisted. 

And changed targets. 

It wasn’t going back to Potter. 

It was heading across the pitch, slicing through the air like it had a mind of its own. 

Heading straight for Lyra. 

She didn’t see it coming. 

Her eyes were locked on an incoming Gryffindor Chaser, her body angled toward the right goalpost. She was locked in, perfectly balanced on her broom, legs steady, arms tight and sure. Her fingers curled white around the handle. Her attention was fully on the Quaffle, reading the angle of the pass, already positioning to intercept. The wind tossed strands of hair into her eyes, but she didn’t blink. 

Draco saw it from above, just a heartbeat before. 

He shouted. "Lyra!" 

But it was too loud. The crowd, the wind, the chaos of the game drowned him out completely. His voice didn’t reach her. Nothing would have. 

The bludger slammed into the side of her head. 

The sound was horrid—a sick, wet crack that didn’t belong on a Quidditch pitch. It was the kind of sound that made people flinch, even when they didn’t know what caused it. A sound that would burn itself into memory. 

Bone. That was what it sounded like. Bone giving way. 

Her head snapped sharply to the side. Her entire frame seemed to seize for a split second—then slacken all at once. The broom jerked under her, then slipped out from beneath her entirely. 

And she began to fall. 

Arms dangling. Legs limp. Her broom spiraled down behind her like a dropped quill. 

The sound around him vanished. Even the wind seemed to pause. 

Draco didn’t hesitate. 

He dove. 

The air tore past him, the pitch rushing upward, his heart hammering so loudly it felt like it might rip through his ribs. To his right, Madison screamed her name—his name? both? he couldn’t tell. Adrian peeled away to avoid the falling body, Cassius swerved too late and nearly collided with a Gryffindor. 

But Lyra didn’t slow. 

She was too far. 

Too low. 

She hit the ground. 

The impact was brutal. It made a deep, dull sound, muffled only slightly by the grass beneath her. 

Her right side took the brunt—shoulder, hip, ribs. Her arm bent underneath her unnaturally, her head thudded once, then again. The rest of her folded over like a marionette dropped mid-performance. 

Her robes fanned out around her, green and silver flaring sharply against the grass. One glove slid halfway off her hand. Her broom landed yards away, still spinning in a useless arc. 

Draco hovered only a few feet above the ground now, frozen. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t think. 

She didn’t move. 

Not her fingers. Not her chest. Not even a twitch of muscle to signal pain or breath or life. 

He was still staring when someone screamed. 

The sound tore through the silence, sharp and ragged—from the stands, maybe, or the staff box. A ripple went through the stadium, like reality had finally caught up with what had happened. 

Lee Jordan's voice had been crackling through the megaphone, bright with victory. "Potter's caught the Snitch! Gryffindor wins!" 

The cheers had barely started when his voice faltered. 

"Looks like Potter took a hit to the arm—but—wait... someone else is down—it's Lestrange." 

There seemed to be a commotion just out of range of the megaphone, raised voices franticly speaking. 

But Draco didn't hear it, he didn't hear anything but his own breathing—harsh and fast. 

Draco could barely hear the whistle but it woke hime up like a bucket of cold water. Madam Hooch was calling the match. But it sounded far away. Like it belonged to a different moment, a different day, a different world. 

His eyes stayed locked on Lyra’s still form. 

Her face was turned slightly to the side. A thin line of blood curved along her temple, seeping into the grass. Her fringe had fallen over one eye and streaked with blood. 

He gripped his broom harder. His palms were sweating. 

His heart felt like it had stopped. 

Something inside him cracked—a pressure he hadn’t even noticed building, now splintering open like ice underfoot. 

She didn’t move. 

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

Then, slowly, he descended. The tips of his boots touched the grass, and he dropped to his knees beside her. 

She still hadn’t moved. 

Somewhere behind him, he could hear the rush of footsteps—teachers running, voices calling out across the pitch. But all he could do was stare at her face, willing her to open her eyes. 

She didn’t. 

Draco didn’t hear who reached them first. The world was moving around him, voices clashing, footsteps pounding, but none of it seemed to touch him until someone skidded to a stop just behind. Another figure followed a heartbeat later. He only looked up when a pair of hands—slim, pale, familiar—grabbed his shoulders with a desperation that broke through his numbness. 

"Let me through! Let me see her!" 

It was his mother. 

"Narcissa, step back," came Snape’s voice, tight and low, steady but strained. He was already there, one hand firm on her upper arm, trying to restrain her without hurting her. Narcissa twisted against his grip, her eyes wild. 

"Severus, let me go! Please—look at her! She’s not breathing properly, she’s turning pale—there’s blood, she needs help!" 

His mother's voice cracked mid-sentence, thick with panic, and she tried again to tear free from Snape’s hold. Her eyes were locked on Lyra's motionless body, her face contorted with something between fury and grief. "Don't just stand there, Severus! She’s not—she can’t—" 

"She will be alright," Snape said quietly, not letting go. "Let Poppy work. Please." 

Madam Pomfrey was already on the grass beside Lyra, knees sinking into the damp soil, wand out and moving in smooth, practiced arcs. The air shimmered faintly around the spells she cast, soft glows pulsing across Lyra's skull and chest. The color in Pomfrey’s face faded with every scan. Her lips moved constantly, spells under her breath, too fast and too quiet for Draco to follow. 

"Massive trauma to the skull," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Crack near the right temporal bone. Swelling. Possible hemorrhage. Possible brain stem pressure." 

Draco didn’t know what any of it meant. He barely heard the words. He watched Lyra’s face—pale, slack, unmoving—and her fingers, hoping they would twitch. Curl. Do anything. 

They didn’t. 

"We have to get her to St. Mungo's," Pomfrey said sharply. "Immediately. We can't stabilize her here." 

Father stood nearby, a statue in fine robes. His face was blank, unreadable, but Draco could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fists were clenched at his sides. His mother had stopped struggling but looked no calmer. Her eyes stayed on Lyra like if she just focused hard enough, it would fix something. 

"Is she going to be alright?" Draco asked, his voice cracking despite himself. It came out smaller than he wanted, unfamiliar in his own throat. 

Pomfrey didn’t answer him. She was already conjuring a stretcher, muttering stabilization charms as the floating frame assembled itself beneath Lyra. The stretcher lifted slowly, cradling Lyra's body with gentler care than seemed possible for magic. 

Draco rose and followed immediately. The others fell into step behind. Madam Pomfrey led, guiding the stretcher with silent concentration. Snape walked beside his mother, still close, still ready to hold her if she broke again. Father walked like a man carved from marble, expression rigid, eyes flickering only once to his niece’s limp form. 

The corridors of the castle blurred past. Draco couldn’t remember walking them, only that the next moment he recognized was the Hospital Wing’s sharp sterility, the way light pooled too cleanly across the tiled floor. 

Pomfrey was already at the fireplace, speaking rapidly into the floo. "Emergency trauma. Seventeen-year-old female. Quidditch injury. Skull fracture, likely hemorrhage. Cerebral risk. We need a team. Now." 

A voice crackled back immediately—male, clipped, competent. A team was on its way. 

Pomfrey turned to the group. "They’ll transfer her through the trauma ward. She may have suffered brain damage. We’ll know more once she’s stabilized." 

The words hung in the air like frost. 

Draco looked at Lyra again. Her head was wrapped in conjured gauze now, stark white against her hair. The bruising across her cheekbone was already blooming purple, curling into the corner of her eye. She looked so small. So still. Her chest barely moved. 

Pomfrey summoned Lyra’s medical records with a flick of her wand. Charts and files floated toward her, sorting themselves into neat stacks. One of the arriving mediwizards snatched them up, scanning them quickly. 

"Confirmed cranial fracture," he said to the team. "Vitals unstable. Prepare for flame transport." 

"Step back, please," another added, nodding to his parents. 

Draco didn’t move. 

He stayed right beside her, hands tight around the bedrail, until one of the mediwizards finally looked at him. 

"You can come," he said. "If you’re family." 

Draco didn’t hesitate. "I am." 

His father opened his mouth, but said nothing. 

The fireplace roared to life with green flame. The stretcher hovered forward, then vanished into the fire. 

Draco followed, the fire licking at his robes, then dissolving. 

They emerged into the reception hall of St. Mungo’s. The ceiling glowed with clean white light. It smelled like herbs and disinfecting charms. The air buzzed with enchantments. Healers were waiting, already moving toward them. 

The stretcher didn’t stop. It turned down a corridor and vanished through swinging doors. 

Draco followed, his mother and father just behind him, but halfway down the corridor, a healer stepped in front of them, hand raised. "I'm sorry but this is as far as you go. We’ll call once she’s stable." 

The doors swung shut with a dull finality. 

And they could do nothing but wait. 

------------------------------------------- 

The waiting room at St. Mungo’s was too warm. 

Not comforting or cozy like you would want—just stifling.The kind of heavy warmth that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow, suffocating, off-kilter. The walls, though painted a calming shade of green, seemed to pulse faintly with embedded magic, the wards humming under the surface like a second heartbeat. The air itself buzzed, heavy with the faint scent of stale medicinal herbs and disinfecting spells, the sort that made your nose sting and your stomach turn.  

Draco sat rigidly in one of the high-backed chairs near the far wall, its dark wood gleaming beneath the flickering light of the sconces. His hands were clenched in his lap, knuckles pale against the green fabric of his Quidditch robes.  

He hadn’t even realized he was still wearing them until now, the padding heavy on his shoulders, the chill of dried sweat making the fabric cling to his skin. He barely registered it. Every muscle in his body was tense, locked tight as though bracing for something worse. 

Across the room, his father stood stiffly near the enchanted window, arms crossed over his chest, his expression carved from stone. The glass shimmered every few seconds to reflect the weather outside—overcast skies, gathering clouds—but no one was looking at it. Father’s gaze wasn’t on the window, not really. It was distant. Fixed somewhere between memory and calculation. 

Mother hadn’t sat down once. 

She moved like a storm, her footsteps sharp and purposeful. Pacing from one end of the room to the other, back and forth, the hem of her robes whispering against the tiled floor. Every few strides, she would stop abruptly, turn, and glance toward the corridor where Lyra had disappeared. Her wand was clutched tightly in her right hand, fingers curled so tight around it they trembled. There was no pretense in her movements. No attempt at composure. She wasn’t performing grief. She was in it. 

Draco had never seen her like this. 

