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Chapter Text

This is the story of how Hermione Granger died.
Hermione groaned as her alarm clock wailed beside her. She had stayed up far too late pouring over dense policy documents, leaving her with a meager two hours of sleep. Not ideal, especially with a major meeting with her department head scheduled for that morning.

She stretched and forced her legs to move, hoping the act of standing would lift the fog from her mind, if only slightly.
It didn’t.

A glance at the clock revealed two options: throw herself together and grab coffee from her favorite café or take the time to look fully presentable and go without caffeine. Standing in the bathroom, grimacing at the thought of showering and battling her curly hair routine, the choice was clear. Caffeine won.

She scraped her hair into a claw clip, brushed her teeth, swiped on a touch of mascara and lip gloss, and regarded her reflection with a weary grimace. The dark circles beneath her eyes spoke volumes, but she didn’t have the energy to care. Not today.

A black pencil skirt, a modest blouse, and a pair of sensible heels completed her rushed ensemble. She fed Crookshanks, gave him a gentle pat, grabbed her keys, and stepped out the door.
She could have Apparated, but the crisp morning air felt refreshing, and the café was only a short walk from her flat. The stroll gave her time to organize her thoughts on the legislation she had been reading the night before.
A marriage law proposal was on the table.

The war had ravaged the magical population. Their numbers were dwindling, and young people, traumatized and cautious were hesitant to settle down and start families. Hermione understood. She had lived through the chaos, the loss, the fear.

She winced at the memory of her failed relationship with Ron. They had loved each other deeply, but while he was ready to settle into family life, she still had work to do, fighting corruption, reforming the systems that had failed them all. The divide between them had grown too wide. They parted and endured a year of awkward Weasley gatherings until Ron met Flora, his now-wife. Only then could they rebuild a friendship not burdened by the weight of what could have been.

To Hermione, the proposed marriage law was nothing short of barbaric, a cruel systematic push to domesticate a generation already scarred by war. It would force individuals like Harry, who had given everything, to abandon the lives they were finally building. Harry and Draco’s quiet, loving relationship would be torn apart. Both would be compelled to marry women and produce children, for the so-called “greater good.”

She couldn’t let that happen. They had fought too hard for freedom to have it legislated away.

She wanted to believe the Ministry wouldn’t pass such a draconian law. But years of corruption had taught her better than to place blind faith in authority. Still, what could she do to stop it?

Her thoughts were interrupted as she reached the crosswalk near the café. She pressed the button and waited for the light to change. For a fleeting moment, her worries faded replaced by the enticing image of a chocolate croissant and her beloved oat milk cold brew with extra foam. Her mouth watered.
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Meanwhile, on a road that wasn’t far away

Jerry Collins was also having a terrible morning. His young son had been up sick all night, leaving Jerry exhausted and late for work. He’d stopped by a small café to salvage what he could of the day, but the place was slammed. The delay shredded the time cushion he’d planned.

Now in his car, with one hand on the wheel, Jerry reached for his coffee, praying it would somehow redeem his miserable morning.
But fate had other plans.

He hit a bump in the road, and the coffee cup tipped, spilling scalding liquid across his lap. With a yelp and a string of profanity, Jerry glanced down, trying to snatch the cup from where it had fallen near his feet.
Poor, distracted Jerry.

In that split second, he didn’t see the crosswalk light.

He didn’t see the woman stepping onto the street.

And Hermione? She was too lost in thoughts of croissants and civil liberties to notice the car.

In what can only be described as a tragic calamity of distraction, Hermione Granger was struck and killed.

And Jerry? Well, he wouldn’t be getting to work anytime soon.

Poor Jerry… he would have to live with the consequences of that day.

________________________________________
But with some tragedies comes rebirth. And fate ever mysterious, ever intentional, had plans for Hermione Granger that stretched far beyond one lifetime.
________________________________________

In 1960, in a manor of great grandeur, a woman gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. The parents wept with joy, overwhelmed by the miracle of her arrival. After so many heartbreaking losses, this child felt like a blessing long overdue.

Their young son, who had longed for a sibling, would finally have a companion. The family felt whole.

They gazed down at their newborn daughter, swaddled in silken blankets, her delicate features calm and radiant. With tears of relief and unspoken hope, they whispered her name for the very first time:
“Welcome to the world, Lyra Violetta Malfoy. We are certain you will accomplish great things.”

Chapter Text

“Lyra, my dear, it’s time to wake up. We have a busy day ahead,” her mother called gently.

Lyra woke with a start, in a manner far from dignified. She would deny it to her dying breath, but a distinct snort echoed through the room.

Her practically perfect mother let out a small laugh.

“Clearly someone slept well,” she teased.

“Actually, Mama, it was horrible. I had that dream again. I was that girl…” Lyra’s voice trailed off, and a flicker of horror crossed her young face. “Mama, I had these curls, they had a life of their own. I couldn’t even drag a brush through them. It broke the brush, Mama!”

Lyra clutched her pin-straight blonde hair, reassuring herself it hadn’t transformed overnight.

“And I was saying the strangest things to this boy with broken glasses… I just can’t recall what.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow, feigning interest.
“My dear, you’ve always had an overactive imagination and a flair for the dramatic. If your father could tolerate it, I’d say the stage was your calling.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes.
“Mama, it was truly dreadful. And you know Father would never allow me in the arts.”

She sat up fully, placed her hands on her hips, and attempted a stern, mock-masculine voice:
“No daughter of mine will lower her status by doing foolish things in public.”

Her mother stifled a laugh.
“A rather good impersonation, dear. But now, come sit at the vanity. We need to do your hair and find a proper outfit for tea. The Princes are coming over, and you know how your father insists we be presentable.”

“Lucius doesn’t have to spend all this time getting ready, Mama. It’s unfair that just because I’m a girl, I must.”

“Oh, love, your brother is a Malfoy, he’ll preen like a peacock. You’ll likely be ready long before him.”

Lyra scoffed, but a mischievous gleam sparked in her eyes. She was now determined to beat her brother to breakfast, if only for the chance to tease him mercilessly.

________________________________________
Thirty minutes later, Lyra was the picture of a proper pure-blood daughter. Her mother had chosen a beautiful set of periwinkle day robes that flattered her pale skin and made her blue eyes shine.

Despite her elegant appearance, Lyra was soon dashing through the halls and skipping down the stairs, much to the dismay of Pixie, the family’s house-elf, who wailed about the misfortune that would come if the young miss were to fall.

Lyra felt a twinge of guilt for distressing the creature, but her desire to outpace her brother was too strong.

She arrived in the dining room flushed and slightly out of breath. Her father, Abraxas, tried to offer her a stern look, but he couldn’t hold it for more than a second.
She had softened too many of his edges, and he knew it. That softening had given rise to her wildness, a wildness he feared he might one day have to tame to fit into their world.

Lyra gave her father a chaste kiss on the cheek and took her seat beside him, beaming with triumph. She looked every bit like a cat who had gotten the cream.

“What has you in such a good mood, dear? Is it the thought of the Princes visiting?”

At the mention of the Princes, her smile faded slightly.

“No, Papa. I beat Lucius. Mama said something about Malfoy men preening like peacocks and that I’d most likely be done before his royal highness finished. And here I am!”

Abraxas glanced at his wife, who had just entered the room clearly having heard the remark.

“Is this true, Acacia? Malfoy men preen like peacocks?”
“My darling husband,” she said sweetly, “you’ve been preening since the 1920s, and I’ve aged waiting on you ever since.”

She took her seat across from Lyra, smiling warmly.

Lucius finally arrived moments later, the picture of perfection, which only made Lyra erupt into a fit of giggles.

Both parents regarded her with amusement. Abraxas coughed to hide a chuckle and avoided making eye contact with his son.

Lucius, though slightly bewildered, was used to his sister’s antics. Though he’d never admit it to his peers, he had missed the sounds of home and was happy to be on summer holiday. He kissed his mother’s cheek, nodded to his father, and sat beside Lyra, who was red with laughter.

He caught her sputtering something about a peacock but decided his hunger outweighed any curiosity.

With a flash, breakfast appeared, and the family slowly began helping themselves.
Lyra, of course grabbed a chocolate croissant.

After a short while, Abraxas cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Lyra.

“Now, Lyra, when the Prince family arrives, you are to be on your best behavior.”

Lyra crossed her arms and looked ready for battle.

“I will behave if he does, Papa.”

“Now, Lyra, Lord Prince is a perfectly respectable boy.”

“Father, he’s a stiff, incorrigible bore who sees the world in bland shades of grey. No fun. Just prim and proper. I’d rather spend the afternoon reading than dragging conversation out of him.”

“Lyra, darling,” her mother purred, “perhaps the boy is shy. You’ve always had… shall we say, a strong personality. It can take time for some people to warm up. Not everyone is as naturally charming as you.”

Lucius chuckled. “Yes, Mother… charming is definitely the word I’d use for our little Tasmanian devil.”

Lyra jabbed him in the chest.

“You hush, you pompous peacock.”

Abraxas sighed.

“Children, please. Lord Prince had a rough start. His father was a Muggle, if you can believe it. His grandmother has done her best to erase the... unfortunate beginnings, but he’s still learning. Our families are closely tied, and I expect you both to behave with proper character toward him. Lucius, you especially, take him under your wing.”

Chastened, the children muttered their agreement.

Abraxas stood from the table.

“The Prince family will arrive in about two hours. Be in the solarium on time. And Lyra, do try to display some decorum when entering a room.”

He offered his arm to his wife, and the two exited the dining room.

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“Lucius, today is going to be dreadful. I should’ve known the moment I had that dream, today would be the most horrible day.”

“Always with the dramatics, Lyra,” Lucius chuckled. “Come, let’s play wizard chess before they arrive.”

And just like that, Lyra was smiling again, dashing through the manor once more.

Chapter Text

“Checkmate. What is that, my fourth win?”

Lyra pouted. “Lucius, that isn’t fair. You’re older and have had years to practice and perfect your chess strategies. Give me a few years, and I’m sure I’ll wipe the floor with you.”

Lucius chuckled. “No one will ever say that Lyra Malfoy lacks confidence or a healthy ego.”

He glanced at the clock on the adjacent wall of the parlor.
“It’s time to head to the solarium. The Princes should be arriving soon.”

Lyra stood and dramatically placed a hand on her forehead.
“Lucius, the darnedest thing, I feel a cough coming on. Out of concern for the health of our guests, I should banish myself to my room and search for books on my symptoms. I must ensure I don’t have dragon pox!” Cough.

“Are you quite finished or is that going to take another five minutes?”

“Lucius, aren’t older brothers supposed to be supportive of their younger sisters?”

“Lyra, if I blindly supported every one of your hysterics, we’d both be permanent residents of St. Mungo’s.”

“Are you going to be this boring when I join you at Hogwarts this upcoming September?”

“Lyra, you can’t behave like this at Hogwarts. Father has spoiled you and let you run wild. You have a reputation to uphold, you’re a Malfoy, after all.”

The childish mirth drained from Lyra’s face.

“Lucius, no one cares about me or what I do. You’re the heir. I’m just the daughter who will be sold off to the highest bidder and bred like... like a broodmare.”

“Lyra Violetta Malfoy! That’s horribly crass. You know our parents will ensure you make a good match.”

“I’ve read enough diary entries from previous Lady Malfoys in the library to know my place. My only hope is to marry an interesting man, so I don’t live a dull life. Honestly, I’d rather remain unmarried and become a spinster, how thrilling to have choice.”

“Someone needs to lock the library away from you.”

“Mother says I have wisdom beyond my years.”

“That’s her polite way of saying you’re an insufferable know-it-all. Weren’t you just discrediting poor young Lord Prince for seeing the world in shades of grey? And here you are, being rather morbid.”

“Touche, Lucius. grey has never been my color. If you won’t let me banish myself, I suppose we should go before Father gives me another stern look. Especially since I plan to ask him for another set of books—I need him in a good mood.”

Lucius shook his head at his younger sister, offered his arm, and escorted her to the solarium.
“Oh dear, Lyra, I don’t think you’re getting your books today,” Lucius whispered.

There, standing at the entrance of the solarium, were their parents alongside Lady Prince and young Lord Prince.

“Drat it all,” Lyra muttered, grimacing.

“There they are, the Malfoy children have finally decided to grace us with their dazzling presence,” Acacia Malfoy teased.

Lucius, the well-bred pure-blood heir that he was, straightened his posture and bowed respectfully to Lady Prince and the young lord.
“I sincerely apologize for our slight tardiness. My darling sister was determined to win a game of Wizarding Chess, and I extended the time to give her every opportunity. How was I to know that even extra time wouldn’t help her?”

Lyra wanted to smack her brother. If not for the ever-present threat of their father’s disappointment, she might have done just that. But then she heard that indignant chuckle from Lord Prince. Perhaps she should hit both of them.