Her usually immaculate posture had wilted under the weight of everything. Her lips were pressed into a bloodless line, eyes glinting with something sharp and fragile all at once. It made her look older, suddenly, like the worry had been waiting all these years to surface. 

Father finally spoke, his voice low, almost brittle. "You’re not helping by wearing a groove in the floor." 

Mother rounded on him without hesitation. "And you think standing there like marble helps her? Helps me?" 

"We are doing what we were told," Father replied tightly. "Hovering won’t change the outcome." 

Her expression twisted. "She’s not a bloody outcome, Lucius. She’s our family. She’s bleeding and broken and they took her away like she might not come back. Don’t you dare talk to me about outcomes." 

"That’s not what I meant." 

"What did you mean then Lucius, please enlighten me." 

Draco shut his eyes for a moment. The quiet that followed their exchange wasn’t peaceful—it was a pause full of sharp edges. Their voices had dropped again, but the tension didn’t fade. It just simmered. 

He didn’t know which was worse: the arguing or the silence that always came after. Both felt like being peeled open. 

All he could see was Lyra. On the ground. Her head at that awful angle. The way her fringe had fallen across her temple.  

The blood.  

The stillness. 

He forced the image away, and looked up just in time to see the door open. 

All three of them turned sharply. 

The healer who entered was compact, broad-shouldered, and wore a set of worn but well-maintained robes. His hair was a messy sweep of dirty blond, cropped short but slightly curled at the ends, as though he had a habit of raking his hands through it. He carried a slim chart tucked under one arm. His face was kind, but steady. Familiar in a way Draco couldn’t place. 

He saw it then. His mother stopped pacing. Froze, even. Just for a second. Her face didn’t contort, didn’t fall apart—but something shifted behind her eyes. Something old. Her fingers curled more tightly around her wand. 

"I’m Healer Tonks," the man said, nodding to all three of them. "I’ve been assigned to lead Miss Lestrange’s case." 

Draco blinked. The name struck something faint in his memory, but he couldn’t grasp it. 

Mother spoke first, her voice clipped, but a note of hoarseness had crept in. "How is she?" 

Healer Tonks looked at her and seem to think for a moment. "She’s stable now. The fracture to her skull was significant—the right temporal side. There was swelling near the optic nerve, and we had to act quickly to prevent lasting pressure on the brain stem. The bleeding has been controlled, and we’ve managed to stabilize her vitals." 

Draco held his breath. The words were clinical, but they all painted the same picture: it had been close. 

"Will she wake up?" he asked. He hated how thin his voice sounded. 

The healer turned to him then, offering a steadier tone, like he understood how much the boy needed something solid to hold onto. "Yes," he said gently, meeting Draco’s eyes. "There’s no sign of coma or any additional neural damage. She’s unconscious, but that’s expected—her body’s just doing what it needs to heal. Rest is the best thing for her right now." 

He paused, and Draco felt the pause like a blow before the words even landed. The healer turned back to face his parents, the chart still clutched in his hand, and his gaze lingered for a moment on Mother, as if weighing how much more she could bear to hear. 

"There is one complication." 

His heart sank. 

"She’s lost vision in her right eye," Healer Tonks said, voice soft but unflinching. "The damage to the orbital region was extensive, and the optic nerve was severed. We tried everything within reason to repair it, but there was simply too much trauma. The eye itself—what remains of it—has no function." 

He paused again, and when he continued, his tone had shifted into something slower, quieter. "The damage is permanent—there’s no way we can restore the sight in her right eye with magic or..." he hesitated briefly, his eyes flicking to Father, "or with Muggle means. I’m sorry." 

The word hung in the air like an echo that wouldn’t fade. Permanent. 

Draco felt something in his stomach twist.  

Mother let out a tiny, wounded sound. Her hand flew to her mouth as she turned away from them, shoulders curling inwards. She’d never wanted Lyra to play Quidditch. And now… now it would never be a question again. 

Father didn’t move. Not even a flinch. But Draco could see the way his jaw flexed, the way his arms crossed tighter, like he was trying to hold everything inside. 

"There may be other symptoms,"  Healer Tonks added gently. "Dizziness. Migraines. Sensitivity to light. And... adjustment. Psychological, emotional. She’s going to feel the impact of this for a long time. It won’t be just physical." 

No one replied. Draco didn’t trust himself to speak. 

"She won’t be returning to Hogwarts until at least the new term," he continued. "We’ll reassess around Christmas. She needs time." 

Draco finally managed to look up. His throat felt like it had closed, but he forced the words out. "Can we see her?" 

Healer Tonks gave a quiet nod. "She’s in a private room, still under observation, but you can sit with her." 

No one said a word as they followed him. The hallway seemed impossibly long. The ward doors clicked shut behind them. 

Draco kept glancing sideways at his mother. 

That haunted look hadn’t left her face. 

She looked like she was unraveling silently, piece by piece. Not from this one injury. But from something further back. Something old. Something she couldn’t undo. 

And that realization sank into Draco with the slow, crushing weight of grief he didn’t yet know how to name. 

The door to the private room opened with a whisper of sound, like even the door knew not to make a sound. Healer Tonks stepped aside, and they entered single file, the faintest scent of antiseptic brushing past them like a warning. 

The room was dimly lit, soft golden orbs hovering just above the corners like muted stars. Curtains were half-drawn, filtering the sunlight into a dull gray that painted everything in faded colors. A soft charm buzzed quietly over the windowpane, muting the outside world. Time seemed to slow the moment they stepped in. 

Lyra lay motionless in the center of the room, dwarfed by the crisp white sheets and stiff pillows that propped her head at an angle. Her skin was pale, almost blue beneath the faint, golden glow. A wide bandage was wrapped around her head, it covered the right side of her face and temple entirely. The gauze looked harsh against her skin, like a brand. Only her left eye, closed, was visible, along with the soft curve of her cheek and her lips, parted slightly as she breathed in slow, uneven intervals—though even that rhythm felt uncertain, like it could stop at any moment. 

Mother crossed the room without a word. She moved like someone hypnotized, caught in a current too strong to swim against. She didn’t acknowledge the healer or look around. She just walked straight to the left side of the bed, lowered herself slowly into the chair there, and leaned in. Her hands trembled as she brushed a few stray strands of Lyra’s hair off her forehead, tucking them gently behind her ear. Her breath hitched as she touched the bandage. 

"You're safe now," she whispered, her voice cracked and hoarse. "You hear me? You're safe, you're going to be alright. I—I'm right here my love." 

She touched the edge of the gauze again, like her thumb could smooth away the damage. Her fingers hovered just above Lyra’s cheek, too afraid to touch her fully. Her lips moved in a loop of reassurances, repeating the same promises in softer and softer tones. Her shoulders began to shake, small and uneven. She leaned closer, clutching Lyra’s left hand in both of hers, holding it like it might dissolve if she let go. 

Draco moved slower. His legs felt detached, like every step belonged to someone else. He didn’t even feel the weight of his Quidditch robes anymore. He made his way around the bed, the room feeling too long, like it stretched further with every footfall. He eased himself into the chair at Lyra's right side, the leather creaking beneath him as he sat. 

Her face didn’t move. Not even the barest twitch. Her mouth was parted, lips dry. Her chest rose and fell, but barely. He stared at the tiny patch of skin left visible. The bruises were starting to show at the edges of the bandage—deep purples and angry reds. 

He reached out slowly and took her hand. 

It was cold, cold enough to make his stomach twist. Her fingers were limp, unresponsive, soft in a way that didn’t belong to her. He held on anyway, squeezing gently, as if somehow he could will her back from wherever she’d gone. 

Behind them, the door clicked shut. Healer Tonks had left. And that was when Father finally moved. He stepped farther into the room, slow and stiff like a statue being nudged back to life. He didn’t speak. He just lowered himself into the chair against the far wall and folded his hands in his lap, his eyes never leaving Lyra. The lines on his face looked deeper now. He seemed smaller somehow. 

The silence in the room was absolute. Even the wall clock ticked like a hammer. 

Draco didn’t know how long they sat there. 

He stared at Lyra’s face. The gauze. The bruises. The stillness. He kept thinking he’d imagined it. That maybe he’d blink and she’d shift, or snort softly in her sleep like she did when she dozed off while reading in her favorite chair in the Manor library.  

But she didn’t move. Not once. 

She had always been loud without speaking. Her presence filled whatever space she was in. She didn’t have to yell or posture. She just looked at you a certain way, and you shut up. She walked through the castle like she owned it—not out of arrogance, but out of the certainty that no one else deserved to. She was sharp, unrelenting, confident in ways most people didn’t even know how to fake. 

But not now. 

Now she looked like a shadow someone had forgotten to carry with them. 

He looked at his mother, who was still whispering prayers and half-formed sentences into Lyra’s ear. Her thumb brushed across Lyra’s knuckles again and again. He looked at his father, motionless in the chair, his expression unreadable, but his eyes glassy. 

And then he looked at Lyra again and tried to make sense of what he was feeling. 

He had never really thought of her as vulnerable before. Stubborn, infuriating, a little terrifying at times. But not fragile. Not someone you had to worry about. She was the one who stood her ground when the rest of them flinched. Who stared down Penelope Clearwater without blinking. Who got back on a broom after every crash and demanded another round. She never let anyone get the better of her. 

But now she couldn’t even open her eyes. 

He thought about her name. Lestrange. What people whispered. What they assumed. What they believed before they ever bothered to ask who she was. 

But Lyra had never lived by the story her name told. 

She had built her own legend, brick by bloody brick, and spat in the face of anyone who thought they knew her. She didn’t beg. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t wait for permission. She lived like the world had no choice but to accept her. 

And now? 

Now she was still. Broken. Small. 

He felt something hard lodge itself in his chest. Like a knot that wouldn’t come undone. 

He squeezed her hand tighter. 

She always hated being still. Said it made her feel trapped. Like she was wasting time. Like if she stopped moving, the world would decide it didn’t need her anymore. 

And now here she was—silent, unmoving, and more frightening than anything he’d ever seen. 

And he didn’t know what to do except hold on. 

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing smelled like disinfecting charms and over-steeped thyme, with a faint undercurrent of bitter potion residue that clung stubbornly to the stone walls. The air wrapped around Harry like wool left out in summer—stale, too warm, and heavy with quiet that didn’t soothe.  