Lyra curtsied to Lady Prince, “Was that funny to you, Lord Prince?”

The boy looked at her smugly. “Only that the great Lyra Malfoy may not be the best at something. It’s quite the revelation.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t get too used to it, Lord Prince. There aren’t many things I don’t excel at.”

Lady Prince cleared her throat. “What a strongly opinionated daughter you have, Abraxas.”

Lyra recognized that tone. While she took it as a compliment, Lady Prince clearly considered being opinionated a flaw.

Abraxas, to his credit, smiled. “What you call opinionated, I consider confidence. And in the mad times we live in, a healthy dose of confidence is sorely needed. Now, please, let us all adjourn to the solarium for tea.”

As Lyra expected, the tea was perfection, and the chocolate croissants were delightful, but the conversation was exasperatingly dull. Lord Prince spoke mostly with Lucius, while Lady Prince seemed content to barely acknowledge Lyra, likely out of fear that her strong opinions might steer the discussion somewhere controversial.

How cruel it was that her parents had chosen the solarium, of all places, to host this dreadful tea. The sun was shining gloriously, bathing the summer gardens in golden light. Lyra longed to be outside, immersed in nature, rather than trapped in this stuffy room filled with forced pleasantries. She could feel her soul wilting from boredom... perhaps Mama was right about her being overly dramatic.

With little else to occupy her, Lyra did the only thing she could, observe Lord Prince as objectively as possible. Since he was entirely absorbed in conversation with her brother, she had the rare chance to study him without interruption.

He was tall, though he still carried the awkwardness of a boy not yet done growing. His skin was pale, his dark hair tied back neatly with a leather band. Some might have described his nose as aquiline, but it suited the landscape of his face rather well. He wore a pair of dark emerald robes that complemented his complexion handsomely. If he ever smiled, Lyra might even call him attractive. But based on what little she’d seen, she wasn’t entirely sure he could smile.

The most intriguing part of the young lord, however, were his eyes. Dark, almost obsidian, and framed with long lashes, they might have been rather lovely to look into, Lyra supposed...
Until she realized she was staring into them.
And in that moment, she found them anything but lovely.

He had caught her looking. Her cheeks flushed pink, and he raised a single brow, his gaze cool and unreadable. His eyes felt like they were cutting straight through her, sharp, discerning, entirely too perceptive. Lyra could have died on the spot.

Just then, Abraxas cleared his throat. “Lyra, why don’t you take young Lord Prince and show him the gardens? They’re exceptional this time of year. The four of us have matters to discuss regarding your upcoming introduction gala, which I’m sure would bore the two of you. Lucius will join you both shortly.”

Of course.

The one time she had no desire to be in the gardens. Especially not with him, not after he caught her staring. Merlin only knew what he thought she was thinking.

She looked to Lucius, silently pleading for him to come along now rather than later. But he was no help.

Lyra stood as Lord Prince rounded the table and offered his arm to escort her outside.

Where she had once yearned to be in the garden, now she dreaded it completely.

She had been right about one thing, today truly was a dreadful day.

Chapter Text

The two walked in silence.

They made their way to the fountain at the center of the gardens. Lord Prince glanced over his shoulder, sighed in relief, then swiftly released Lyra’s arm. He stepped several feet away from her and, to Lyra’s slight astonishment, wiped his hand on his trousers.

If she hadn’t been so taken aback by the odd behavior, she might have felt insulted.

“It’s your turn to pick a conversational topic, Lord Prince. Most people find garden walks to be light affairs, so I’d suggest a conversation about the weather or simple platitudes.”

Lyra all but sneered at the dour boy in front of her. If he intended to be rude, he clearly underestimated her. No one delivered condemnation quite like a Malfoy. Lyra was fairly certain sneering had been part of her nursery curriculum.

“Are you playing gullible, or are you naturally this obtuse? Or is it just a side effect of growing up as a pure-blooded princess that you blindly believe everything your father tells you?”

“How dare you insult me like that? How dare you imply that my father is lying! I ought to march back inside this instant and have him hear about it!”

Lord Prince stepped closer, his presence imposing despite his youth. For a fleeting moment, Lyra shuddered, imagining what he might look like at Lucius’s age.

“Run to your dearest papa, I dare you, Princess. You’ll only find that I’m right. While they send us out to stroll and make small talk, they’re inside arranging a future between us.”

His sharp, shrewd eyes locked onto hers.

“Don’t be ridiculous…” Lyra paused to breathe. “Lord Prince, we’re not even at Hogwarts yet. I haven’t had my introduction gala. We’re only eleven! My brother is in that room, for goodness’ sake!”

She rushed the words, her lungs tightening as if filled with jelly. Even she could hear the desperation creeping into her tone.

He moved even closer. Lyra just then noticed the solarium was no longer visible. His proximity, unattended and unchaperoned, would have been deemed indecent in proper society. Aside from her brother, she had only ever interacted with boys under the strictest social expectations. And now, here was Lord Prince, directly in front of her, his obsidian eyes boring into her own. She felt rooted in place.

“Let me remind you of the facts, Princess, since you seem to lack them, either through willful ignorance or because your father has allowed it. Your brother’s presence in that room only strengthens my suspicion. They wouldn't need him there if this was just about your gala. He is next in line. If something were to happen to your precious papa, and an arrangement had been made, your brother would be responsible for seeing it fulfilled.”

“Add to that, my grandmother is already eager to secure a match for me. Acting quickly, before the iron cools is exactly what she would do. She’s counting on the strength of our families’ friendship to overlook my... less-than-ideal lineage.”

Just as Lyra thought he couldn’t get any closer, he did fully invading her space. His presence engulfed her. She could even smell the earthy depth of his aftershave. Her thoughts began to cloud.

He dropped his voice, his frustration bleeding through every syllable.

“And if all that weren’t enough the forced closeness in a garden, unchaperoned? You might as well start calling me Severus. If I’m doomed to marry you, then ‘Lord Prince’ feels excessive.”

“Doomed to marry me!?”

The insult scraped across Lyra’s pride like a blade.

“I assure you, Severus, she spat the name, “you are the last boy on this earth I would ever want to tie my life to. You are dull, needlessly cruel, and you see the world only in shades of grey. I thrive in brightness. We could never make each other happy.”

With that, her clarity returned. She took several steps back from him, his eyes still simmering with something unreadable.

“You can’t even manage a proper garden conversation. I said ‘light,’ and you speak of marriage. Can’t you act like a boy your age, just once and talk about the weather?”

He sneered, truly sneered and Lyra was grateful for the space she’d reclaimed.

“I was never afforded the luxury of a childhood. Our world isn’t built for such indulgence. I am a Lord. With that comes expectations, obligations, and a strictly dictated future. How can I act my age when my life is already being bartered away in backroom dealings?”
“I don’t even get to choose my own wife. You may have grown up in a world that let you believe you had freedom, but it blinded you to the machine that rules us all. I am simply more realistic. And I suggest you begin to view the world as it truly is. Foolishness does not become you.”

Lyra felt the sting of tears, sharp and foreign. No one had ever spoken to her like this. She had always been praised, clever, witty, adored. Her family had given her everything she’d asked for. Yes, she had just spoke to Lucius about being sold to the highest bidder. But she’d clung to the hope that she would at least be given options.
Now, even that fragile illusion had crumbled.

A cold panic clawed at her chest. She tried to steady her breath, tried to convince herself that Severus was wrong. Her father would give her a choice. He had to.
The tears threatened again, but she would not let him see.

Lyra gave a stiff curtsy, her training shining through even as her world tipped off balance.
“Excuse me. I don’t feel quite well.”

When she looked up, she caught an emotion flash across Severus’s face, something strange and unplaceable. He opened his mouth, perhaps to apologize, his posture softening,but Lyra didn’t let him speak.
She fled.

She didn’t stop when she passed Lucius in the hallway, too afraid of what his expression might reveal. She didn’t stop until she reached the safety of her room, where the infernal tears could finally fall.

Through the sobs, Lyra gritted her teeth and whispered to herself:

“I don’t care if I’m a Malfoy. A pure-blooded princess, he called me. I will find a way to choose my life. I’ll show him.”

And if the pure-blood society had any wisdom left, it would learn to fear her.

Because Lyra Malfoy had the confidence and the grit of a lioness.

Eventually, sleep came for her, putting an end to her perfectly dreadful day.

Chapter Text

The scenery was fuzzy typical of most dreams not fully clear, which only added to the tension. Lyra knew she was once again the girl with the curls, but she was older than her eleven years. The night was dark and crisp, her body caked in dirt and clad in a state of undress that felt unmistakably Muggle. How strange, to dream of a life she didn’t quite recognize or understand.

She was helping the boy with the broken glasses hold up a lanky redhead, who distinctly reminded her of the dreaded Weasley family. They were all filthy. Without context, the dream was disorienting. Then, a howl shattered the stillness low and menacing. Lyra's heart pounded. It wasn’t a wolf.

There, standing before them, was a horrifying creature, taller and more grotesque than any she’d read about in books. Drool dripped from its gaping mouth. Surely, this would end in blood. But then, obsidian eyes—eerily familiar, locked onto hers. A man stepped forward, pushing the children behind him as he positioned himself like a shield.

Something about him gnawed at her memory. Even as she tried to grasp the connection, the dream began to fade, dissolving as reality returned.

Lyra jolted awake with the intensity only a dream like that could provoke. Her breathing was uneven. She turned toward the window. June had melted into July, bringing blistering heat. Pixie must have opened the window to let in a breeze. The moon was full.

Instantly, Lyra relaxed. She must have seen the moon before falling asleep, her mind had simply conjured up a strange dream involving werewolves and that mysterious curly-haired girl. Surely, her imagination had run wild.

With a huff, Lyra realized she wasn’t going back to sleep. She rose and walked to her vanity, where a letter still sat unopened. The blood-red wax seal, embossed with a large capital "P", gleamed in the dim candlelight as though daring her to open it.

And finally, she relented, hoping to rid her mind of the lingering unease from her dream.

Unsealing the envelope, she read the elegant script:

Dear Miss Malfoy,

I must extend my deepest apologies. I took my frustrations out on you unjustly. It is no more your fault than mine that we are being forced together. I usually have better control of my temper, and I again ask for your forgiveness. I believe our next meeting will be at your introduction gala, and I hope it will be more civil.

—Lord Prince

Lyra threw the letter down in frustration. How perfectly rehearsed the apology was especially coming from someone who had just turned her world upside down. And now, he had the audacity to ask for forgiveness.

He mentioned the quickly approaching gala, which now seemed utterly meaningless. Around the manor, no one had spoken of the conversation they had with Lady Prince. Her brother, Lucius ever the coward had conveniently disappeared most afternoons, preferring the company of the elegant Narcissa to facing the reality that his sister was being sold like chattel.

If anyone had noticed Lyra’s shift in mood, they hadn’t said a word. To be fair, she admitted to herself, she was known for her dramatics. Perhaps they thought she was upset over something trivial.
A glance at the letter stirred her into action. She grabbed her robe and strode to the door. Moping wouldn’t solve anything. If she wanted answers, she'd have to seek them herself and for Lyra, that meant the library.

But what book could possibly tell her how to dismantle centuries of tradition? How could one undo the roots of pure-blooded culture and arranged marriages?

Nevertheless, to the library she went.

She peered out to ensure the corridor was clear, then moved swiftly through the dimly lit hallways. She knew the way by heart. But just as she neared the library, voices from her father’s study stopped her.

They were raised, angry.

“Abraxas, you cannot be serious. What do you mean this man has set a cap for our daughter? She is only eleven! I will not tolerate it.”

“Acacia, calm yourself. Arrangements like this are nothing new in our circle. You're overreacting.”

“Perhaps. But I will not have you placing our only daughter on a silver platter for this man.”

Lyra's breath hitched. Maybe she didn’t need the library after all. Her mother clearly had her back.

“At least with the Prince boy, she'd have time. They are so similar, and with Hogwarts bringing them together, they might form a bond. Isn’t that what we want? A sliver of happiness for Lyra, even in our world of traditions? But this man... he’s your age, Abraxas! What could he possibly want with an eleven-year-old?”

“He offers power and security in these changing times. That can’t be ignored.”

“Foolish! Lyra has more power in her pinky than this man could offer. She’s a Malfoy! He doesn’t want to offer power; he wants to take it. You are Lord Malfoy. The pure-blood community bows to you.”

There was a brief pause, followed by her mother’s voice, lower and more dangerous.

“Does this man have something on you? That’s the only reason I can think of that would make you consider this madness.”

“Tom has always been different even at school. He’s gathering followers. Denying him could put us at risk.”

“So you’d sacrifice our daughter to Lord Riddle? The disgust in her voice was palpable.

“If you go through with this, I will create a scandal so massive it will destroy the Malfoy name for generations. Fear not this Lord Riddle, fear the woman who shares your bed.”

“Acacia, please be reasonable.”