Two long nights had passed with him confined to the narrow hospital bed, and time had begun to stretch unnaturally. He counted ceiling tiles and traced the cracks in the stones, anything to distract himself from the oppressive sameness of it all. The only sounds were the distant clinks of glass vials and the soft swish of Madam Pomfrey’s robes whenever she moved between beds, careful and practiced.  

He loathed this stillness. It wasn’t rest; it was limbo. The bed creaked when he shifted, and his back stuck to the sheets that always felt too stiff and too clean.  

Every time he heard footsteps in the corridor, a burst of hope bloomed in his chest—only to wither when the door stayed closed. Hermione had come once, sitting with him briefly and fussing over his blankets. Ron had shown up for ten minutes before Snape hauled him off to detention. Since then, there had been no more visitors.  

His arm had stopped hurting. The Skele-Gro had done its job overnight, though not without a price. The pain had been searing—like something had caught fire beneath his skin. Now it only ached in dull pulses, like the bones remembered what had been done to them. But that wasn’t what kept him from sleeping.  

It was Lyra Lestrange.  

He hadn’t actually seen the moment it happened. He’d been chasing the Snitch, the wind stinging his eyes as he weaved through the chaos of the match. The rogue bludger had been acting up for most of the game, tailing him with unnatural focus, and every muscle in his body was tensed for another dodge or sudden drop. His eyes were locked on the golden glimmer darting just ahead.  

Somewhere behind him, it must have happened but Harry didn’t notice. His whole world had narrowed to the chase. The roar of the crowd faded. Everything else dropped away. He reached forward, fingers closing around the Snitch, the tiny wings fluttering madly against his palm.  

Then came the blow.  

The Bludger slammed into his arm with bone-snapping force. White-hot pain shot through him, stealing the breath from his lungs. His broom lurched, and for a second, he saw stars. And the next thing Harry knew, he was spiraling down, his hand still clenched around the Snitch as though it mattered.  

He didn’t notice Lyra had fallen until after.  

Not until he was sitting on the ground, dazed, cradling his useless arm, and caught the way Madam Pomfrey tore across the field like a woman possessed. Not until he saw the still form being levitated, head wrapped, red staining the bandages.  

And then the silence made sense.  

Not a stunned pause for his win, but a collective breath held in horror. Lyra wasn’t flying. She wasn’t getting up. She wasn't moving.  

Before Harry was even fully on his feet, Lockhart had rushed over, beaming as if nothing had gone wrong. "Ah, no need to worry! Madam Pomfrey’s quite busy with that girl, but I can fix this in a jiffy! Broken arm, is it? Stand still, my boy." He didn’t wait for Harry to object. With a dramatic flick of his wand, Lockhart cried, "Brackium Emendo!"  

There was a strange squelching sensation, followed by a hollowness Harry had never felt before. He looked down to find his arm now as limp as a wet towel.  

"Well, that can sometimes happen," Lockhart said weakly, backing away.  

Hermione, looking horrified, insisted they go straight to the Hospital Wing. Harry, clutching the now boneless limb against his chest, agreed without protest.  

When they arrived, Madam Pomfrey was already fussing with empty beds, clearly in a state of frustration.  

"Miss Lestrange has already been transferred to St. Mungo’s," she said briskly, barely glancing up, clearly thinking they were someone else.  

Then she caught sight of Harry’s arm. "What on earth—? Don’t tell me Lockhart touched it. Vanished the bones, didn’t he? Honestly, that man shouldn’t be allowed near a patient. Or a wand."  

She ushered him to a bed with a sharp cluck of her tongue. "Skele-Gro will fix you up. This’ll be a rough night, Mr. Potter. Try not to scream too loudly."  

Harry lay back in bed, cradling his arm, mind spinning not just from the pain—but from the sickening twist in his stomach every time he remembered the bandages around Lyra’s head and the crimson stain that spread too fast to forget.  

Now, two days later, the Hospital Wing looked no different. Same dim lighting. Same too-clean sheets. But the silence weighed heavier somehow. Madam Pomfrey came and went with the same precision, but her face was drawn tighter, her voice shorter. Harry hadn't asked, but he could guess—Lyra still wasn’t back. Still at St. Mungo’s. Still not awake.  

He hadn’t expected company.  

So when the sudden pressure at the foot of the bed returned, he sat up fast, heart kicking in surprise.  

Dobby was there.  

The little elf crouched nervously on the edge of the blanket, his ears drooping and his large green eyes full of tears. "Harry Potter, sir..."  

Harry blinked. "Dobby? What are you doing here?"  

Dobby’s lip trembled. "Dobby is... Dobby is coming to say how sorry he is, sir! For hurting Harry Potter! For hurting the strong girl! Dobby never meant—"  

"Strong girl?" Harry echoed, eyebrows drawing together.  

Dobby gave a great sniffle. "Miss Lestrange, sir! Dobby is bad! Terrible! The bludger—oh, sir, the bludger was meant to scare Harry Potter, not her! Dobby only wanted to protect you, sir! Keep you safe!"  

Harry’s mouth went dry. "Wait... the bludger? You—you did that?"  

Dobby twisted his long fingers together, trembling. "And the platform too, sir! At King’s Cross—Dobby sealed it! Dobby thought if Harry Potter missed the train, he’d be safe at home! But Harry Potter is brave—and now the strong girl is hurt, and Dobby is a disgrace to elf-kind!"  

Harry stared. "You did both ? But why?"  

"Terrible things is happening at Hogwarts, sir! Bad magic! Evil whispers! Dobby heard them! Dobby knows! Dobby only wanted to keep Harry Potter away!"  

Harry sat forward, ignoring the ache in his arm. "What kind of terrible things? What do you mean? Who's doing it?"  

But Dobby shook his head violently, ears flapping. "I has said too much, sir! Far too much! Dobby must go before he is missed!"  

"Wait—"  

But it was too late. With a pop, the elf vanished, leaving behind only the ripple of blankets and Harry’s stunned silence.  

His thoughts churned as he lay back, heart pounding. Dobby had cursed the bludger, had sealed the platform, had known too much about whatever is happening—and wasn’t allowed to say more.  

And now Lyra had paid the price for it.  

--------------------------------------  

One thing Harry had learned over the past two years was that the Hospital Wing was never quiet for long.  

He had woken to the sound of hurried footsteps and the low murmur of voices cutting through the stillness like a knife through fog. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming again—trapped in one of those half-lucid nightmares where his uncle thought he hadn't mowed the grass properly. But as the voices grew clearer, more urgent, and the footsteps more purposeful, he blinked away the haze of sleep. He knew those voices. That tone. Something had happened.  

His eyes adjusted to the faint glow spilling in around the edges of the curtains. One voice rose above the rest, sharp with worry—Professor McGonagall’s, unmistakably. But it sounded different this time. Not her usual clipped authority. There was a tremor beneath it. A quiet, fraying edge, like someone gripping too tightly to something that's slipping.  

Harry sat up slowly, wincing as the soreness in his arm pulled at the skin. The pain had dulled to a manageable throb, but he still felt the throb of the bone regrowing. He leaned closer to the curtain, careful not to disturb it, and strained to listen.  

"It’s Mr. Creevey," McGonagall said. "I found him on the stairs just outside. He had a bunch of grapes with him—I think he was bringing them to Potter. His camera... it melted to his hands."  

Madam Pomfrey gasped, followed by a flurry of movement—hurried steps, the creak of bed springs, the sharp clink of metal against metal as potions were gathered. "Lay him there—gently now. Careful."  

There was the muffled thump of a body on a bed, then the shuffle of blankets and the unmistakable sound of someone crying quietly. Harry imagined the staff gathered around Colin’s frozen form, their faces pale and grim. There was something about hearing that quiet grief from the adults—that subtle crack in their usually impenetrable presence—that made his heart pound harder.  

He heard more footsteps—firmer ones this time. Dumbledore’s voice joined the others, deep and calm but laced with something heavier. Worry, maybe. Or resignation. Professor Sprout arrived moments later, sounding breathless, followed closely by Snape, whose voice never rose above a hissed whisper. They spoke in clipped, tense tones, their words blurring together—too low for Harry to make out entirely, but he could hear a heaviness to them  

Harry couldn’t sit still any longer. He shifted carefully, pushing himself up a bit further, just enough to peer through the narrow gap in the curtain.  

Colin Creevey lay motionless on one of the beds across the ward. His eyes were wide open, fixed in a stare that saw nothing. His hands were stiff, still clutching the melted remains of his camera. The strap looked fused to his skin. The boy’s face was caught in an expression of startled fear, mouth slightly open as if mid-sentence.  

McGonagall stood by his side, her arms rigid at her sides, fists clenched tight. The lines around her eyes were deeper than Harry had ever seen them. Dumbledore murmured something in her ear, but she barely seemed to register it. Her eyes didn’t leave Colin.  

The others didn’t stay long. After a few more solemn exchanges, Dumbledore led Snape and Sprout back out through the doors, their robes trailing behind them like shadows. The quiet click of the door closing rang out through the ward like the sound of a lock being turned.  

Only McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey remained.  

Harry hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—not really. But something in their stillness held him rooted in place. He didn’t dare shift the curtain further, afraid of giving himself away. There was something raw in the air now, something vulnerable.  

"A student," McGonagall said quietly. Her voice cracked just enough to betray the depth of what she was feeling. "Colin... he was just trying to be kind."  

There was a pause. The gentle clink of glass—Pomfrey returning a potion vial to a tray—was the only sound for a long moment. The kind of stillness that seemed to fill every crack in the stone walls.  

"He’s just a boy, Poppy," McGonagall continued, more softly now. "He can’t be more than twelve. Always smiling, always asking questions... What am I supposed to tell his parents? That he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? That he got caught in something we still don’t understand? That whatever did this is hiding in plain sight, and we’re no closer to knowing what it is?"  

Pomfrey still said nothing, but she moved closer. There was the quiet scrape of a stool, then the rustle of robes.  

"Sit down Minnie," she said, gently but firmly, the kind of voice that didn’t allow for argument.  

More silence. Then a sigh.  

Through the crack in the curtain, Harry watched as McGonagall sat on the edge of a nearby bed. Her back was straighter than it had been a moment ago, but her shoulders sagged with a quiet sort of defeat. The light from the nearby window caught in the silver strands of her hair, making them shimmer like threads of frost.  

Pomfrey reached out, her fingers brushing McGonagall’s shoulder with ease. Her thumb moved slowly, tracing small, soothing circles over the worn tartan, like it was something she’d done a hundred times before.  