“If it wouldn’t overshadow our daughter’s gala, I’d rescind that Lord’s invitation immediately. I will play the political game for now, but don’t mistake my compliance for agreement. A mother’s scorn is not something you want to provoke.”

With that, her mother stormed from the study. Lyra slipped back into the shadows, heart racing. So this Lord Riddle wanted her as a bride and her mother was prepared for war.

Breath catching in her throat, Lyra’s thoughts returned to Lord Prince. Perhaps he was the lesser evil.

Neither option brought comfort.

With a restless heart and spinning mind, Lyra pressed onward to the library, seeking refuge and guidance in the ink of ancient pages.

Chapter Text

The day had finally arrived, Lyra’s long-awaited introduction gala was to be held that evening. And despite the tension of the past few weeks, it was difficult for Lyra to remain somber, especially in the face of her mother’s uncontainable excitement.

“Oh, Lyra, my dear,” Acacia beamed, clasping her hands together. “I can’t believe the time has finally come for my precious daughter to be formally introduced to society. It’s so important to build connections before Hogwarts, and the ones you make today may last a lifetime.”

She smiled demurely, adding, “In fact, I met your father at my own introduction gala. He was an absolute rake at the time, but he eventually grew on me.”

Her mother’s joy almost managed to wash away the lingering memory of her storming out of Abraxas’s study.

“Now, come sit at the vanity and let Pixie do your hair and makeup. I’m thinking a gorgeous updo to show off those classic Malfoy features, and light makeup, Pixie, nothing too dramatic. Lyra is stunning as she is and doesn’t need anything more to shine radiantly.”

Lyra obediently took her seat as Pixie began her work, transforming her pin-straight, pale blonde hair into an elegant updo, enhanced with soft ringlets. Tiny jeweled clips shaped like stars were placed delicately throughout her hair, catching the light with every movement.

While Lyra was being primped and polished, her mother had vanished momentarily to retrieve the dress, one Lyra hadn’t yet seen. Mama had insisted it remain a surprise.

When she returned, mama swept into the room, radiant, carrying a dress bag. With a flourish, she unzipped it and revealed the gown inside.
It took everything in Lyra not to shriek or bounce with joy.

The dress was exquisite, a deep midnight-blue silk, strapless with a subtle train. The hem faded into the blackest black in a delicate ombré, and as the fabric moved, shimmering constellations and shooting stars danced magically across the lower half of the gown.

“Constellations might have been a touch on the nose,” her mother said with a teary-eyed smile, “but I couldn’t resist.”

“My little Lyra is growing up on me, and I don’t know quite how to handle it.”

Lyra waved off Pixie and rushed into her mother’s embrace.

“Oh, Mama... if I could, I’d stay young forever. I’d stay in the manor with you, Papa, and even that pompous peacock of a brother. Growing up feels... heavy. I don’t know if I’m ready for it.”

Acacia gently rubbed soothing circles into her daughter’s back.

“Oh, my darling, I couldn’t hold you back even if I desperately wished to. I knew the moment you were born that you were destined for great things. Your father and I, we’re just the stepping stones at the start of your journey. We’ll do our best to protect you from the harsher parts of adulthood until you’re ready to face them on your own.”

She pressed a kiss to the top of Lyra’s head, then turned to inspect Pixie’s work.

“Absolute perfection, as always. Thank you, Pixie. You may go now and check on the kitchens, make sure everything’s running smoothly. I’ll finish getting Lyra ready.”

A few moments later, Lyra was fully adorned in the most magnificent dress she had ever worn. The accessories she wore, glittering gemstones and pure-gold accents spoke of her family’s wealth and standing.
But as she gazed at her reflection, Lyra felt oddly disconnected from the girl in the mirror.

This was it. There would be no turning back after tonight.
She was stepping fully into society, and with that came the end of her rambunctious childhood. From now on, she was expected to act as a proper young lady. Her mother had spoken of connections, but Lyra knew all too well she was about to walk into a den of vipers, where one misstep could lead to social ostracization.

From downstairs, the sound of music swelled the first guests had arrived. Acacia startled slightly, checking the time.

“You look wonderful, my dear. I must hurry downstairs to greet our guests. Pixie will come fetch you when it’s time for your grand entrance.”

She placed a final kiss on Lyra’s cheek and swept from the room.
_____
It’s just a gala. You can do this, Lyra... calm yourself.

She heard her heels echo sharply against the marble floor, each click of her footsteps dragging her toward her future. She hesitated. What if I ran? Could she get far? She wouldn’t even be able to use magic without being immediately traced. Still, the idea of living as a Muggle didn’t seem entirely impossible to her.

“Is young Miss alright?” Pixie asked gently.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Pixie,” Lyra replied, offering a faint smile. “Just needed a moment to catch my breath. Nerves, you know?”

Pixie nodded, though Lyra doubted the elf had ever been paraded before hundreds of judgmental eyes.

You are a Malfoy, damn it. Get yourself together, Lyra. You will not let them see you sweat. You’ll hold your head high and let them squirm in their inadequacies. Just for one night, pretend you’re not being marched into the bonds of arranged marriages. Pretend you’re forming strategic alliances setting the foundation to burn this culture to the ground.

With that, Lyra straightened her spine and stepped forward to the top of the grand staircase.
____
She floated down the staircase with the grace of her breeding, her lips painted with a demure smile. She paused at the bottom to offer a deep curtsy to her father, followed by a chaste kiss on her mother’s cheek. Abraxas Malfoy looked every bit the proud father as he extended his arm to her.

“Dear family and esteemed friends,” he announced, raising his glass, “it gives my wife and me great pride to formally introduce our darling daughter, Lyra Violetta Malfoy. May you come to know her as we have.”
A soft wave of applause followed. With that, the gala had officially begun.

Abraxas leaned down to murmur to his daughter, “You look lovely tonight, my dear. Do enjoy yourself, it is your evening, after all.”

Her mother gave her another kiss before the two drifted into the sea of guests gathered in the opulent ballroom.

The room was breathtaking. The ceiling enchanted to reflect the night sky, constellations twinkling and swirling above in a cosmic dance. Golden drapes flowed from marble columns, and crystalline chandeliers sparkled like suspended stars. Uniformed butlers moved gracefully through the crowd with platters of hors d’oeuvres and gleaming drinks, while a hidden orchestra played refined music that swept through the ballroom like silk.

Lyra had barely taken in the grandeur before a tap on her shoulder pulled her attention back.

“I bet James ten Galleons you were going to trip on your train and tumble to the bottom of the stairs,” came a smug voice. “Unluckily for me, you seem to have found a smidgeon of grace since we last met.”
Sirius Black stood behind her, wearing his usual infuriatingly smug grin his posture radiating disappointment, despite his words.

“Sirius Black,” Lyra sighed, “you’re such a scoundrel, I’m surprised you don’t have fleas.”

“Tsk, tsk. That’s no way to speak to a future lord,” he said, mockingly wounded. “Besides, the way your brother’s making eyes at my cousin Narcissa, I’d say we’re practically family already. Shouldn’t you be a bit more welcoming?”

“If we become related, Sirius, I assure you, it will be a stain on the Malfoy name.”

Just then, another boy approached, his jet-black hair impossibly tousled, his hazel eyes mischievous, and his robes slightly askew, lending him a devil-may-care charm.

“Oh, Sirius,” he said, grinning, “the lady of the hour doesn’t look too pleased with you. What have you done this time? The night’s barely begun.”

Sirius turned to him with a theatrical sigh. “James, I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. As always, I am an innocent man. But I do believe introductions are in order.”

He gestured grandly. “Miss Malfoy, allow me to introduce my most loyal friend, Mr. James Potter.”

Lyra offered a cool smile. “Mr. Potter, I must say I feel sorry for you. If Sirius is your most loyal friend, then I fear you’ve not met enough good people.”

James scoffed, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “Oh, I’ve met plenty of people, Miss Malfoy. But Sirius is far more fun.”

His hazel eyes danced with rebellion something about him felt oddly familiar, and Lyra found herself momentarily intrigued. He had the look of someone who could convince you to jump headfirst into an adventure.

But the weight of watching eyes pressed against her back. Talking to Sirius was scandalous enough lingering in conversation with two Gryffindor-bound troublemakers would no doubt have tongues wagging by morning.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter,” she said politely. “I’m sure we’ll see each other at school. Perhaps then we can have a longer conversation about how Sirius is corrupting you, of course. But for now, I must attend to the rest of my guests.”

She dipped into a low curtsy and turned to leave, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as Sirius performed an absurdly dramatic bow behind her.

After leaving Sirius and his troublemaking companion, young Lyra found herself passed around the ballroom like a prized commodity, smiling, conversing, performing. There was always another hand on her arm, another voice calling her name, another carefully veiled inquiry.

Strangely, she had yet to spot the boy with the burning obsidian eyes. Not that she was looking for him, she told herself firmly.

Still, the gala was only halfway through, and Lyra already felt positively drained. She needed a moment, just a breath to regroup.

Slipping toward the northern side of the ballroom, she made her way to the elegant double doors that led to the veranda. She pushed them open and stepped outside, greeted by the warm breeze and the quiet hum of the summer night.

The veranda overlooked the gardens, and above her was the real night sky, glittering with stars that didn’t dance by enchantment but by ancient, natural rhythm. It was beautiful. Untouched.

She had taken no more than ten steps before she heard a voice behind her.

“Miss Malfoy.”

She turned, expecting the man to be some paces away. But no, he was already close. Far too close.

He had approached her swiftly and silently.

Lyra instinctively took a half-step back.

The man was tall commandingly so. Dark hair, darker eyes. His face was handsome, even striking, but there was something in his expression that made the fine hairs on her arms rise.
Something unnatural.

“Miss Malfoy,” he said smoothly, “you look positively radiant tonight. It would be my great honor if you would grant me a dance.”

Lyra drew herself up, every lesson in etiquette clashing with the alarm bells going off in her head.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said carefully, “but you have me at a disadvantage. You clearly know me but I don’t believe I know you.”

Something in her screamed not in words, but in a visceral, primal wave of dread. Run, it said. Flee.
But she remained rooted in place.

The man’s smile was slow and practiced. “Forgive me,” he said, bowing with a flourish. “Your beauty robbed me of my manners. I am Lord Riddle.”

And before she could pull away, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

Lyra should have run.

Chapter Text

Lord Riddle’s dark eyes flicked upward, locking onto Lyra’s. A smile curled across his face, sharp, unsettling, cruel. She could feel it lingering on her skin, exactly where his lips had touched.

He reminded her distinctly of a snake, graceful, hypnotic, and coiled with danger.

Lyra silently begged any deity listening to deliver her from this man.

He straightened and leaned closer, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear, warm breath ghosting along her neck.

RUN, her inner voice screamed. But Lyra felt frozen, as though struck by a Jelly-Legs Jinx. Every nerve in her body screamed in warning, but her limbs refused to obey.

"I know what you want, Lyra," he whispered. "It’s written so clearly in that pretty little mind of yours. I could help you get it, give you the power to tear this world down. The inferior would bow to you. You’d have your freedom."
Her breath hitched, terror blooming in her chest like wildfire.
Her mind. What did he mean by that? How did he know?

She stumbled over her words, her voice a shaky whisper.
"Lord Riddle… I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just like any other girl my age, excited about my introduction and the start of school. I want for nothing. I’m a Malfoy, after all…"

"You may tell pretty lies to those around you, Lyra," he said smoothly, "but I can see you for what you truly are. I remember being your age… wanting many of the same things. You and I will make an exceptional match. And I’ll be watching you closely, Miss Malfoy."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a breathy, intimate tone.
"I could teach you so many things…"

"Miss Malfoy."

The interruption came like a crash of cold water. A voice. Calm. Measured. And blessedly familiar.

"I’m sorry to interrupt," the boy continued, "but your father is looking for you."

Lyra turned sharply, her entire body humming with relief as she registered the figure behind her.
Lord Prince.
Never had Severus Prince’s quiet tones sounded more angelic.

"Thank you, Lord Prince," she said breathlessly. "I’ll accompany you at once. I can’t keep my father waiting."

She dipped into a swift curtsy. "Lord Riddle, what a pleasure it was to make your acquaintance."
With as much composure as she could muster, Lyra rushed to Severus’s side. He offered his arm, and together they turned back toward the ballroom.

"Can you take me to my father?" she asked quietly, trying to steady her voice.

"Oh… I have no idea where he is," Severus admitted, almost sheepishly, an unusual tone for the typically unflappable young lord. "I only wanted some air… and I happened to see you. You looked… uncomfortable."

Lyra looked up at him, emotions at war within her.

"Thank you, Severus," she said sincerely. "For being my proverbial knight in shining armor. That was… very kind of you. I’m in your debt."

"I’m not collecting debts tonight," he said dryly. "Take it as part two of my apology for my behavior in the gardens. Who was that man?"

"Lord Tom Riddle," Lyra answered grimly. "And I pray you never find yourself alone with him. He’s… intense."

Severus’s expression darkened. "I’ll take your warning seriously. He didn’t seem… gentlemanly. If someone else had caught you out there with him, your introduction gala might have ended with an engagement announcement."
Lyra grimaced. "Well, at least then you wouldn’t be doomed to marry me. Some other poor soul would have to suffer."

Severus looked down, the faintest flush coloring his pale cheeks. "I fear I’ll never outlive the things I said in the garden."

She offered a soft smile. "I said my fair share as well. May I propose a truce? If only for tonight."

He returned her smile, shy, unsure, but sincere.

"Only for tonight? So certain we’ll never get along, Miss Malfoy?"

"Oh, Lord Prince," she chuckled. "We’re like oil and water. We may interact, but we’ll never mix."

He opened his mouth for a rebuttal, but another voice cut in before he could speak.

"There you are, Lyra. I’ve been looking for you."

Lucius emerged from the crowd, silver eyes glinting with teasing affection.
"I was hoping for a dance with my darling sister, but I see you’ve already found yourself a partner in young Lord Prince. Off with the two of you, the next dance is about to begin."
He all but pushed them toward the dance floor.

The crowd parted, and soon the pair stood at its center.

"You’ll have to excuse my dancing. My only partner has been my grandmother during lessons," Severus said, wincing slightly at the admission.

"Well, Severus, I do hope I can dance better than your grandmother," Lyra said, releasing her first true laugh of the night.

What an odd thing, laughing with someone she thought she thoroughly disliked.

The music started again, a slow, delicate number, one that would require them to dance closely.
A faint pink returned to Severus’s cheeks. He bowed, Lyra curtsied, and he placed a hand gently at her waist, offering the other for her to grasp.

They spent the dance in the awkward embrace of a first waltz.

And yet, Lyra wasn’t sure she wanted it to be her last.

Blast it all, feelings could be such a tricky thing.

But Lyra, went on to have a wonderful evening.
______
Lyra awoke the next morning with a smile curving softly across her lips. Despite the disturbing encounter with Lord Riddle, she had chosen to focus on the evening’s brighter moments, the whispered compliments, the gentle laughter, the successful dance with Severus. All things considered, she deemed her introduction gala a success.

She stretched languidly, reaching for the silk ribbon to tie back her hair, just beginning her morning ministrations when a soft tapping interrupted her thoughts.

She paused.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her eyes flicked to the window. How strange. Owls rarely came directly to her room; most delivered to the parlor or the family’s receiving hall.

Rising, she crossed to the window and unlatched it.

A silent, stately owl swept in on dusky wings, landing with unnatural grace on the edge of her writing desk. In its beak, it carried an envelope made of black parchment, sealed with deep crimson wax.

Lyra frowned.

The seal was unfamiliar, ornate, archaic, and disturbingly serpentine. Her name was written across the front in elegant, precise handwriting.

She hesitated, the faint trace of her earlier smile vanishing as a familiar chill crept down her spine.

This was no ordinary correspondence.
________________________________________
Miss Lyra Malfoy,

How fortunate that we met on such an auspicious night. I had wondered if the scions of the old houses still possessed any fire behind their gilded façades, or if they had all grown complacent in the safety of their names.

You did not disappoint.

You stood still, but not spineless. Afraid, but not foolish. There is a difference. Fear is not weakness. Fear, when properly wielded, is the foundation of power.

And you, Miss Malfoy, possess the rare gift of untapped potential. A hunger you’re too clever to admit aloud. A hunger that, if fed, could reshape the world you claim to understand.

They’ve raised you in lace and lessons, trained your tongue in diplomacy, and painted your future in soft, acceptable colors. But tell me when you look at your reflection, do you ever wonder what lies beneath the surface they’ve so carefully constructed?

I do.

What a wonder it must be to be you.

But wonders, Lyra, are meant to be unlocked. To be awakened. And trained.

I would be remiss if I did not extend an offer, one I seldom make, and only to those whose minds are sharp enough to pierce illusions and whose ambition is strong enough to shape truth.

Should you ever desire a tutor in more... unconventional arts, you need only respond. There are doors in this world only certain minds may open, and I would not see yours wasted behind a locked one.

No pressure. No promises. Only a whisper of what could be, should you dare to seek more.

Until then,
T.R.

Inside the letter, Lyra found a small, enchanted calling card. It bore no name only an intricate rune etched into a shard of obsidian glass. When touched, it grew warm beneath her fingertips... but did nothing else.
For now.

She felt a familiar shudder of fear ripple through her body, like a thread of ice winding down her spine. Her first instinct was to bring the letter to her father immediately, to place it in the hands of someone who could understand its weight, its danger.

But as quickly as the thought formed, it slipped away, replaced by a strange stillness. Not peace. Something closer to suggestion. Compulsion.

She blinked, then slowly set the letter and the card down on her vanity.
And just like that, her mind moved on.

Today was a day for brightness, for joy, for shopping. She would be reunited with her dearest friend, Helena Parkinson, who had promised laughter and stories and perhaps even a bit of scandal to brighten their final day before term.
All thoughts of Lord Riddle and his cryptic message faded like smoke.
Only excitement remained.

Chapter Text

Girls’ laughter echoed down the corridor, a light, melodic sound that drifted into the drawing room, where Lady Parkinson and Lady Malfoy sat sipping their morning tea. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden dappled patterns across the pale blue carpet. A half-eaten lemon tart rested on a porcelain plate between them.

Lady Malfoy raised a delicate brow at the sound.
“They sound like they’ve been reunited after decades, not a summer.”

Lady Parkinson gave a soft, knowing laugh and set her teacup gently into its saucer.
“If we had a sickle for every dramatic declaration they’ve made since childhood, we’d rival Gringotts in wealth.”
She smoothed the front of her tailored robes a sophisticated shade of rose-gray, trimmed with pale amethyst.

Lady Malfoy leaned back slightly, her posture as flawless as ever despite the dull ache behind her eyes.

“It’s good for Lyra. She’s been tense lately and last night didn’t help.”

A shadow passed over Lady Parkinson’s face.
“I heard rumors of Lord Riddle attending the gala.”

Lady Malfoy didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze drifted toward the open doorway before she gave a small, noncommittal nod.
“He introduced himself. Rather… forward, considering the occasion. Abraxas only heard of the interaction after it had happened, he was quite perturbed.”

“Too forward,” Lady Parkinson muttered, her usually composed features hardening.
“The man is brilliant, no doubt, but there’s something off about him. He has that particular charisma one learns to distrust after years in our circles.”

“I won’t have her courted by someone like that,” Lady Malfoy said flatly.
“Even the suggestion of an engagement with someone so...so slippery.”

“Slippery is generous,” Lady Parkinson sniffed.
“If he were a creature, I’d wager he’d shed his skin.”

The two women sat in thoughtful silence for a beat before the sound of hurried footsteps reached them. Lyra and Helena burst into the room in a whirlwind of satin and sunshine.

“Mother, Lady Parkinson,” Lyra greeted brightly, cheeks flushed and her braid slightly loosened from excitement.

Helena mirrored her with a graceful curtsy.
“We hope we’re not interrupting.”

Lady Malfoy waved them in with a soft smile.
“Come, my darlings. We were just remarking on how quiet the manor has been without your squeals of affection.”

Helena grinned and crossed the room to settle beside her mother, curling one leg beneath her.
“We were only gone for a few weeks.”

“Which, in your world, is clearly equivalent to exile,” Lady Malfoy said, her tone dry but affectionate.
“Come here, Lyra.”

Lyra perched beside her mother on the chaise.
“I’ve missed this.”

“So have I,” said Lady Parkinson.
“And now that the men are off playing politics, we can enjoy ourselves properly. Speaking of which, Helena tells me you’ve inherited your father’s love of ancient magical theory, Lyra.”

Lyra’s face lit up.
“I have! I found an old volume in the library over the summer on Arithmantic resonance theory and how it correlates to,”

“Lyra,” Lady Malfoy interrupted gently, one corner of her mouth twitching upward.
“You’re among friends, not a professor.”

“She can’t help it,” Helena said proudly.
“She’s a genius.”

Lady Parkinson exchanged a knowing look with Lady Malfoy.
“Ah, yes. A genius with ink-stained fingers and a penchant for debate. Sounds suspiciously like a young Acacia.”

Lady Malfoy rolled her eyes in amusement.
“I was never that loud.”

“Lady Malfoy, are you telling tales?” Helena gasped playfully.

“Perish the thought,” she replied, though her eyes sparkled with mirth.

The room buzzed with laughter and warmth as the Parkinson and Malfoy girls reacquainted themselves. But as the final crumbs of lemon tart were brushed from napkins and tea cups were emptied, it was time to begin the day’s mission, a visit to Diagon Alley.

Lady Malfoy rose gracefully from her chair, a knowing smile curving her lips.
“Lady Parkinson, I do believe we’re missing just one part of our party before we set off.”

“Oh yes,” Lady Parkinson said with exaggerated realization, her eyes locking onto Lyra.
“I distinctly remember telling Lady Prince that we’d escort the young lord to Diagon Alley in her stead. She claimed her ‘old bones’ couldn’t handle the cobblestones, such a shame, age.”

Lyra groaned, shoulders slumping in theatrical defeat.
“We had one awkward dance, and now you’re both conspiring.”

“Hardly conspiring,” Lady Malfoy said airily.
“Merely observing. Lord Prince was quite attentive, wasn’t he?”

Helena bit back a laugh as she leaned toward Lyra.
“This is what happens when you dance in public. You invite matchmaking.”

Lyra covered her face with both hands.
“I should’ve tripped on purpose.”

Lady Parkinson chuckled.
“No use fighting it, dear.”

With a final ripple of laughter, the four women stood and gathered their things, their conversation still alight with teasing affection. In the parlor the Floo awaited, and beyond it, Diagon Alley, alive with the promise of books, robes, whispered gossip, and a boy with obsidian eyes.
___
The Floo roared emerald once again, and Severus stepped out into the bustling heart of Diagon Alley, brushing soot from the sleeve of his deep green robes. His entrance, as always, was quiet, measured. His gaze swept the alley with practiced wariness, eyes dark and unreadable. It took only a moment before he spotted them.

Lyra stood with Helena just beyond an archway, both girls framed by the golden afternoon light. Helena’s hair gleamed like polished onyx beneath her yellow headband, while Lyra’s braid fluttered in the breeze, the blue satin bow at its end catching the sun. She was mid-laugh when she turned and caught sight of him.

Her smile faltered, only briefly before she dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“Lord Prince.”

He gave a curt nod. “Miss Malfoy. Miss Parkinson.”

Helena curtsied with exaggerated formality. “My, how very stately of you. Should we all curtsey when we see each other at school, or are you reserving that just for Lyra?”

“Helena,” Lyra warned, cheeks warming.

“What?” Helena grinned.

Severus blinked, unreadable as ever.

“You’re impossible,” Lyra muttered, elbowing her friend lightly.

Lady Malfoy and Lady Parkinson exchanged amused glances from a few feet away, clearly enjoying the dynamic more than either teen preferred.

Lady Parkinson leaned toward Severus. “I trust your grandmother is resting?”

“She is,” Severus replied politely. “She sends her gratitude for your assistance.”

“Not at all,” Lady Malfoy replied. “You’re hardly a burden, Lord Prince. And it’s good for Lyra to have... friends.”

Lyra shot her mother a look but said nothing. Mentally though, she wanted to challenge her mother’s definition of friends. Severus, to his credit, didn’t react. He simply turned slightly and extended an arm, offering it without a word.

Lyra hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to, but because everyone was watching. She smoothed the front of her robes and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Shall we?” he asked, just loud enough for her to hear.

She nodded.

The crowd thickened around them, the late-summer air vibrant with chatter and the clinking of shopping baskets. Colorful signs bobbed in enchanted arcs overhead: New Arrivals at Obscurus Books, Limited Edition Cauldron Sets, Fortescue's Ice Cream, Now with Cooling Charms!

Helena chattered ahead with her mother, occasionally turning to grin at Lyra, who walked at Severus’s side, their steps slow and synchronized despite the uneven cobblestones.

“You’re quiet,” Lyra said, after a few beats of silence.

“And you’re not?” Severus replied, tone teasing but mild.

She rolled her eyes. “Only because Helena never stops talking and I fear if I start she will say something horribly embarrassing. I assume you need all of your school supplies as well?”

“Naturally. Though I prefer to be done with it quickly. I don’t find crowds... pleasant.”

“No, I rather assumed you didn’t.”

There was a pause only slightly strained, but noticeable.

Lyra gasped, eyes widening as Flourish and Blotts came into view. Without thinking, she grabbed Severus by the sleeve and practically dragged him toward the shop doors.