Harry’s breath caught in his throat.  

McGonagall didn’t pull away. She leaned in, just slightly, her head tilting toward Pomfrey’s hand. Her face turned toward the window, eyes far off. The tension in her jaw didn’t vanish, but it softened, even if just a little.  

Pomfrey murmured something—soft, low, and meant only for McGonagall. Harry couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. The tone carried more than enough: calm and steady, but not forced. The kind of comfort that made space for grief without rushing to erase it.  

McGonagall didn’t say anything in response. She simply tilted her head a little more, letting it rest near Pomfrey’s shoulder, as if leaning into the weight of someone she trusted. Pomfrey didn’t move her hand. Her thumb kept tracing slow, familiar circles.  

Harry felt a quiet shift in his chest. Not just sympathy—something more than that. There was closeness between the two women, the kind of bond that didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood. It wasn’t just professional. It wasn’t just friendship.  

And somehow, it made sense. Of course it was them. They anchored the school in their own ways—McGonagall with her quiet command, her steadiness, her strength. And Pomfrey with her warmth and presence, her ability to make even pain feel manageable. They were opposites in some ways, but together they made something whole.  

They hadn’t meant for anyone to see this moment, and he didn’t want to intrude. He let the curtain fall shut again, giving them their privacy. But the feeling lingered.  

Even in the thick of fear and confusion, there was still something solid here. Still a reminder that the people looking after them were human, too. That they leaned on each other when things got too heavy. And maybe that was okay.  

Maybe that was the point.  

The sound of footsteps eventually broke the stillness, soft against the stone. Harry peeked again—just long enough to see McGonagall rise, brushing a hand gently across Pomfrey’s shoulder in return. She leaned in close and murmured, "Oidhche mhath, malan mo chridhe" her voice barely above a whisper. Then, without hesitation, she bent slightly and pressed a kiss to Poppy’s temple.  

It was so quick, so quiet, Harry might’ve missed it if he’d blinked.  

He lay back down, curling under the covers. For the first time in a while, the fear didn’t press quite so tightly around him. Maybe they didn’t have all the answers. Maybe the danger was still out there. But not everything had to be dark.  

Not everything had to be lost.  

Some things—like this—were worth holding on to.  

-------------------------------------------------  

Harry was released from the Hospital Wing the next afternoon. Madam Pomfrey had insisted on a final examination, tutting to herself as she handed him a flask of something thick, minty, and unpleasantly gritty. "No flying for at least a week," she warned as he screwed up his face at the taste. "And try not to get bludgeoned again in the meantime."  

He gave her a half-smile, more apology than agreement, and slung his bag over his shoulder with some difficulty. The weight felt uneven and unfamiliar with his new bones which still tingled with residual soreness.  

The moment he stepped into the corridor, Harry knew something was different. The air in the castle didn’t hum the way it usually did. There was no muffled laughter from a nearby classroom, no idle chatter bouncing off the stone. Instead, it was quiet.  

Uneasily quiet.  

As he moved past the windows that looked out toward the lake, he noticed how low the clouds hung, pressing down on the horizon like a weight. The lake shimmered dully beneath the overcast sky, fog curling in thick coils along its edges. Even from here, he could see where it crept into the treeline, swallowing the lower trunks of the trees like a slow, patient tide.  

He should’ve felt relieved to be walking again, to be outside the confines of the Hospital Wing. But all he felt was a strange, heavy sense of dread.  

Lyra was still at St. Mungo’s. They’d said she would recover eventually, but no one could say for sure what “eventually” meant. Or what version of her might come back. Colin Creevey had been attacked—petrified, like a doll. And worst of all, the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. For real.  

The legends were no longer just that.  

And no one—none of the professors, none of the prefects, not even Dumbledore—seemed to know who was responsible or how to stop it.  

The corridors reflected the tension with uncomfortable accuracy.  

Students moved in tight clumps, speaking in hushed voices that turned sharp whenever someone else walked by. Their eyes were wary, watchful. Most of them avoided making direct eye contact with anyone outside their House. There were glares exchanged between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Even Ravenclaws seemed unusually guarded. The friendly, loose atmosphere had dissolved into something colder, more suspicious.  

He overheard things as he walked.  

“—bet it was a Slytherin—”  

“—someone said she’s related to Bellatrix Lestrange—”  

But then someone else muttered, “It can’t be her, though—she’s in St. Mungo’s, isn’t she?”  

Another voice, lower, doubtful. “Yeah... but what if it was someone else?”  

Harry passed a knot of third-years who fell silent until he was barely out of earshot. Then, one of them said, not quietly enough, “Well, look who’s finally up. Wonder if he’s next.”  

He kept his eyes forward and his mouth shut. It wasn’t worth it.  

But the whispers clung to him.  

It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was division. Fear had teeth, and now it was gnawing at the foundation of Hogwarts—splitting students from each other, sowing doubt in the places where trust used to live. Gryffindors and Slytherins had always had their battles, but this felt different. It felt uglier. Like something was rooting itself deep beneath the surface.  

Harry’s thoughts kept circling back to Dobby.  

The way the elf had perched at the foot of his bed, wringing his hands like his body could barely hold the weight of his guilt. His voice, high and tight with regret, had cracked when he spoke about Lyra.  

There’d been something raw in the way Dobby said her name. Not reverence, exactly, but something close to it. Like she wasn’t just another witch. Like she’d mattered in a way that reached beyond whatever Dobby was. Beyond his orders. Beyond his fear.  

Harry still didn’t know why Dobby had come. Why he cared. Why he’d known so much. And then he’d vanished. Snapped his fingers and gone.  

Harry didn’t know if he’d come back. But he was sure that whatever Dobby had left unsaid mattered.  

When he reached the portrait hole, he muttered the password. The Fat Lady looked at him with narrowed eyes, like she wasn’t entirely convinced he was in shape to be wandering about. But she swung open silently, and he hesitated just a moment before stepping through.  

He turned his head back down the corridor one last time.  

The windows were fogged with condensation. The view beyond was little more than a pale blur. The mist had thickened. It felt closer. Even inside, it felt like something was pressing against the walls, leaking in through the cracks.  

In the common room, the atmosphere was subdued. Dean and Seamus sat huddled by the fire, talking in low voices. Ron was nowhere to be seen. Hermione looked up from her armchair as Harry entered. Her eyes scanned him quickly—first his face, then his arm.  

“How’s it feel?” she asked.  

Harry gave her a shrug. “Weird. But better.”  

She offered him a small nod but didn’t press. He could tell she wanted to. But she was learning when to hold back.  

Instead of joining them, he walked across the room to the far window. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips as he leaned against the frame.  

Outside, the fog over the lake had rolled in thick, smothering the surface until it looked like the world had ended at the water’s edge. It clung to the trees like cobwebs, bleeding into the forest and stretching toward the castle.  

He watched it for a long time, not really seeing anything.  

He didn’t know what was coming. He just knew it wasn’t over.  

And they were running out of time.  

Chapter Text

Susan Bones woke slowly to the familiar hush of the Hufflepuff dormitory. The curtains around her bed were drawn, soft golden light filtering through the gaps. For a few precious seconds, the world was still. Peaceful. Safe, even. The kind of quiet that made it almost possible to pretend nothing was wrong. No attacks. No whispers. No petrifications or blood on the pitch. 

Then came the stirrings—rustling sheets, muffled yawns, the creak of bedsprings. Someone—probably Megan—sneezed from across the room, followed by a sleepy, “Bless you,” from Leanne, half-mumbled into her pillow. 

Susan yawned and stretched, blinking up at the canopy above her bed. Her limbs were heavy with sleep, but her mind was already awake, already turning. Something in the air still felt off. It had for weeks now. The castle seemed uneasy, like it was holding its breath and waiting for something else to go wrong. Something worse. 

She dressed quietly, pulled her hair into a quick plait, and didn’t bother with ribbons or anything extra like she usually did on weekdays. There didn’t seem to be much point. No one cared about those things anymore. Not with everything happening. 

By the time she stepped into the common room, Hannah, Justin, and Ernie were already there, waiting near the exit. Hannah had her bag clutched tight to her chest. Justin’s scarf was unevenly knotted, and Ernie was muttering something about how early it was. 

Susan joined them quietly, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. After a beat, she said, "If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss breakfast." 

They walked the corridors together, shoes scuffing softly on the chilled stone. The damp air clung to them, thick with the scent of mildew and ancient dust. Justin pointed out the frost creeping along the lower windowpanes, and Ernie muttered something under his breath about having Lockhart again after lunch. Hannah offered a small smile, but didn’t say anything—just hugged her bag a little closer to her chest. 

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the usual morning hum had already swelled into a low roar. Warmth greeted them like a soft tide, rolling down from the enchanted ceiling where filtered light spilled through the cloudy sky. They slid into their regular seats at the Hufflepuff table without a word. The familiar sounds—clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes—did their best to fill the space where ease used to live. 

Susan poured herself some tea, eyes on the table as steam rose in lazy spirals. Across from her, Justin’s attention shifted—his gaze narrowing toward the Slytherin table. “Here he comes,” he murmured. 

Draco Malfoy stormed into the Great Hall like a sudden cold snap, his cloak trailing dramatically behind him, face set in stone. He looked furious, he’d looked that way since the accident. 

Hannah followed Justin’s gaze, her expression thoughtful. “Still angry,” she said, voice low. “Guess Lyra’s not better yet.” 

She hesitated, then added, “You saw him that day, right? After she fell. He just knelt there beside her, staring at her like the whole world had stopped.” 

Justin gave a small nod. “Didn’t even blink when Potter caught the Snitch. Just went straight for her.” 

Susan didn’t respond. Her hand stilled around her teacup, eyes focused ahead. The clinking and chatter around them felt distant. 

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” Hannah asked, more softly this time. Her voice was pitched low, careful. 

“They wouldn’t have sent her to St. Mungo’s if there was no hope,” Susan replied. 

Ernie made a face, poking at his eggs. “She’s a Lestrange, though. Dark magic, old blood, that whole Death Eater legacy. People don’t forget that sort of thing. Why are we even worrying over her?” 

“It’s not just the name,” Justin added, frowning. “Her mother, Azkaban, the war. It all clings to her. It's... noticeable.” 

Susan set her spoon down. “She didn’t ask for any of it,” she said quietly. 

Ernie blinked. “No. But still.” 