The cool interior of the bookshop embraced them like a familiar spell. The scent of ink, parchment, and time-worn leather wrapped around Lyra instantly. Her shoulders eased, and her hand slipped from Severus’s arm as she drifted toward the nearest shelves—drawn in like a moth to flame.

“Here we go,” Helena said with a dramatic sigh as she fell into step beside Severus. “We’ve lost her.”

Severus’s gaze followed Lyra. She was already on tiptoe, her fingertips dancing along the spines of a row of Arithmancy volumes, lips moving silently as she read the titles.

“Does she always do that?” he asked quietly.

“Every single time,” Helena replied, amused. “Once she spent four hours in here. Lady Malfoy had to send Pixie in to drag her out.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile ghosted across Severus’s face.
“I can believe it.”

Helena tilted her head, watching him closely.

“Are you starting to enjoy her company, Lord Prince?”

He blinked at her, caught off-guard.
“She’s... tolerable.”

Helena raised a brow.
“Tolerable is a start, I suppose. Though, as her best friend, I must say” she leaned in with mock solemnity, “you could not do better than Lyra Malfoy.”

Severus turned his eyes toward the door, deliberately avoiding Helena’s pointed gaze.
“I’m not worried about doing better than Lyra. Honestly, she could do much better than me.”

He paused, his voice quieting.
“We’re young. And having our choices stripped from us, being forced together before we’ve even lived... that doesn’t bode well for a happy future.”

Helena’s teasing softened into something gentler. She regarded him thoughtfully, her expression no longer playful.
“My parents met around your age. Their arrangement was already in place, and they’ve built a happy life together.”

Severus gave a small, slow nod.
“Your mother is not Lyra. I may not know her well, but I know enough to understand this,”

His gaze shifted back to the shelves, where Lyra now crouched low, flipping carefully through a heavy leather-bound tome.

“She’ll never be content in a gilded cage. Not even one of gold and velvet. If she feels trapped... she’ll find a way to escape.”

With that, Lord Prince turned and walked toward Lyra, leaving Helena behind, her expression unreadable eyes filled not with pity, but something far heavier.
Perhaps recognition.

Chapter Text

The murmur of customers faded behind him as Severus moved deeper into the rows of shelves, his steps measured but reluctant, as if his body knew what his mind was still debating.

Lyra knelt at the base of a tall shelf, a thick leather-bound tome open across her lap. Her fingers ghosted along a page dense with runes and formulas, the sunlight from the tall front windows catching on the pale ribbon in her
braid.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He hesitated just beyond the edge of the aisle, watching her silently. There was a stillness to her here, one that made her seem almost untouchable. Not in the cold, haughty way others might have assumed of a Malfoy girl, but in the way, something becomes sacred when left undisturbed.

For a moment, he considered walking away again.

But then she looked up.
Her blue eyes met his, calm and unreadable but not cold.

“Find what you were looking for?” she asked softly, closing the book with a gentle thump.

Severus stepped closer, hands loosely folded behind his back.

“I wasn’t looking for anything.”

Lyra arched a brow. “Then, I feel truly sorry for you.”

He huffed almost a laugh. “That’s not new.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely now. The easy teasing faded, and something more sincere took its place.

“You left Helena looking like she’d swallowed a sour berry.”

“She’s nosy,” he replied.

“She’s perceptive,” Lyra corrected. “She means well. But yes, terrible at subtlety.”

A silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but edged with something tentative. She stood, brushing a bit of dust from her skirt. The book remained in her hands, its weight clearly familiar, welcome.
“You weren’t horribly wrong, by the way,” she said after a moment, turning back to the shelf and sliding the tome into its rightful place.

Severus blinked. “About what?”

“The gilded cage.”

His expression tensed slightly, but he said nothing.

“If I were in a cage, gilded or not, I wouldn’t just find a way out. I’d make the whole thing burn.”

He studied her for a long moment.
And for the first time, he believed her.
“Good,” he said finally, his voice lower. “Because I don’t think anyone else will be providing matches.”

She smiled, sharp, but not unkind.
“That’s the trick, Lord Prince. I never needed them to.”
There was a beat of quiet understanding. Something unspoken settled between them, an acknowledgment of what they were, what they weren’t, and what might still be formed in the space between.
“So,” Lyra said, turning toward him with a tilt of her head. “Since you weren’t looking for anything, would you like to help me find something?”

He raised a brow.
“Let me guess. Something obscure, out-of-print, and most likely banned.”

“If we’re lucky,” she said, grinning.

And together, they slipped deeper into the rows of shelves, the world narrowing to parchment and silence, and the quiet hum of two sharp minds that just might be slowly beginning to align.

But for the likes of Lyra Malfoy and Severus Prince, peace is always borrowed, never owned. Trouble, it seems, has an uncanny way of finding them and misunderstanding is its favorite companion.

________

Later, after shops and books and more teasing, the trio stood near an ornate fountain surrounded by their floating parcels. Lady Malfoy and Lady Parkinson had stepped into Slug & Jiggers for a brief word with the shopkeeper.

“Well, well... I thought I smelled a half-blood.”
The voice rang through the crowd like a blade.
A tall boy with platinum blond hair and an aristocratic sneer strode toward them, flanked by two others in robes stitched with House Nott’s crest.
Thadius Nott. Older. Crueler.

Helena stiffened.
“Lovely. There goes my appetite.”

Lyra’s jaw set.
“Nott.”

“Ladies. Prince,” Thadius said with a mock bow.

Severus didn’t move.
“Nott.”

Thadius’s smirk grew. His eyes slid to Lyra.
“Slumming it with your half-breed? Or is this your mother’s idea of charity?”

Helena stepped forward.
“Go brush your hair with a porcupine, Thadius.”

“Defensive as ever, Parkinson,” he sneered. “You always did play the loyal hound.”

“And you always mistook cruelty for cleverness.”

But Lyra could feel it he wasn’t trying to wound. He was testing her.
She stepped forward, voice cool.
“I choose my company by intellect, not bloodline. Something you’ve never had to offer.”

Thadius’s smile faltered.
“Is that what we’re calling it now? Company?”

Severus’s jaw tightened.

“You’re barking up the wrong blood feud, Nott,” Lyra said calmly.
“I’m here for school supplies, not duels.”

“And I’m sure he is here to borrow your spine,” Thadius sneered.
“You’ve always been known for your naivety, Lyra.”

That was enough.

“And you Notts have always been experts in inbreeding and insignificance,” Severus said, voice quiet razor-sharp.

Thadius paled, the sneer sliding from his face.
Silence fell.

Then—

“Is there a problem?”

Lady Malfoy, cool and collected, stood just outside Slug & Jiggers, gaze cutting through the tension like a blade.

Thadius straightened.
“Not at all, Lady Malfoy. Just exchanging pleasantries with your daughter.”

“Good,” she said icily. “Because I’d hate to end the day with a Howler to your father.”

Thadius stiffened, then bowed.
“Ladies. Prince.”

And then he was gone.

Quite quickly Lord Prince offered a curt farewell, barely meeting Lyra’s gaze, before turning sharply and striding toward the nearest Floo. As the green flames swallowed him whole, Lyra stood frozen. Whatever tentative friendship
they had begun to build now felt fractured shattered in silence.

________________
The green flames of the Floo roared around him as Severus stepped into the hearth at Twilfit and Tatting’s and murmured the address of the Prince estate through gritted teeth.
A moment later, he was gone spun violently through the network of fireplaces, soot trailing behind him like regret.
He stumbled out into the familiar darkness of the Prince manor’s receiving room. It was cool and still, the air tinged with lavender and dust. He straightened his robes with stiff fingers, his jaw tight, his breath coming shallow.

The silence pressed down around him.

He hadn’t even looked at her.

Not properly.

He knew that.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel, he never did—but the words were gone before he could find the courage to say them. Before he could explain the tightness in his chest, the fire behind his ribs, the humiliation of standing beneath Nott’s sneer with her beside him, Lyra Malfoy, all polished wit and poised indignation, standing taller than the bloodlines that defined them both.

He couldn’t compete with that.

And he hated that part of him wanted to.

She had defended him.

Without hesitation.

And that should have made it easier. But instead, it twisted something in his stomach because he had seen the flicker of pity in Helena’s eyes, and worse still, the way Lyra didn’t deny it when Nott called him a half-breed.
Even if she loathed the insult, she hadn’t corrected it.

She shouldn’t have had to. He knew that, logically.
But logic had no place in the poisoned corridors of his pride.

He sat himself on the edge of one of the long velvet settees and stared into the cold fireplace. The glow from the sconces flickered, casting long shadows along the bookcases and marble columns.

“She’ll never be content in a gilded cage.”

The words he had spoken to Helena came back to him now, bitter and mocking.

No, Lyra Malfoy wasn’t made to be trapped. Not by a man. Not by a name. And certainly not by him.

He knew his place in the hierarchy of their world, kept on the periphery, brilliant enough to be tolerated, quiet enough to be overlooked. His grandmother was a fool if she believed the Malfoys would truly want their daughter to have an arrangement with him.

He wasn’t meant for golden girls who knew how to draw blood with a sentence and still look like they belonged on the cover of a Witch Weekly feature.
Severus exhaled, fingers curling into the velvet fabric beneath him.

He’d left before he could ruin it further, before his expression gave him away, before she could see the sting in his eyes or, worse, offer him kindness.

Kindness from Lyra would’ve undone him completely.

So he’d fled. Cowardice, perhaps. Or something crueler.

But it was the only thing he knew how to do well.
Disappear.
_______
August 31st – Evening, Malfoy Manor
I don’t even know why I’m writing this.

That’s a lie, I do know. It’s because there’s no one I can say this to aloud.

So here I am.

Journaling like a proper emotional cliché.

We had a lovely day, truly. Helena was outrageous, the shopping was divine (I bought eleven books, not ten, but I think Pixie covered for me), and even the sunshine cooperated. It should have been perfect.

But then there was him.

Lord Prince.

I don’t know what happened. One moment he was walking beside me, quiet but not unpleasant, and the next, he could barely meet my eyes. His goodbye was curt. Cold. Practiced. And then he was gone.
Just like that.

No explanation. No sarcasm. No dry comment about my poor self-control in bookstores. Just a look through me… and the sound of his boots against stone as he fled toward the Floo like he was being chased.

I’ve replayed the whole afternoon in my head at least a dozen times. I was polite. Friendly, even. I defended him. He knows I did.

But something shifted after Thadius Nott. I felt it like a pane of glass cracking beneath weight we couldn’t name.

And I wonder, did I embarrass him? Did he see the way Helena looked at me, or the way the crowd quieted when Nott spat half-blood like it was a curse? Did he hear the silence I didn’t mean to leave in its place?

Merlin, maybe I should have said something more. Something direct. Something true.
But I didn’t.

Because I thought I didn’t have to.

He should have known.

Right?

I told myself that whatever was forming between us, whatever odd, tentative understanding was building, was just the result of proximity and circumstance. An arrangement. An accident of timing.
But… he was just starting to intrigue me

And I’m ashamed of how much that bothers me.

I’m not supposed to be this girl. The one who notices when someone doesn’t look back.

But tonight, I noticed.

And I hate that I cared.
—L

Chapter Text

September first arrived, bringing with it all the chaos and bluster typical of departure day in the Malfoy household.

Clothes flew into trunks, Lucius was in a frenzy over a missing pair of flying gloves, and Lyra, frantic about a misplaced, brand-new book—was positively feral. Mama, usually the picture of composure, was visibly struggling not to break down emotionally.

“Oh, Abraxas, whatever will we do? Our darling children are both leaving us. I fear I shall never recover,” she exclaimed.

“Acacia, darling, you still have a husband. You are not alone,” Abraxas replied, feigning mock hurt.

“Darling, I’ve had years of you, and if we’re lucky, I’ll have years more, but our children are only truly with us for such a short time. And now we’re sending them away. Do you think it might be too late to homeschool?”

Abraxas smiled lovingly. “If you pulled Lucius from Hogwarts, and away from his dear Narcissa, I do believe he might just hex us both. Besides, Hogwarts will be good for Lyra. I’ve indulged her too much. She needs new experiences to become well-rounded.”

Acacia narrowed her eyes. “Some of the best wizards of all time didn’t fit the mold, Abraxas. I see no reason our daughter should have to conform.”

Abraxas sighed and, like most wise husbands who know when there’s no winning, simply said,

“Yes, dear. Whatever you say.”

“Mama, I positively cannot find it and we’re running out of time,” Lyra nearly whined.

“Darling, there is still post. I’ll look for the book, and if I find it, I’ll send it with Odin. He’s our fastest owl, so you needn’t fret.”

Lyra looked only slightly reassured. “I suppose that will do. I’ll go tell Pixie to shut my trunks and that I’m ready.”

Another bellow echoed through the manor.

“Well, dear, I do believe you’ll be looking for a book and flying gloves sometime today,” Abraxas said with a smile.

Acacia laughed, “A mother’s job is never truly done.”
____________

King’s Cross Station was abuzz with life and so was Lyra. She had been several times before to see her brother off, but something felt entirely different now that it was her turn to leave.

She had barely stepped out of the Floo when a body collided with hers, arms wrapping tightly around her. A burst of giggles erupted.

“Oh, Lyra, it’s finally our turn! No more morose goodbyes to our older siblings—we finally get to go to Hogwarts. And best of all, no more stuffy classes at home! I do believe I’m entirely responsible for Professor Winthorpe’s early retirement,” Helena’s eyebrows waggled.

Lady Parkinson swept into view.
“Ladies, try to remember we are in public. And with the public comes shrewd eyes and wagging tongues. I don’t need to see another article in that rag The Daily Prophet saying the Malfoy and Parkinson girls don’t know how to conduct themselves.”

Lady Malfoy laughed. “Oh, let them be young. I dare say plenty of articles were written about the two of us when we were growing up.”

Helena looked positively wicked. “How does one find these articles? Purely for research, I assure you, Lady Malfoy.”

“Oh dear, I’m a Malfoy now, I leave no traces,” Acacia whispered. “Now come, darlings. I see your brother has already abandoned us for his young lady. So much for familial loyalty,” she scoffed, though there was no real fire behind her words.
The crowd was dense, and Lyra’s head was on a swivel. Her eyes scanned many faces but never landed on the one boy she wouldn’t admit she was looking for.

“Looking for someone?” Helena smiled knowingly.

“Of course not. I’m just admiring everyone’s outfits.”

“Ah yes, the outfits,” Helena replied slyly. “As if it matters, we’ll all be draped in black robes soon enough, waiting to be sorted into our houses.”

Lyra gulped. “I’d nearly forgotten about the Sorting. I hope we aren’t separated, I’m not sure I could survive without you.”

Helena took her hand. “Don’t worry. If it’s alphabetical, you’ll go first, and I’ll bully that old hat into giving me the same house. Or my father will write a strongly worded letter and threaten to pull his donations. Whatever needs to be done.”

Lyra giggled. “You, Helena Parkinson, are not one to be trifled with.”

The train whistle pierced the air.

Lyra looked longingly at her parents. To her mother’s credit, Acacia let only a single tear fall. She had managed to corral Lucius back over to the family, giving him a quick kiss and telling him to write and look after Lyra. He nodded but rushed off to avoid being late for a prefect meeting.

Helena and Lyra hugged their mothers tightly.

“Lyra Malfoy, let that brilliant mind of yours take you to great places. There is nothing you can’t do. If anything, ever feels impossible or you feel alone, know that I’m always just a letter away,” her mother sniffled. “Be safe, my darling and I expect a letter after the Sorting. Don’t leave a single detail out.”

Lyra hugged her mother again, then stepped into her father’s arms.

“Remember, you are a Malfoy, Lyra. The name comes with weight, both good and bad. Be mindful of your alliances and stand tall. You’ve always had a fire in you; let it burn bright.”

His tone turned serious. “Lyra… your Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, is an interesting man. We haven’t always seen eye to eye. I’d appreciate a tone of wariness around him.”
"Yes, Papa. I will.”
________________________________________

Lyra rejoined Helena, and the two made their way onto the scarlet train. The corridors were packed with bodies. Friends reunited loudly, and students rushed to find seats.
Out of frustration, Lyra flung open the first cabin door she could reach, hoping to find room.

“Oh look, James, the Queen of the Purebloods has arrived. Should we still bow now that we’re in school? Because I have a trick knee… poor genetics, you see,” said a smug Sirius Black.

Lyra sneered. “I believe you on the bad genetics, Sirius. How Narcissa even shares blood with you is astounding.”

“Sirius, come off it. Don’t scare the poor girls off, we have enough boys in here already,” James Potter added, waggling his eyebrows. “Hello, Miss Parkinson. I don’t recall seeing you at the introduction gala.”

Helena smiled, her eyes gleaming. “Noticed my absence, Potter? I knew you couldn’t resist me. If you must know, my father had business in the states. We only just returned yesterday. I’m actually quite exhausted.”

Helena slipped into the cabin and sat beside James, patting the space next to her for Lyra.

Lyra sighed—sharing a cabin with Black meant a less-than-peaceful ride to Hogwarts.

The whistle blew again, and the train lurched forward.
She took her seat and noticed two boys sitting across from her.

“Hello. Apologies, I didn’t fully see you, as I was busy dealing with the walking annoyance that is Sirius Black. I’m Lyra Malfoy,” she said, her spine straightening slightly as she spoke her surname.

“I… I’m Peter. Peter Pettigrew,” the unfortunate-looking boy stammered. He bowed into himself as if speaking caused him physical pain. Lyra instinctively pegged him as a lackey, content to follow others without question. She glanced at Sirius and James. Clearly, he had found his people.

Lyra turned her gaze to the other boy in the cabin. His soft brown hair fell into warm hazel eyes. There was a kind smile on his face, though Lyra sensed mischief beneath it.

“I’m Remus Lupin.”

Lyra smiled at the new boy, and as the train rumbled along, she fell into a steady conversation with him, one that was only interrupted six times by James and Sirius’s dramatics.
________________________________________
Meanwhile, back at the manor, Acacia Malfoy was searching high and low for her children's misplaced items. She was eager to send them out as quickly as possible, hoping they would arrive at the castle before the first night ended.

She had already found her son’s flying gloves and had just begun the search for the missing book. Entering her daughter’s room, she let out a sigh of exasperation. Because there, on Lyra’s writing desk, sat the new edition of Potions: A Beginner’s Guide to Basic Poisons.

“Silly girl,” Acacia muttered. Lyra must have been so filled with nerves that she’d had a moment of temporary blindness, it was the only way Acacia could fathom her daughter missing something so obviously in plain sight. As she reached for the book, something slipped and fell to the floor. She bent to pick it up, but the moment her eyes landed on it, a chill crept down her spine.

The obsidian glass shimmered ominously in the light. Something about it was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Acacia picked it up, fully intending to bring it to Abraxas and demand to know why such an obviously dark artifact had been in their daughter’s room. But the moment her fingers touched it, her mind went eerily blank. She stared at the object in her hand, her fingers slowly tracing the etched runes in the black glass. What a strange bookmark Lyra has chosen, she thought hazily.

With the items gathered, Acacia swept out of her daughter’s room, rushing to send a package that would reunite Lyra and Lucius with their missing possessions, unaware of the danger she was placing her precious daughter in.

Chapter Text

The trolley had just passed by, and the cabin was now overflowing with sweets of every color and flavor. Helena, clearly running on sugar and pure excitement, was practically vibrating with energy.

As the train continued its journey, the quality of the group’s conversations steadily declined. After a pleasant discussion with Remus Lupin began to fizzle, Lyra quietly opened one of her books and began to read.

“James, I bet I can get my chocolate frog to jump into Lyra’s hair.”

“Sirius, I think you have a death wish and I want no part in it. Lyra kind of scares me.”

“As I should,” Lyra said without looking up..

There, standing in all his prefect perfection, was Lucius Malfoy, already dressed in his immaculate black robes, his Slytherin tie perfectly straight and tucked in.

“Oh, hello, Lyra,” Lucius smiled warmly. A quick glance around the cabin made his smile dim slightly. “No Lord Prince?”

“I haven’t seen him all day,” Lyra replied, her voice tinged with annoyance. “If he made it onto the train, he hasn’t come looking for me.”

Lucius blinked, then nodded.

“Well, I’ll check for him on my rounds. In the meantime, everyone should start changing into their robes, we’ll be arriving soon.”

And with that, Lucius was gone.

Lyra’s heart rate jumped. They were almost there, Hogwarts.

She only hoped she was ready for everything that waited beyond those castle walls.
-----
Severus Pov-
-----
The air at King’s Cross Station hung heavy with the scent of coal smoke and brisk September wind. Among the bustling families and wheeled trunks, Lord Severus Prince stood stiff-backed beside Platform Nine and Three-
Quarters, draped in a sharply tailored black coat that marked him out as different even among the peculiar.

His grandmother, Lady Elnora Prince, stood as rigid as a marble statue, her gloved hands folded tightly at her waist. Her gaze did not soften even in farewell.

“You carry the weight of the Prince name now,” she said, her voice clipped and cold. “Do not forget that, Severus. The blood of a Muggle father will make others doubt your place. You must rise above that. We are noble, you are noble. Act like it.”

Severus nodded, eyes fixed on the cobbled platform beneath his polished shoes. Her words were not new, but they never failed to slice deeper than intended.

Before he could respond, a flash of platinum hair caught his attention. Lady Malfoy was bidding farewell to her own son and daughter.

Severus seized the opportunity.

“I’ll see you at Christmas, Grandmother,” he said quickly, turning without waiting for her reply. He wheeled his trunk away with quiet urgency and slipped through the barrier.

The Hogwarts Express hissed in welcome. Inside, the corridor was alive with chatter and the thud of trunks. Severus passed compartment after compartment, looking for one that was empty. Finally, he found solitude. He slid the door closed behind him and collapsed onto the seat with a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

For a fleeting moment, peace.

Then the door rattled open again.

A girl stepped in, flaming red hair pulled back in a loose braid, a denim jacket slung over her shoulder, jeans torn at the knee. Her wide green eyes flicked curiously around the compartment before settling on him.

“Mind if I sit?” she asked, without waiting for permission.

Severus stared. Muggle clothing. Careless confidence. Something about her reminded him too much of before, before he was Lord Prince, of fists and shouting and the acrid smell of ale.

“I, yes. I suppose.”

She dropped into the seat across from him and extended a hand. “I’m Lily Evans.”

He hesitated, then took her hand briefly. “Lord Prince. Severus Prince.”

Her eyes gleamed with interest. “Lord, huh? Fancy.”

He offered only a thin smile in return, unsure whether to bristle or preen.

But Lily didn’t seem to notice the discomfort. She chatted easily, her words brushing past his silence like wind through a forest. Names, excitement, theories about Hogwarts, it was a stream he couldn't stop, only endure.

Soon, the compartment door opened again, and a girl with a confident swagger and a thick Scottish lilt strolled in.
“Marlene McKinnon,” she announced, plopping down beside Lily. Others trickled in after her, faces and names Severus barely registered.

The noise swelled, a tide of unfamiliar voices. Severus sat stiffly in the corner, arms folded, wishing for the silence again.

Then the door creaked open once more.

Lucius Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, his pale brow arched with bemusement.
“Severus,” he drawled, eyes flicking to the others in the compartment. “It’s time to change into our robes. We’ll be arriving soon.”

It was only then that Severus allowed himself a breath of relief.
_____________

Lyra had just reentered the cabin and sat down after changing her robes when the train slowed with a hiss of steam and a jolt that rocked the cabin, causing a few half-eaten Chocolate Frogs to leap for their freedom. Lyra glanced out the window as darkness swallowed the final sliver of daylight, and then—

A hush seemed to fall over the train as the excitement of arrival settled into something deeper. Anticipation. Nerves. Wonder.

Helena practically bounced to her feet.
“We’re here! Oh, Lyra, I can’t believe it, we actually made it.”

Lyra stood more slowly, brushing nonexistent lint off her robes. Her fingers tugged at the hem of her sleeves in a rare show of nerves. The butterflies in her stomach, dormant for most of the train ride, were now fully awake and having a riot.

They joined the crowd filing out into the corridor, jostled by eager second-years and distracted prefects trying to restore order.

When Lyra finally stepped down from the train, the air hit her, crisp, earthy, and tinged with the faintest trace of smoke. She inhaled deeply. It smelled like the start of something.

A booming voice cut through the fog.
“Firs’-years! Firs’-years, this way! Don’ be shy now!” called a giant man with wild hair and a lantern that swung at his side.

Helena grabbed Lyra’s hand.
“That’s Hagrid! I've heard of him. Bit of an oaf, but kind. Mostly.”

The first years were herded like ducklings toward the edge of a black lake, where a fleet of small boats bobbed gently at the shore. Lyra’s eyes went wide as she took it all in, the towering silhouette of the castle reflecting on the dark water, the golden lights in the windows casting ripples across the surface.

They climbed into a boat, Lyra, Helena, Remus, and a small, red-haired boy who looked both terrified and thrilled. The boat rocked slightly as they sat, but the moment all were aboard, the fleet began to glide silently across the lake.

No paddles. No sound. Just magic and the hushed whispers of awe.

“No turning back now,” Helena whispered, half excited, half solemn.

Lyra said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the castle as it grew larger with each passing second, and for a fleeting moment, she didn’t feel afraid. She felt ready, or as ready as she’d ever be.

The boats passed under a stone archway, leading them to a narrow underground dock. Hagrid was already waiting for them.

“All righ’, out yeh get. Up them stairs, now!”