“She’s not like them.” Susan’s voice was sharper than she meant it to be. “She’s not.” 

No one asked how she knew. And Susan didn’t offer it up. 

She could still see the Bones family vault in her mind—tucked far beneath the marbled floors of Gringotts, behind rows of ancient security doors and layers of enchantments. She remembered the smell—dust and dragonfire—and the parchment sealed behind old glass, yellowed and delicate but preserved with magic older than she understood. Their family tree. 

It had been the summer before first year. She hadn’t even bought her robes yet. She was still trying to grasp what it meant to leave home for months on end, to wear a uniform, to carry a wand. 

At the top: Andrew and Eleanor Bones, her grandparents. From them, three lines branched out—Edgar, Edwin, and Amelia. Her father’s name was etched in gold, his line twined with her mother Katherine’s, and beneath them her own name. 

But it was the leftmost branch that had caught her eye and refused to let go. 

Edgar. 

His name was connected not with gold, but with silver—elegant, understated, and somehow heavier. It read: Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black. The curve of the ink was graceful and sharp, like a knife with a ribbon tied to the hilt. And below them, a single name. 

Lyra. 

She remembered standing there, her hand raised but not touching, her finger hovering just above the edge of the glass. Her heart had pounded in her ears. 

“She’s family?” she had whispered. 

Amelia had been behind her, quiet for a long beat. When Susan finally turned to look, her aunt’s face was still, unreadable. Then Amelia had stepped forward, placed a hand lightly on Susan’s shoulder, and said in that calm, steady voice of hers, “Yes. She is. But it’s not something you’re to repeat. If Lyra wants the world to know, we’ll stand behind her. But that’s her story to tell.” 

So Susan hadn’t told a soul. Not Justin. Not Ernie. Not even Hannah 

And now, across the long rows of the Great Hall, she watched the way students passed toast and laughter as if the world hadn’t shifted. As if Lyra hadn’t been dragged, bloodied and limp, from the pitch just two weeks ago. As if the name Lestrange was the only thing anyone ever needed to know. 

But Susan knew better. 

Lyra wasn’t just the sharp-eyed girl with the too-short hair and the Slytherin robes. She was her blood, her cousin, and whether she knew it or not, she mattered. They didn't have much family left, and Susan refused to lose anyone else. 

At the staff table, Dumbledore’s expression was more unreadable than usual—his gaze drifting slowly across the students with a depth that made Susan feel like he could see through stone. Next to him, Snape leaned in to speak to McGonagall. Susan caught the flicker of something in the professor’s expression—not a smile, exactly, but something softer. Quieter. A moment of warmth most students never saw. 

Then Lockhart rose, clapping his hands with theatrical flair. 

“My dear students!” he boomed, voice bright and obnoxiously chipper. “In light of recent events—and to ensure everyone feels safe and empowered—I am positively delighted to announce the grand formation of the Hogwarts Dueling Club!” 

The room buzzed, students leaning in and whispering across tables. 

“Oh, that’s all we need,” Ernie muttered, groaning. 

Justin cracked a grin. “Maybe Snape’ll duel him and finally shut him up.” 

“If we’re lucky,” Hannah added with a wry smile. 

Susan laughed too, though it was quiet and fleeting, her gaze drifting back toward the staff table. Her eyes settled on Professor Snape again, who sat rigidly beside Lockhart, his expression unreadable, the contrast between them almost laughable. Lockhart was gesturing grandly with both hands, beaming as if he'd just announced he’d cured dragon pox, while Snape’s face remained an unchanging mask of disdain. Next to him, Professor McGonagall seemed vaguely amused, one brow arched as she watched Lockhart’s performance with the air of someone barely restraining a sigh. 

For a moment, Susan found herself staring. She remembered the way Aunt Amelia always called him Severus in a tone that suggested history and familiarity, even if she never said more. And suddenly, watching him next to Lockhart, something clicked in her head. Maybe Snape wasn’t just the gloomy, sarcastic bat of the dungeons. Maybe—just maybe—he was one of the only professors who actually saw what was happening beneath the surface of the castle and cared enough to be angry about it. 

----------------------------------------- 

The Great Hall looked entirely different that evening, transformed from its usual grandeur into something closer to a stage. The long House tables had vanished, replaced by a wide, golden platform at the front of the room. It gleamed under the flickering torchlight, each flame suspended in midair like a small, glowing sun.  

The floor had been cleared completely, leaving a broad circle of open space in the center where students gathered in chattering, curious clusters. Some bounced on their toes with excitement; others stood stiffly, eyes darting around, clearly unsure of what they’d just walked into.  

Susan stood near the edge of the forming crowd, flanked by Justin, Hannah, and Ernie. She shifted from foot to foot, craning her neck for a better view of the platform.  

After the attack on Colin and Lyra’s fall during the match, the whole castle had been off-balance, as if waiting for something else to unravel. A dueling club was unexpected, but oddly welcome. At the very least, it was a break from the fear and suspicion that had started to creep into every corridor. 

Lockhart emerged onto the platform with the flair of a seasoned performer. His turquoise robes shimmered with every exaggerated step, catching the light like a sequined peacock. He beamed at the crowd, arms outstretched as though welcoming them to a private gala. 

"Welcome!" he called, voice echoing theatrically off the enchanted ceiling. "Welcome to the very first meeting of the Hogwarts Dueling Club! I myself have faced more than my fair share of dark wizards—" 

Susan exchanged a glance with Justin, who arched a brow, clearly unimpressed. 

"—and tonight," Lockhart continued, undeterred, "I shall be passing on some of that hard-won expertise to all of you." 

From her spot in the crowd, Susan couldn’t help noticing the mixture of reactions around her. Some of the younger students looked awestruck, while the older ones mostly looked skeptical. Her eyes flicked past Lockhart to where Professor Snape stood off to the side. He was stiff-backed, arms folded tightly across his chest, wearing a look of deep and abiding disdain. 

"And to demonstrate proper technique," Lockhart went on, turning slightly, "I’ve asked Professor Snape to assist me." 

A hush fell as all eyes turned toward the Potions Master. 

Snape stepped forward like a shadow stretching across the floor, wand already drawn. With a precise, practiced motion, he dipped into a bow—elegant, restrained, and utterly devoid of flourish. Then he straightened, silent and unreadable, as Lockhart fumbled theatrically through his own bow, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes. 

"On the count of three," Lockhart said brightly. "One—two—three—" 

"Expelliarmus!" 

Snape’s spell hit him before he’d even finished the count. Lockhart flew backward in a swirl of silk and bravado, landing on the polished floor with a spectacular thud, arms splayed, robes tangled. Gasps and laughter rippled through the crowd. 

Susan covered her mouth to hide her grin, but Justin made no such effort. He was doubled over beside her, and even Ernie let out a snort. Hannah giggled quietly, her eyes wide. 

Lockhart, for his part, sat up, looking only mildly dazed. “Brilliant disarming, yes! Just as I taught him!” 

Snape didn’t blink. 

In the far corner of the Great Hall, Susan caught sight of Professor McGonagall standing with Madam Pomfrey and Professor Burbage. McGonagall was doing a poor job of hiding her amusement, her hand covering her mouth as her shoulders shook ever so slightly. Madam Pomfrey murmured something low, lips twitching.  

Professor Burbage, meanwhile, looked like she might actually stab Lockhart with her wand if he came any closer—her arms folded, jaw tight, and expression locked in the kind of unimpressed neutrality that somehow radiated contempt. Every time Lockhart turned toward her with one of his flamboyant flourishes, her glare deepened.  

"Right," Lockhart said, attempting to brush himself off with a shred of dignity. "Let’s pair off, shall we?" 

Snape stepped forward, his voice slicing cleanly through the excited murmurs. “I will be organizing the pairings. If you cannot perform a basic disarming charm without knocking your opponent senseless, you will not be permitted to continue.” 

His gaze scanned the room like a hawk sizing up prey. 

Susan swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. Around her, the energy in the Hall had shifted again. What had started as a novelty was rapidly transforming into something more serious. Students stood a little straighter, voices dropped to hushed tones. There was something dangerous about dueling—even here, surrounded by teachers and candlelight.  

And maybe that was the point. 

After weeks of fear, whispers, and sleepless nights, something tangible mattered. A chance to defend themselves. To feel like they weren’t just waiting for the next shadow to fall. 

Susan glanced at her wand, then up at the platform. Lockhart was still smoothing his robes, pretending his fall had been part of the lesson. Snape stood off to the side again, his face like stone. 

She took a slow breath. 

If they were going to face what was coming, they couldn’t be helpless. 

Maybe learning to stand their ground—wand in hand—wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

Susan edged closer to the front of the crowd, craning her neck as Snape began calling students up to the platform. His tone was clipped and brisk, no-nonsense as ever, and the ambient murmur of the Great Hall fell to a low, anticipatory buzz. Students shifted on their feet, suddenly alert. Lockhart, eager as always to be at the center of attention, made a grand sweeping gesture toward the students like he was introducing royalty to a royal court. 

"Mr. Potter," Lockhart announced, beaming as if Harry had just won an award. "Front and center!" 

Snape’s response came without pause, cool and immediate. "Mr. Malfoy." 

The energy in the Hall changed like a gust of wind. The mention of both names sent a ripple through the gathered students, whispers rising like a tide. All eyes turned toward the two boys making their way to the platform. Draco moved with a sharpness that made his robes whip around his ankles, his mouth set in a tense line.  

Harry, for his part, looked steady but wary. His face was taut with focus, though there was something hesitant in the way he stepped onto the platform. He gave a short, respectful nod in Draco’s direction, but it wasn’t returned. 

Snape stepped forward. "Bow." 

Draco bent stiffly at the waist, the motion clipped and mechanical. "Scared, Potter?" he muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with challenge. 

Harry matched the bow with a tension of his own, his voice dry but firm. "You wish, Malfoy." 

"Wands at the ready," Snape instructed, his voice cutting through the thickening silence. "On my count." 

Susan tensed, her eyes fixed on the center of the golden platform. She barely had time to register the start before spells exploded across the stage. 

Draco struck first, wand flicking with practiced aggression. A jet of red light burst from his wand—but Harry dodged it easily, quick and light on his feet. He retaliated with a disarming charm that clipped Draco’s shoulder, forcing him a half-step backward. A few cheers and gasps erupted from the crowd, but they were muffled—nervous rather than celebratory. The tension wasn’t playful. This wasn’t just a demonstration. 