They followed, wet stone echoing beneath their shoes as they climbed. At the top, a tall, stern-looking witch stood waiting—Professor McGonagall, no doubt. She gave them a sharp once-over, her lips pressed into a line.
“Welcome to Hogwarts. In a moment, you will be sorted into your houses…”

Her voice faded in Lyra’s ears as her gaze shifted to the grand oak doors behind the professor. That was it. Just beyond those doors, her new life was waiting.

And as they creaked open, letting a warm golden glow spill out into the entry hall, Lyra Malfoy took a steadying breath.

She was home.

Chapter Text

The moment the heavy oak doors creaked open, warm golden light bathed the first-years, spilling out from the Great Hall. The sound of clinking silverware and hundreds of murmuring voices filled the space, only to be silenced one by one as students turned their heads toward the newcomers.

Lyra stood straighter.

The enchanted ceiling above was a mirror of the cloudy night sky, and candles floated serenely overhead like gentle stars. The four long tables shimmered with silver and house colors, and at the far end, the staff sat like sentinels beneath banners of lion, snake, eagle, and badger.

Professor McGonagall led them down the central aisle, her footsteps echoing like a drumbeat of inevitability. At the front of the room sat an old, three-legged stool and, atop it, the most unsightly hat Lyra had ever seen, faded brown, threadbare, with a ragged brim that gave the impression it might fall apart with a strong wind.

And yet... the room fell completely silent as it twitched, then burst into song.

She barely heard the words. Her pulse roared too loudly in her ears.

Names were called. One by one, students approached the stool and had the hat dropped onto their heads. Some houses were shouted within seconds. Others took longer. There were a few claps, some polite applause, and a few scattered cheers when friends were reunited.

And then...

“Malfoy, Lyra.”

The room tensed ever so slightly. Even her own breath caught.

She walked forward with quiet poise, her spine straight, her gaze steady. She ignored the whispers that bubbled up the moment her last name was called. It wasn’t just her family’s reputation—it was her reputation. Some had

heard rumors already.

Lyra sat, folded her hands in her lap, and allowed the Sorting Hat to be placed upon her head.

Darkness. Then—
________________________________________
"Well, well, well... another Malfoy."

The voice slithered into her mind like curling smoke, ancient and amused.
"But you're not like the other one. Not quite. Oh, you're sharp, yes, clever and composed. But there's heat in you… something untamed. That’s interesting."

Lyra frowned inwardly.
I'm not here for games. Just sort me and get on with it.

"Oh, how delightfully bossy," the Hat chuckled.

"You'd do well in Slytherin, ambition, cunning, and a family legacy you could make your own. You wouldn't be overshadowed by your brother for long."

The voice shifted tone, darker and deeper.
"But I see a lioness in you… she’s trying desperately to claw her way out."

Lyra could feel the stares on her back. It was taking too long. She was becoming a hat stall. Her hands twitched slightly in her lap.
"I am a Malfoy. We've always been, and always will be Slytherin. Please just do your job. I have no desire to become a spectacle."

The Hat seemed to pause for a long, contemplative beat. When it spoke again, its voice was softer, almost a whisper wrapped in shadow.

"Your past holds a lion, now your fate holds a snake. Be careful, young Lyra... the world will sit in wait. A foe most powerful will bind himself to you, and the so-called greater good will try to make you move. A chessboard is being built. You’d do well to learn the rules. Lean on those you can trust, or our world may well be doomed."

Lyra’s breath caught.
What are you talking about? What foe? What chessboard?
She wanted to tear the thing off her head and demand answers, but before she could speak again, the Sorting Hat bellowed in a booming voice:
________________________________________
"Better be... SLYTHERIN!"
________________________________________
A slight pause and then a wave of applause erupted from the Slytherin table.

Lucius was the first to stand and clap, beaming with pride. The Hat was quickly lifted from Lyra’s head, and she descended from the stool with carefully measured grace. She schooled her features into a cool, composed smile, masking the swirl of questions and unease beneath the surface.

She made her way to the Slytherin table and slid into the seat beside her brother, who gave her an approving nod.

Not long after, Helena was called and unsurprisingly joined the Malfoys at the table. The two girls clasped hands under the table, and Lyra’s heart fluttered with excitement despite the cryptic warning still echoing in her head.

Across the hall, James Potter joined Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and the odd boy Peter Pettigrew at the Gryffindor table. Lyra tilted her head slightly, confused. Pettigrew? He seemed more like a Hufflepuff, meek, overly agreeable.

His placement puzzled her.

Sirius and James waved at the Slytherin table with exaggerated enthusiasm, making both Lyra and Helena bow their heads in embarrassed horror.

"Prince, Severus."

Lyra’s head snapped up. Her eyes locked onto the boy weaving his way through the crowd, his expression unreadable.

Where had he been all day? Was he avoiding her? Why?
She puzzled over the interaction they'd had just yesterday.

The Hat had barely touched his head when it shouted:

"SLYTHERIN!"

Thadius Nott's sneering voice cut through the hall.
"A half-blood in Slytherin? Our house is going to the dogs."

A sharp yelp followed a moment later, and though Lyra couldn’t be sure, she could have sworn she saw Lucius casually slipping his wand back into its holster.

Lyra caught Severus’s eye and offered him a small, cautious smile.

He stared back at her blank, unreadable, and then took a seat at the far end of the table.

The rejection stung, though she told herself not to be so sensitive. They were eleven. She barely knew him.

The Sorting continued until the final student was placed. Then, the man her father had warned her about rose from his seat.

Albus Dumbledore.
With his twinkling eyes, long silver beard, and robes that looked like they’d been transfigured out of a tapestry, he seemed more whimsical than dangerous. An odd, pointed cap perched crookedly atop his head, and he smiled as if he were delighted to be there.

Lyra tilted her head, scrutinizing him.

He looks like he’s auditioning for a Merlin look-alike contest... What could possibly be so threatening about this man?

But then, his eyes met hers for the briefest second just a flicker, and in that one glance, Lyra saw something deeper. Sharper. Older than the castle walls and colder than the lake at midnight.

She shivered.
Maybe her father wasn’t wrong.

The hall fell silent.

He spread his arms wide, robes shimmering faintly under the candlelight, and smiled as though he knew the secrets of every student in the room and maybe even some of the secrets they hadn't discovered about themselves
yet.

“Welcome, one and all, to another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, his voice carrying with gentle command. “To our returning students: how wonderful it is to see you again. And to our first-years, welcome home.”

A ripple of warmth passed through the room.

Lyra, seated beside Helena, studied the headmaster closely. His eyes sparkled behind half-moon spectacles, his expression open and kind, but something about him still made her skin crawl just a little.

Then, his gaze shifted.
And his twinkling blue eyes locked with Lyra's across the sea of students. The hall faded for that single moment, and she felt, inexplicably, as if he were speaking not to the school, but directly to her.

“This year will be full of challenges, surprises… and choices. Some easy, some terribly hard. But all of them, my dear students, are yours to make.”

Lyra’s spine straightened. She couldn't look away. Dumbledore’s smile grew the tiniest bit wider as though he'd heard her thoughts.

Then he clapped his hands once, loudly.
The plates filled instantly with a dazzling spread of food. Roasted meats, steaming vegetables, buttered potatoes, mountains of fresh bread, glistening puddings, and golden goblets overflowing with pumpkin juice and spiced cider.

The students erupted into excited chatter. Forks clinked against plates, laughter echoed off the stone walls, and the feast began in earnest.
________________________________________

Helena immediately reached for a bowl of candied carrots.
“Do you think he stares at everyone like that?” she asked casually.

“Dumbledore?” Lyra responded, distracted. “I’m… not sure. But it felt like he was speaking straight through me.”

Helena grinned around a mouthful of treacle tart.

“Maybe he knows you’re trouble.”

Lyra gave a small smile, but her thoughts were already turning over the words: challenges, surprises… and choices.
________________________________________

By the end of the feast, bellies were full, and the chatter had quieted. The enchanted ceiling now mirrored a deep navy sky dusted with stars. As the feast wound down, Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat once more.

“Prefects, please escort all first years to their new common rooms. All other students, you’re dismissed once you’ve finished your meal. Welcome again to another year at Hogwarts.”
The man smiled and returned to his seat.

Lucius stood beside her. “Come on,” he said, voice low and composed. “It’s time to see your new home.”
The group of green-robed students followed Lucius out of the Great Hall and into the cool, echoing dungeons beneath the castle. Stone corridors stretched endlessly ahead, torches casting long shadows along their path.
They came to a blank stone wall. Lucius turned to face them.

“This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room. It only opens with the correct password. For this term, it’s Pura sanguine.”
At the word, the stones shimmered, rippling outward like water, and a doorway appeared.
They stepped inside.

The common room was breathtaking in its own way, cool and shadowed, lit by greenish lanterns and the soft glow of lake water shimmering beyond the glass windows. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the furniture dark and elegant. The air smelled faintly of old parchment, polished wood, and something subtly herbal.

Lucius turned back to face them, his prefect badge gleaming.
“This is where you’ll sleep, study, and spend most of your time outside classes. Slytherin House values ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness, but above all, unity. We protect our own.”

His gaze briefly flicked to Lyra.
“If you ever feel lost, remember, Slytherins don’t ask the world to make space for them. We carve it out ourselves.”

A quiet murmur of approval passed through the group.

Lucius gave them a small, practiced smile.
“Get some rest. Classes begin tomorrow and you’ll want to be ready.”

Lyra and Helena clasped hands as they ascended the stairs. The excitement that had been carrying Helena earlier had faded; now she was practically dragging herself up.

Helena huffed. “This school has too many blasted stairs, and I can assure you, Lyra, I will complain about them daily.”

Lyra gave a soft laugh as they pushed open the door to their new shared dormitory.

Seven beds stood in a circle. Some girls had already arrived and began their nightly routines. Lyra recognized two of them immediately. Theresa Greengrass was seated, brushing her gorgeous wavy blonde hair, while the other, Darla Rosier was rummaging through her trunk. Lyra offered Darla a small smile; Theresa was far too absorbed in her hair care routine to notice. Lyra made a mental note to talk to her tomorrow.

It wasn’t hard to spot her bed perched atop her trunk was Odin. Lyra paused, wondering how the owl had found its way into the dorm, but her curiosity was quickly overtaken by excitement when she noticed the package tied to his leg.

She let out a small squeal. Mama must have found the book.
“Hello, Odin. If you give me just a moment, I’ll find a treat for you. I’ll need to send a letter back with you as well.”

She opened the package almost reverently. Of course—it was the book she had been so desperate to find. A small note slipped out from inside.
________________________________________
My darling Lyra,

By the time you receive this package, you should be sorted and preparing for bed. I hope Hogwarts is everything you’ve dreamed of. As I write this, you've only been gone a short while, but your presence is already sorely missed.

Have a wonderful time, my darling.

P.S. I also found your bookmark while searching for your book. Honestly, dear, I’ve no idea how you managed to miss it.

Love,
Mama
________________________________________
Lyra read the letter with a slight frown. What bookmark is she talking about? She flipped open the book.

There it was, the strange piece of obsidian glass Lord Riddle had given her. A chill ran through her, and she had the sudden urge to toss it far away. She glanced around nervously, then quickly stashed the object in the drawer of her bedside table, hoping to forget it. It felt hotter than she remembered.

“I will not let that strange man ruin my first night at Hogwarts,” Lyra whispered to herself.

She shook her head and tried to recall all the magic and wonder she had experienced that evening. With her happiness restored, she searched for a treat and parchment to write a quick letter home.

Lyra looked over and noticed Helena was already fast asleep. She smiled.
Tomorrow would be the start of a glorious journey.

Chapter Text

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder than usual. Orange and black candles flickered in sconces along the hallway; casting dancing shadows shaped like bats and cobwebs. It was Halloween, eight weeks since term had begun, yet the novelty of being at Hogwarts hadn’t worn off for Lyra.

She had another odd dream the night before full of tears, a mountain troll, and the lanky redhead and boy with broken glasses who, by pure luck, had saved her from the creature. When she tried to recall what the boys had said to her, nothing came. The last thing she remembered were the eyes of that strange professor, something about him stirring a flicker of recognition. His eyes had burned into hers. She’d noticed a rip in his trousers and a sizeable wound on his leg. But before she could think more about it, consciousness surged forward, and the waking world claimed her.

Tightening her cloak around her shoulders, she stepped into the Potions classroom, the heavy wooden door groaning shut behind her. She took her usual seat near the middle. Not quite at the front, but close enough to catch

Professor Slughorn’s mutterings when he lectured.

Lyra left the seat beside her purposefully vacant.

She glanced toward the entrance, heart fluttering too fast. Severus had continued to be distant—barely more than nods in the corridors, rarely a word exchanged. It wasn’t like before, and she didn’t understand why. Maybe if he saw the open seat, he’d sit beside her again. Maybe they could talk.