Draco’s face contorted, his jaw tightening. His wand jerked upward as he hissed, "Serpensortia!" 

The spell cracked through the air like a whip. A thick, black snake shot from the tip of Draco’s wand and hit the platform with a heavy thud. It was long and coiled like a whip, its scales slick and reflective under the torchlight. It uncoiled quickly, head lifting and tongue flicking. 

The mood shifted instantly. Any lingering amusement vanished. The crowd fell deathly quiet. 

Susan’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribs. 

The snake slithered forward with unsettling ease. At first it moved lazily, but its focus sharpened as it turned—drifting toward the foot of the platform, toward the students. Toward them, toward Justin. 

Justin froze where he stood. His eyes widened in disbelief as the snake advanced. He fumbled at his robes for his wand but didn’t raise it in time. 

Before anyone could move, Harry stepped in. 

He took a single step forward, eyes fixed on the snake, and to Susan’s shock, began to speak. 

The words weren’t English. 

They weren’t even human-sounding. They slipped from Harry’s mouth in a low hiss, rhythmic and strange. The snake halted at once. Its head tilted, eyes locked on Harry, its long body still coiled and poised but no longer advancing. 

Gasps swept the room like wind through leaves. 

Parseltongue. 

Susan felt like the floor had shifted beneath her feet. She’d read about Parseltongue before—textbook entries, footnotes in dusty library volumes. It was rare, ancient, associated with old bloodlines and darker histories. Aunt Amelia had once told her that You-Know-Who had spoken it—that he’d even had a snake he could command that he would always have with him. She’d never heard it spoken aloud before. Never imagined she would. 

Harry stood there, calmly speaking to the snake, his tone even, his posture unthreatening. But the sight was unnerving. The snake listened. It responded. It swayed gently, tongue flicking the air as if it understood every word. 

Next to her, Ernie made a strangled noise. "He’s controlling it—he’s making it do something—" 

Susan couldn’t look away. Justin stood frozen in place, the snake just feet from him, and Harry—Harry looked utterly calm. 

And then, finally, Snape moved. 

With a flick of his wand, a burst of silver light struck the snake and it vanished in a puff of smoke.  

Harry turned to face the crowd, blinking like someone coming out of a trance. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. 

No one applauded. No one spoke. The Great Hall was filled with a silence more unsettling than any scream. 

For the first time, Susan saw uncertainty break across Harry’s features. He looked around at his classmates, visibly confused by their reactions. 

He didn’t understand what they’d seen. But they understood enough. 

Snape’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were narrowed, his mouth tight. Without a word, he stepped back from the platform, turning on his heel before Lockhart could say anything foolish. 

Justin backed away, his face pale, lips pressed in a hard line. Ernie followed closely, casting one last glance toward Harry. 

Hannah reached out and touched Susan’s sleeve, her fingers trembling slightly. "Did you see that?" 

Susan nodded slowly, her throat dry. "Yeah. I saw." 

But her eyes didn’t leave Harry. 

He stood alone at the center of the stage, wand at his side, shoulders slightly hunched. Surrounded by students, and yet utterly apart. 

And for the first time, he looked like he wasn’t sure who they saw when they looked at him. 

He looked like he wanted to disappear. 

------------------------------------------ 

They walked back to the commonroom in near silence, the echo of their footsteps swallowed by the stone corridors and dim torchlight. No one said much, not even Zacharias. The usually boisterous path down to the dungeon felt longer than usual, colder too.  

They climbed through the barrels in a slow line, shoulders hunched and voices low, still visibly shaken from what they’d witnessed in the Great Hall. A few glanced nervously over their shoulders, half-expecting the conjured snake to have followed them through the castle somehow.  

Justin Finch-Fletchley had walked in first, his usual easy smile nowhere in sight. He looked like he’d aged years in the span of an hour—pale, jittery, and silent—as he headed straight for the corner near the fire. Ernie and Zacharias trailed close behind him, already deep in some hushed, urgent debate. 

Susan came in near the end of the group, her pace slower than usual. Hannah was beside her, unusually quiet, her hands twisting the hem of her sleeve. No one was laughing. No one raised their voice. There was no warm buzz of chatter or soft rustle of parchment and quills. The only sound was the faint crackle of the fire and the overlapping whispers that pulsed around the room like a nervous heartbeat. 

"Did you see his eyes?" 

"He didn’t even raise his wand." 

"That snake was listening to him. Like it understood him." 

Justin sat down stiffly on the edge of one of the long couches, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, shoulders tense, and his fingers tapped frantically against his temples. Zacharias was pacing now, back and forth in front of the fireplace, his voice louder than anyone else’s, feeding the rising tension in the room. 

"He spoke to it," Zach blurted, eyes wide as he looked around for backup. "Like it was nothing. Like he does it all the time." 

Ernie stood nearby, arms folded tightly across his chest. "It looked like he was controlling it. It almost went for Justin." 

Justin didn’t speak, but the way he stared at the fire, jaw clenched, said enough. 

Susan stepped forward, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her robes. "He wasn’t telling it to attack," she said, her voice quiet but steady. 

Zacharias turned on her immediately. "You don’t know that." 

"I was watching. Same as you." Susan stood her ground, though her heart was pounding. "He looked surprised. Like he didn’t even realize we could hear him. He was trying to stop it. He got the snake to focus on him, not Justin." 

Ernie scoffed. "He’s a Parselmouth. That’s Slytherin’s mark." 

Susan paused. She took a breath. "And his best friend is a Muggleborn. Does that sound like someone who believes in blood purity?" 

Ernie looked like he wanted to argue, but the words caught. He hesitated—but only for a breath. Zacharias filled the silence almost immediately. 

"That doesn’t mean anything," he said. "Maybe it’s a front. Maybe he pretends to be friends with her so no one suspects anything. That’s exactly the sort of thing the Heir of Slytherin would do." 

Susan frowned. "Or maybe he’s just a twelve-year-old who didn’t want his classmate to get bitten by a snake." 

She turned her gaze to Justin, who had finally looked up. His expression was clouded, his brow furrowed deeply. It wasn’t fear on his face anymore, it was doubt. Confusion. She could tell he was torn. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was lost as Ernie leaned in urgently. 

"You saw it, Justin," he said. "You were right there. You know what it looked like." 

"He talked to it," Zacharias added, like that settled everything. 

Justin’s shoulders tensed again. He looked between them, then down at the floor. Whatever he had been about to say—whatever hesitation he had—was drowned in the rising swell of their panic. 

Susan felt it happen. The moment where fear pulled tighter than truth. 

She took a step back, her heart sinking. The others weren’t listening anymore. They had already made up their minds, and nothing she said now would change it. The story had begun to write itself, and they were all just following the lines. 

She crossed the room slowly, settling into a worn armchair near the fire. She curled her legs up beneath her, drawing her sleeves over her hands. The warmth of the flames licked at her skin, but it couldn’t chase away the cold pressing in at the edges of her thoughts. 

These were the same people who had laughed with her that morning, who had shared Chocolate Frogs and gossiped about Quidditch and asked for help with their Herbology notes. And now, they were whispering Harry’s name with the same fear they once reserved for dark wizards and forbidden spells. 

It didn’t take much, Susan thought. One snake. One strange ability. One flicker of something different—and suddenly, everything you were before vanished. 

Her mind drifted to Lyra. The older girl had always been complicated—sharp-tongued, secretive, impossible to pin down. People whispered about her too. About her family, her past.  

What would Lyra say now? 

Probably something dry and cutting, something about people being sheep. Or maybe—maybe something gentler, though Susan doubts that she’d never admit to softness. Something about how blood didn’t decide who you were, about how guilt wasn’t inherited. 

It’s what you do that matters. 

She kept staring into the fire, letting that truth anchor her. Outside the windows, the darkness pressed in, thick and unmoving. And in the flickering quiet, she imagined Harry on the dueling platform again—alone, confused, surrounded by silence. She imagined Lyra, lying pale and still at St. Mungo’s. 

And she thought about how quickly people turned. How easily trust became fear. How loudly suspicion could speak, when no one wanted to hear anything else. 

Maybe the real danger wasn’t Parseltongue, or snakes, or ancient secrets. 

Maybe it was forgetting who someone was, the moment they scared you. 

Chapter Text

Susan sat at the Hufflepuff table with her hands folded neatly in her lap, the warmth of the morning porridge doing little to chase the chill that had settled in her chest. Her plate was barely touched—just a spoonful or two stirred absently, more out of habit than hunger. The eggs had gone cold long before she thought to pick up her fork, and even then, she only pushed them around.  

No one had greeted her when she sat down.  

No nods, no smiles, not even a muttered good morning.  

It was like she wasn’t there at all. 

Across the table, Hannah shifted further down the bench, enough to make it clear she didn’t want to be near her. Justin, who usually offered at least a small smile in the morning, stared determinedly at his toast like it had become the most fascinating thing in the world. Zacharias gave her a pointed look and turned his back to whisper something to Ernie. Whatever it was, they both smirked. The others at the table followed their lead.  

Susan heard her name hissed under breath more than once. She didn’t need to look up to feel the weight of it all pressing in on her. Her skin burned with the effort of pretending she hadn’t noticed. 

"Traitor." 

The word was just a mutter from down the table, she couldn’t tell who said it, but it found its mark all the same. It slid into her ears like ice water, curling around her spine.  

She stared at the edge of her spoon, trying to ignore the sting behind her eyes. The clatter of breakfast echoed around the Great Hall, but to her it sounded distant, like she was underwater. The chatter and laughter that filled the space each morning might as well have been in another world. The word clung to her skin like smoke. 

It didn’t matter that she’d only spoken the truth.  

It didn’t matter that she’d just tried to be fair. 

She tried to focus on her toast, tearing off a corner with her fingers, but it turned to ash in her mouth. Around her, students leaned in to whisper behind cupped hands, shoulders pressing together as though afraid she might overhear. She didn’t need to. She already knew what they were saying. That she’d defended Harry. That she’d said he looked scared, not threatening. That maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t been trying to sic a snake on Justin. 

Apparently, that had been enough. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of glances and silences. Every class, every corridor, every seat in the library felt like walking across broken glass. She moved like a ghost—there, but not.  

In Herbology, Professor Sprout had everyone partner up to repot Fanged Geraniums, and for a second Susan had stood there with a hopeful flicker in her chest. She’d even made eye contact with Megan Jones. But no one moved toward her. Megan looked past her like she was part of the greenhouse wall. After a few long seconds, Susan ended up at a table in the back, alone, wrestling with the biting plant by herself while everyone else paired off.  

In History of Magic, as she pulled out her textbook and quill, a slip of parchment landed silently on her desk. She looked around, but whoever had tossed it wasn’t admitting it. She unfolded it slowly, a sick feeling twisting in her stomach. 

Go sit with Potter next time. 

She didn’t recognize the handwriting. The ink was rushed, uneven. Angry. She folded it back up and stuffed it into the bottom of her bag. Her fingers felt numb. For the rest of the lesson, she couldn’t focus on a single word Professor Binns said. His voice was nothing but a low drone, the same sentence stretched on forever.  

In Charms, she sat at the end of the second row like always. Professor Flitwick passed around a chart for practicing incantation shifts. Hannah—sitting directly next to her—took one copy and passed the rest in the opposite direction, skipping Susan entirely. Not a word. Not a glance. Susan bit the inside of her cheek and leaned over quietly to grab a copy from the stack when it eventually reached the other end. She pretended not to notice the way Hannah scooted her chair a few inches away, or how she shifted her shoulder just so—creating a wall out of her turned back. 

It wasn’t just the silence. It was the absences where warmth used to be. The look on Hannah’s face when she wouldn’t meet her eyes. The way Justin seemed to vanish the second class ended, like his shoes had grown wings. The way even Ernie wouldn’t so much as acknowledge her anymore. She caught him looking at her once, quickly, before he turned away like he hadn’t. 

By the third day, Susan began to dread every bell that signaled a change in class. The pit in her stomach deepened with each period. She kept her head down, her footsteps quiet, her books clutched tightly to her chest like armor. She didn’t speak unless she was called on. She stopped raising her hand. Her world shrank to the space directly in front of her desk, her parchment, the pages of her books. 

She ate in silence. Walked in silence. Studied in silence. No one sat with her, not even in the library. Once, she’d tried to ask if Hannah wanted to go over their Astronomy notes, like they always had. Hannah had turned and walked away mid-sentence. The rejection seemed effortless, and that made it worse. 

It didn’t matter what she did anymore. Her House had already made up their minds. 

And she was starting to realize that maybe no one was going to speak up for her. 

So she would have to decide if she was going to speak up for herself.  

Because the truth still mattered to her, even if no one wanted to hear it. Because being alone was hard—but losing herself, the parts of her that still believed in fairness, in decency, in giving people the benefit of the doubt—that would be worse. 

She took a breath. And another. Then she turned back to her notes, one hand tightening around her quill, willing it not to shake. 

---------------------------------------- 

The corridor near the dungeons always felt colder, dimmer, like the torches lining the walls weren’t quite enough to chase the shadows away. Susan usually avoided it when she could, the way the stone seemed to soak up the light and the air felt damp against her skin made it an uncomfortable place to linger. But that morning, she’d taken the long way between classes, deliberately avoiding the busier routes and main stairwells. 

She wasn’t in the mood to deal with more whispers or the burning weight of stares. If she could make it through the day without one more person pretending she didn’t exist—or worse, making sure she knew exactly what they thought of her—it would be a miracle. 

Her bag weighed heavier on her shoulder than usual. It wasn’t even half full but it felt like it dragged her down with every step. Maybe it was just the exhaustion. The ache that had settled in her chest over the past few days hadn’t left, and she was starting to feel like it might never. The world felt quieter lately and she was invisible until someone needed a target. 

She rounded a corner and nearly breathed a sigh of relief. The corridor was empty, or so it seemed at first glance. The hush that hung there almost felt like a kindness, like maybe she could finally reach her next class without incident. She kept walking, her footsteps soft against the flagstones, and didn’t even notice the movement in the shadows until it was too late. 

A flicker of motion caught her eye, and then two older girls stepped out from an alcove—Beatrice Haywood and Laurel Podmore, both sixth-year Hufflepuffs. They were joined a moment later by Gabriel Truman, the seventh-year prefect. Susan recognized all of them immediately. They lived in the same dormitories, sat at the same tables, wore the same yellow crest stitched into their robes. But none had ever been more than vaguely polite to her before. 

Now their expressions were sharp, smug in a way that made Susan’s stomach twist. There was something deliberate in their posture, a readiness in the way they fanned out to block the corridor. This wasn’t a coincidence—it was an ambush. 

Beatrice crossed her arms and tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Potter’s got himself a new girlfriend then?" 

Susan froze mid-step. Her breath caught in her throat, stuck there like a lump she couldn’t swallow. 

Laurel, taller and more imposing with a braid coiled over one shoulder, stepped forward and looked her up and down with open contempt. "Thought he liked Muggle-borns. Guess getting a pureblood to defend him just proves he’s the Heir after all." 

Before Susan could react, Laurel reached out and yanked her bag off her shoulder. The strap slid down her arm, the bag thudding against the stone with a sound that seemed too loud in the otherwise quiet corridor. Susan reached for it instinctively, but Gabriel Truman stepped in next. He didn’t stop the others. He didn’t speak up or step between them. Instead, with an almost casual flick, he slapped the stack of books from under her arm, sending parchment and ink scattering across the floor. 

The laughter that followed was sharp and ugly. Cruel in its delight. 

Susan stumbled back, heart pounding, cheeks burning. Her throat was too tight to speak, and even if she could have found her voice, there were no words that would have made this moment any less humiliating. 

She knelt, carefully, her knees touching the cold stone. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her inkwell, trying not to drop it again. The pages of her notes were smudged and wrinkled, and she fought the urge to crumple with them. 

Gabriel stood back and watched with a detached amusement that made her stomach twist. A prefect. Someone who should’ve stopped it—should’ve stopped them. But he didn’t. He’d helped. 

"Maybe she’s hoping he’ll sic a snake on one of us next," Laurel drawled, her voice sweet with mockery. 

The others cackled again, and the sound echoed as they turned away, robes swishing with dramatic flair as they left her behind. None of them looked back. Not even once. 

Susan stayed where she was, kneeling with her hands pressed flat to the ground. She focused on her breathing, tried to make it even, tried to stop the sting behind her eyes from turning into something worse. Eventually, she pulled her bag closer and shoved the rest of her books inside without bothering to check for damage. 

Her movements were slow, deliberate. She brushed dust from her robes and stood, her bag hanging awkwardly off one shoulder. The strap was twisted, digging into her collarbone, but she didn’t adjust it. 

She didn’t cry then. She wouldn't. 

Not when her knees ached from the stone or when her hands were scraped from gathering ink-stained parchment. She wouldn’t give them that. Her pride, though cracked and trembling, still held enough to keep her upright. 

She didn’t cry when she finally made herself move, retracing her steps back toward the main corridor. Not when she passed a locked classroom and nearly ducked inside just to breathe. She kept walking. The walls felt narrower than before, pressing in on her, and the sound of her shoes hitting the floor echoed like a challenge. Each step was a thread pulled tighter. 

But when she turned the next corner—far enough away that the laughter couldn’t chase her, where the torchlight softened and the corridor curved out of sight—the tears came. Hot and silent, slipping down her cheeks and soaking into the collar of her robes. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t stop walking. 

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms. She passed a suit of armor without even registering its gleam, brushed against the rough stone wall and didn’t flinch. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. 

She didn’t wipe the tears away. That would have meant admitting they were there. 

She just let them fall, steady and quiet. 

No one had stopped them. No one had stepped in. A prefect had helped them instead. 

And that was what stayed with her more than anything. 

There wasn’t any point in stopping the tears. 

Not after that. 

---------------------------------------- 

The library had always been Susan’s sanctuary. Not just because it was quiet, but because that quiet felt earned. Intentional. Here, among the shelves and whispering parchment, she used to feel like she could vanish in peace. Now all she wanted was to feel seen by someone who didn't think of her as a target. 

It was late afternoon when she slipped inside, her satchel thudding softly against her side. The sun was already low, streaking the tall windows with fading gold and long shadows that stretched across the stone floor. She kept her head down as she moved, her pace quick and efficient, not wanting to give anyone a reason to look at her.  

She made her way toward the back of the library, weaving through familiar aisles until she reached her usual table—half hidden behind Magical Theory and Advanced Potions. The space was tucked into a little alcove, just big enough for one person to sit comfortably without being easily spotted.  

She sank into the wooden chair and opened her satchel with practiced care, pulling out her notes and parchment, her favorite quill and battered inkwell. She aligned everything with meticulous precision just to give her hands something to do. 

Her fingers were trembling again. 

From somewhere between the shelves, a set of voices filtered through—half-laughed, half-whispered. She didn’t catch every word, but she didn’t need to. It was the tone that hit her like a blow. 

"Figures she’s hiding in here." 

The voice wasn’t sharp, just amused. That made it worse. She didn’t turn to see who said it. Her quill hovered above the parchment as she forced herself not to react. Her shoulders curled slightly inward, her head lowering even more. 

She dipped the quill in ink and began to copy from her Herbology notes, trying to focus on the shape of the letters rather than the knot in her throat. She got halfway through the sentence before her hand jerked, smudging ink across the page. She clenched her jaw and scratched it out, then started again. 

A group of students passed through the aisle—Hufflepuffs, a few years older than her. Fourth and fifth years, faces she recognized but now seemed unfamiliar, distant. Their laughter faded as they moved deeper into the stacks, but the sting they left behind stayed. Hannah was with them. Susan had seen her smile at everyone else that day. She didn’t glance over. Not even once. 

Susan’s hands began to ache from how tightly she gripped the quill. Her breath was shallow. She copied another line, then stopped when she realized she’d written the same sentence twice. 

A few tables away, Susan caught a glimpse of Harry Potter sitting with his friends. Books on curses and magical creatures were strewn across the table, and Ron seemed to be in the middle of complaining about something with wild hand gestures. Hermione, ever patient and visibly annoyed, was correcting him with her usual intensity. Harry wasn’t saying much. 

Whatever people whispered about Harry, his friends hadn’t left him. He wasn’t eating alone. He wasn’t walking to class in silence. He wasn’t sitting in the back of the library trying not to shake.  

At least he had people. 

She turned back to her notes, blinking hard and willing herself to focus. Her quill hovered uncertainly above the page, but her mind had drifted too far. A sigh escaped her lips. 

That’s when she heard it—footsteps approaching her corner of the library, slow and deliberate. She didn’t look up until a shadow stretched across her table. 

Laurel Podmore. 

Susan’s stomach sank before the older girl even opened her mouth. 

Laurel had that same smirking air she always wore—like everything was just slightly beneath her, including Susan. Beatrice Haywood trailed just behind her, arms crossed, clearly there for backup. 

"Look at her, buried in books like she’s better than the rest of us," Laurel said, not even bothering to lower her voice. "Probably practicing how to hiss at snakes, just in case Potter wants to upgrade." 

Beatrice snorted with laughter, but didn’t add anything. Laurel leaned closer, voice syrupy with mock concern. "Tell me, Bones, does he give you lessons in Parseltongue too, or is that just for the Mudblood?" 

Susan stiffened. Her hand curled tighter around her quill. "He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone," she said, voice barely above a whisper but firm. "He was trying to stop it. But no one wants to see that." 

Laurel raised her eyebrows and gave a slow, sarcastic smile. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that." 

She turned away with a flick of her hair, Beatrice following after her, both of them giggling under their breath as they disappeared around the shelves. 

Susan turned back around, her pulse thrumming at her temples. That had been stupid. Reckless. She hadn’t even thought. 

She didn’t realize she’d spoken loud enough for anyone else to hear until the scrape of a chair leg reached her ears. Footsteps padded softly toward her table, deliberate and hesitant. 

Susan looked up, her eyes wide behind her fringe. Harry Potter stood at the end of her table, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his robes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he wasn’t sure if he should even be standing there. 

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. “Do you… want to come study with us?” 

Susan blinked at him. Her first instinct was disbelief, like her brain had to run the question through several layers of doubt before accepting it. For a second, she didn’t even know how to respond. 

It was the first kind thing anyone had said to her all week. 

“I—” she started, then stopped. She looked down at the parchment in front of her, at the smudges and uneven scrawl that had taken over her notes. The ink was pooled in one corner where her hand had lingered too long. Nothing on the page made sense anymore. 

Her throat felt tight, but she managed a small nod. 

Harry smiled and took a step back to give her space. She packed up her things slowly, her fingers fumbling more than once with the ties of her satchel. The thought of walking across the library floor felt surreal, like in the past week she’d forgotten how to be around people who weren’t watching her for the wrong reasons. 

As they made their way toward the table where Ron and Hermione were sitting, Susan kept her head down. She could feel eyes on her—maybe she was imagining it, maybe not—but she didn’t stop. 

Ron looked up first, his expression registering confusion before his brow quirked upward. He didn’t say anything outright, just made a low noise under his breath and glanced sideways at Harry. 

Hermione, on the other hand, smiled right away. She shifted her chair without hesitation, nudging her books aside to make space. 

“Hi, Susan,” she said kindly. “Pull up a seat.” 

Susan nodded again and sat down, her motions tentative. No one laughed. No one rolled their eyes. No one shifted away from her like she’d brought something contagious with her presence. 

For a moment, the table was quiet—just the sound of turning pages and the occasional scratch of a quill. But Susan didn’t feel alone. 

She stared at her notes and felt something start to ease in her chest. Like she’d been holding her breath for days without realizing it, and now, slowly, she was starting to let it go. 

Her old friends had tried to tear her down, but all they really did was show her who was worth holding onto. She hadn’t lost anything that mattered. She’d just cleared space for something better. 

Chapter Text

The light in the Artefact Accidents Ward never softened. It clung to the rails of the bed, the tile grout, the burnished corners of equipment polished to sterility. Everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and citrus balm, a hospital’s idea of comfort. Curtains whispered. The floor creaked. Somewhere down the hall, a trainee snorted too loud and was hushed. 

Lyra sat upright in bed, shoulders square. Her right hand lay still on her lap while her left tracked the healer’s wand as it passed back and forth in the air. She had already learned that once it moved past centre, the light would vanish. The room would tilt. Her stomach would lurch. A nothingness lived just past her nose—and it was hers now. 

“Once more,” said the healer, steady but not unkind. 

Lyra nodded. The wandlight bobbed. She followed it. When it drifted right again, it disappeared—not like it was gone, but more like the world ended there. She turned her head so her left eye could pick it back up. Automatic, already.  

It made her neck hurt. 

Ted Tonks lowered his wand. “No changes,” he said, giving a slight nod of professional finality. “The damage remains stable—its a good sign that there has been no regression. You’re cleared to go home today, your eye has healed as much as it’s going to.” He paused, meeting Lyra’s gaze. “You already know what that means, but I still needed to see for myself.” 

He placed a single sheet of parchment down on the blanket. “You are disqualified from Quidditch—all positions—for the foreseeable future.” 

It didn’t feel real—not like grief or like pain, but like someone had handed her the end of a rope and told her it used to be something whole. Her face didn’t change. She didn’t flinch. But her fingers curled slowly into the blanket. 

Across the room, Narcissa sat as if carved from something too fine to break. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, fingers laced around the strap of her small purse. Only her mouth betrayed her, drawn tight at the edges. She asked questions when Healer Tonks finished—potions, follow-ups, what to do if the eye ached, how long the dizziness would last. It was all measured, all useful, but Lyra could see her knuckles where they pressed too tightly together. 

When they were alone, Narcissa reached for the blanket and smoothed it again, despite having done so three times already in the past half hour alone, and there being no reason to. It was a motion more for her own steadiness than Lyra’s comfort. 

“We’ll go home whenever you’re ready,” she said. “Your room has been adjusted. I’ve had the lighting changed. And the stairs can be charmed to warn you of the edge.” 

“I can manage stairs,” Lyra said. “I’m not glass.” 

“I know,” said Narcissa. Her hands went still. 

There was a tap at the window—sharp, almost impatient. Lyra startled, reflexively turning her head toward the sound, forgetting—then catching it with her left eye.  

A barn owl clung to the sill, shifting its talons. 

Narcissa opened the window and the cold December air swept in. The owl hopped forward and stuck out its leg. 

The envelope was plain, sealed in a messy clump of wax. She opened it slowly. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the name at the bottom pulled all the breath from her lungs. 

Lyra, 

I don’t know where to start. I—I’m sorry. I’ve tried to write this a dozen times and every time I mess it up. The words don’t come out right. I keep thinking if I just say it properly, it’ll matter. It’ll help. But it won’t. I know that. 

I can’t stop seeing it. That moment. The sound it made. The way you fell. I think about it every night before I fall asleep and then again as soon as I wake up. I don’t know what you’d want to hear. I don’t even know if you’ll read this. But I had to say something.  

I didn’t mean—Merlin, of course I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know you know that, but it doesn’t matter, does it? I still did it. You’re still hurt. And nothing I do changes that. 

If I could do anything to fix it, I would. I swear I would. 

I hope you’re okay. I hope you can still fly, even if it’s not in matches. I hope you’re not in too much pain. I just… I really am sorry, Lyra. 

Fred Weasley 

There was a smudge after the signature. She didn’t know if it was ink or a fingerprint or both. She read it again. Then again. Then she folded it neatly in thirds and set it on the table beside her. 

“He wrote?” Narcissa asked, her voice quiet. She was hovering near the bed as if waiting for a cue to sit or speak or do something that might help. “You don’t have to answer him today.” 

“It wasn’t his fault.” Lyra kept her eyes on the envelope. “It was a match. It was fast. It could’ve happened to anyone. He shouldn’t blame himself for an accident.” 

Narcissa nodded slowly. “Then tell him so.” Her voice stayed quiet, like she wasn’t sure if saying too much would undo something. She looked at the curtain rail, letting the silence stretch a little—her way of giving her space without making a scene of it. 

“I will. Just… not yet.” 

Narcissa gave a small nod. “When you’re ready. If you’d like, I can help you write it.” 

Lyra hesitated. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I’d like that.” 

Healer Tonks returned with a parchment folder and a set of instructions: aftercare schedules, depth exercises, spellwork to mark thresholds and corners. He went over each one with a kind of mechanical care, like he’d already gone through it with a hundred others and didn’t want her to feel like one of them. He demonstrated the charm to outline stairs and corners. She copied it. The faint shimmer clung to the corner of the bed, and she didn’t bump it when she stood.  

That counted for something at least. 

“You’ll be tired more often,” Ted said. “Headaches are common. You’ll need to relearn certain spaces. You have to give yourself time—your brain is adjusting.” 

Narcissa watched with the same expression she wore to Ministry events—patient, interested, unreadable. Lyra realized she probably memorized all of this days ago and that should’ve made her feel safer.  

It didn’t.  

It just made her feel tired. 

She dressed slowly. Narcissa had brought clothes from the manor — a pair of black jeans and one of Lyra’s nicer shirts, dark purple with a fitted collar and soft fabric that didn’t wrinkle. The sleeves were rolled at the cuffs and the buttons were already halfway done, as if Narcissa had planned for Lyra’s stiffness before she even arrived. She laid everything out neatly on the bed without comment. 

It took her nearly half an hour to get everything on. The jeans stuck a bit when she bent wrong, and the buttons on the shirt felt like they’d been sewn by someone who hated hands. By the time she got to the boots, her fingers were stiff and aching. She’d always liked them—solid, reliable—but right now, she wanted to chuck them across the room. Getting the laces tight enough without twisting the eyelets made her want to scream.  

Narcissa didn’t say a word, just watched and waited for Lyra to ask for help. 

But Lyra wouldn't give her that, she could do this. 

When she was finally dressed, Narcissa picked up her case without a word and stood by the door. Lyra took one last glance around the room, as if expecting it to feel different now that she was leaving after all these weeks stuck inside.  

It didn’t. 

They walked side by side down the corridor toward the discharge desk, Narcissa a half-step behind but never too far. Lyra kept to the left side so the wall didn’t vanish. Her gait was slightly uneven at first, adjusting to the blankness on her right.  

She hated that she noticed it. 

The floor tiles were polished and slick underfoot, their reflections too bright. They passed other patients, a few healers, a hovering tea cart. No one looked twice, but Lyra still felt the weight of every step, like she had to prove she could do it without help. Narcissa didn’t offer her arm, she didn’t need to—Lyra could feel her there. 

They signed the parchment at the discharge desk and with one signature she was finally free.  

They left the discharge desk and made their way toward the public Floo. The corridor curved slightly, wide enough for stretchers to pass through, lined with framed magical safety posters and an old portrait of a midwife healer who dozed with her cap over her eyes.