Her gaze drifted across the classroom. Helena was already seated at a nearby table, her dark curls bouncing as she laughed at something James Potter had said. Their heads were close, eyes glittering with shared amusement.

Lyra blinked, surprised by the strange pang in her chest. Helena and James have grown oddly comfortable lately.

Sirius Black slouched beside Peter Pettigrew in the back row, twirling his wand between his fingers, looking altogether pleased with himself. Peter nodded eagerly at everything Sirius said.

The door creaked open again. Lyra straightened instinctively.

Severus.

His dark hair was wind-blown, his face unreadable. For a moment, their eyes met, his expression faltered, just for a heartbeat. Lyra dared a small smile and tilted her head slightly toward the open seat.
But before he could move, a clear voice rang across the room.

“Severus! Over here!”

Lily Evans.

She was radiant in a way Lyra wished she could ignore, red hair catching the candlelight, green eyes warm and bright. Severus paused, then slowly turned and walked toward her table.
Lyra's smile fell.

The seat beside her remained empty. Cold.

Jealousy flared, sharp, unexpected. But beneath it lay something heavier: hurt. A quiet ache settled in her chest.

She turned toward her cauldron, busying herself by pulling out her dragon-hide gloves and scribbling nonsense in the margins of her notebook, pretending not to care.

“Mind if I join you?”

The voice was soft. A little hesitant.

Lyra looked up to see Remus Lupin standing beside her, his Potions textbook pressed to his chest, wearing a kind, lopsided smile.
“Oh,” she said, startled. “Yes. Of course.”

He slid into the seat with a grateful nod, his presence surprisingly calming.
“You looked like you might appreciate a partner who doesn’t blow things up,” he said dryly.

Lyra let out a short, genuine laugh. “You read my mind.”

For a while, she forgot about Severus and Lily. Remus was easy to talk to—quieter than the others in his group, but thoughtful. They chatted about the Halloween feast planned for that evening, speculated on Slughorn’s surprise lesson, and shared thoughts on the recent Potions readings both finding the section on Bezoars particularly fascinating.

The door slammed shut.

Professor Slughorn entered, mustache twitching as he clapped his hands together, eyes twinkling beneath bushy brows.
“Happy Halloween, my bright young brewers!” he boomed, sweeping into the room with theatrical flair. “Today, a special challenge, and a little treat for the best pair!”

As the class straightened in anticipation, Lyra stole a glance toward the other side of the room. Severus was leaning in, listening to Lily. He hadn’t looked her way again.

But beside her, Remus offered an encouraging smile.
And for now, that was enough.
________________________________________
Sevs Pov~

The scent of crushed asphodel and stewed lacewing flies clung to the dungeons like old secrets. Severus Prince sat rigid at his table, the flickering torches casting jagged shadows over the surface of his cauldron. He stirred clockwise, counting each turn, methodical, precise.

It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Across the room, Lyra Malfoy laughed a soft, breathy sound. Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just warm.

With Remus Lupin.

The boy sat beside her, leaning in slightly, nodding at something she said. They looked natural. Comfortable.
Severus’s stirring faltered by half a beat.

He dropped his gaze to his notes—his handwriting angular, aggressive. Lyra had left a seat open, he’d seen it, but what was he supposed to do? Pretend the last few weeks haven’t happened? That he hadn’t withdrawn? That he wasn’t a half-blood pretending to be something he is not.

He wasn’t like Lupin, all calm words and easy silences.

He wasn’t like Lucius, all sharp suits and effortless grace.

And he certainly wasn’t like Lyra Malfoy, brilliant, untouchable, gilded by birth and blood.

Severus clenched his jaw and turned a page too quickly, the parchment crinkling under his fingers. He didn’t deserve to sit beside her. He wasn’t enough. Not for her.

“Severus,” a voice said sweetly, pulling at his attention.

He looked up, Lily Evans, her red hair pulled back loosely, her cauldron bubbling lazily.

“I think I’ve done something wrong,” she said with an exaggerated sigh. “Could you take a look?”

He hesitated. Lily was clever. She didn’t need help, not with a simple boil-cure potion.

But she was smiling at him with that familiar, too-kind expression. The one that made him feel like he wasn’t made entirely of stone and spite.

He stood slowly and crossed to her cauldron, casting a glance toward Lyra as he did.

She was leaning toward Lupin again, eyes glowing with excitement.

Of course she was.

Lily began explaining her “mistake,” but Severus barely heard her. His thoughts drifted to Lyra, to the empty seat that hadn’t stayed empty. To the fragile hope that had risen, only to be crushed by his own silence and self-loathing.

They had just started getting along. Why should she care if he had grown distant?

Isn’t this what you wanted, Severus? Space from the girl being pushed onto you?

This is why eleven-year-olds have no business talking about marriage. He couldn’t even understand his own feelings.

The classroom door creaked open.

All heads turned as Lucius Malfoy entered, immaculate as always, a slim envelope in one gloved hand.
“Professor Slughorn,” he said smoothly, striding in. “A delivery. From the Headmaster, I believe.”

“Ah, Lucius!” Slughorn beamed. “Thank you, thank you. How’s your father? Will Abraxas be attending my little gathering next week?”

Lucius nodded. “Yes, Professor. He’s looking forward to it.”

“Marvelous,” Slughorn clapped. “Wouldn’t be the same without him.”

Lucius’s eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Severus, just long enough to communicate something unspoken—then shifted to Lyra.

He offered her the faintest of smiles.

Severus felt it like a curse.

“I’ll be off, Professor,” Lucius said, adjusting his cuffs. “My free period is nearly over, and I’ve one more stop to make.”

As he passed Severus, his hand moved subtly. A folded slip of parchment fell beside Severus’s foot, unnoticed.

Severus bent down and picked it up.
________________________________________
Meet me on the grounds tonight. We need to discuss something of interest.
I imagine you’d enjoy helping me look for a rare ingredient. Bring your wand.
—L.M.
________________________________________

He folded the note into his robes, face unreadable.

Why now?

His thoughts barely had time to settle when Slughorn’s voice rang out again.

“Well done! Well done indeed! Let’s see… Ah! The best brew today goes to, young Miss Malfoy and Mr. Lupin!”

Polite applause followed.

Lyra beamed, her pale cheeks flushed with pride. She turned to Lupin, who grinned sheepishly. They shared a quiet high-five.

Something twisted in Severus’s chest. Small. Sharp. Ugly.

Jealousy.

He didn’t wait for the class to end. As soon as Slughorn dismissed them, Severus swept out, robes billowing.

He didn’t see the flash of red hair as Lily turned to watch him go.

He didn’t see Lyra's smile falter but her eyes light with determination as she watched him go.

He only knew he had to get out.

Before the weight in his chest drowned him whole.

Chapter Text

Lyra had had enough of the boy’s dramatics, which, coming from her, said quite a lot. How dare he ignore her for so long over something she hadn’t even done? She would demand an explanation.
Her spine straightened, chin lifting with characteristic Malfoy poise. If, after this confrontation, Severus still insisted on playing his ridiculous game of silence, then so be it. Malfoys did not beg for attention.

She packed her things swiftly, nodded once to Remus, and swept out of the classroom in search of the infuriatingly difficult young Lord.

Enough was enough.

She rounded a corner and there he was.

Severus Prince stood beneath one of the tall archways near the castle’s edge, half cloaked in shadow. His back was to her, head bowed over something in his hands.

She stopped a few feet away, then stepped closer. Her voice was low, but firm.
“You’re avoiding me.”

Severus stiffened but didn’t turn.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. “You won’t even look at me anymore.”

He said nothing.

“I waited,” she pressed, louder now. “For weeks. I left the seat open. I tried to talk. But you—” her breath caught, “you’ve just shut me out like I did something wrong.”

At that, Severus turned. His face was unreadable, lips drawn into a flat line.

“You don’t understand,” he said coldly.

“Then make me understand,” she snapped.

Something flickered in his eyes, guilt, maybe frustration but it vanished as quickly as it came.

“You think it’s that simple?” His voice was sharp now. “That we can just pretend things are the same? You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under, what people expect from me.”

“And you think I don’t?” Lyra’s voice cracked. “You think being a Malfoy is easy? That I don’t get told who I’m supposed to talk to, how I’m meant to hold myself? Everyone’s always tying my name to who I should avoid. Who’s ‘beneath’ me.”

Severus flinched.

She stepped forward. “I never cared about any of that. I never saw you the way they do. But now you’re letting them win. You’re running away, afraid.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are,” she whispered. “Afraid you’re not good enough. Afraid that if someone like me wants to befriend you, it’s out of pity. But that’s not true.”

She paused, the silence between them taut as a drawn string.

“You’ve intrigued me,” she said, quieter now. “You still do. Even when you’re awful. Even when you push me away.”

Severus looked down.

“Why can’t you talk to me the way you talk to Lily Evans?”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s a Muggle-born, Severus.”

He turned his head away. “I thought you didn’t care about blood status.”

“That’s different,” she said softly.

“Is it?” he asked, his voice bitter. “My father was a Muggle.”

She winced—truth striking like a nerve.

“I don’t…think I care,” she muttered softly. “But others will. And this whole misunderstanding has been about them. If you’re going to be friends with Lily, fine. But don’t turn around and snap at me the next time someone like Nott makes a comment. It’s not fair.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said after a pause, his voice rough. “For you to care. That’s not something I know how to—”

“I know,” she cut in, gently. “We can barely get along—I’m well aware. But we seemed close to… getting there. I think we could be friends. I’m not asking for anything more.”

A long beat passed.

He looked at her then, really looked—and the cold mask cracked. What showed wasn’t weakness, but pain. And something far more fragile.

“You’re… different,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Different can be good,” she replied. “And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like a stranger anymore.”

Another silence stretched between them, but this one wasn’t tense. It was softer. Warmer.

Finally, Severus gave the smallest of nods.
“I’ll walk you to your next class,” he said quietly.

Lyra smiled just a little. “Thank you.”

They turned together and walked down the corridor side by side. And in that quiet, flickering hallway, beneath old stone arches and the glow of enchanted torchlight, Lyra Malfoy and Severus Prince began laying the first bricks of a beautifully complex—and, at times, undoubtedly maddening—friendship.
__
Later that evening, Lyra took a moment to brush her hair and collect herself before heading down to the Halloween feast. A soft smile formed on her lips as she recalled her conversation with Severus just hours earlier unexpected, vulnerable, and strangely comforting.

Helena, Theresa, and Darla had stopped by only minutes ago, already dressed for the celebration and buzzing with excitement. They urged her to come along, but she waved them off with a polite excuse. She needed just a moment to herself. Solitude was a rare luxury in a shared dormitory.

She set the brush down on her bedside table and exhaled slowly, allowing the silence to settle around her like a soft cloak.

Then a sensation. Subtle at first. Unsettling.
A chill prickled at the base of her spine.

Almost involuntarily, her hand moved to the drawer. Fingers curled around the cool edge and slid it open. Nestled in the velvet-lined compartment was the thing she had promised herself to forget: the obsidian glass.
Her hand closed around it before she could stop herself.

It burned.

Hot, scalding, though no flame touched it. She gasped and tried to drop it, but her fingers wouldn’t obey.

And then, like a tether had tightened around her very soul, an invisible pull yanked her forward.

Her eyes widened.

Something was calling.

Darkness consumed her.

Chapter Text

When she came to, the first thing she felt was the cold, damp air. It clung to her skin and seeped into her bones.

The Forbidden Forest.

She didn’t need to open her eyes to know where she was, she could feel it. Her heart pounded violently in her chest.

A few paces ahead, a cloaked figure stood, half-shrouded in shadow. Fear surged through her like a tidal wave.

Then he stepped forward. Moonlight revealed a pale, statuesque face inhumanly beautiful, cold, and cruel.

Lord Riddle.

His dark, predatory eyes shimmered with something unreadable, something that made her stomach twist.
“I have been most disappointed in you, young Miss Malfoy,” he said silkily, though a thread of fury trembled beneath his voice. “I offered my services, and you ignored me.”

Lyra swallowed hard. “I never asked for them.”

His gaze darkened. “But you were chosen.” He stepped closer. “You are not a girl of chance, Lyra. You are purpose, reincarnated.”

“And I gave your family such an easy way out.”

Before she could react, his hand lashed forward, fingers splayed. Her body froze, locked in place as his eyes bored into hers.
“Let’s have a look, then,” he whispered. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

A searing pressure exploded behind her eyes as he forced his way into her mind. The pain was unbearable, unrelenting. Her knees hit the ground with a dull thud. Her fingers clawed the earth. Screams caught in her throat.
Images, fragments of dreams, memories, fears flashed past like shards of broken glass.

“No... stop... please—” she gasped, her voice splintering.

Riddle’s face twisted, grotesque and inhuman. Desperation and rage contorted his features.
“Where are they?” he snarled. “The prophecy foretold of you. YOU MUST SHOW ME!”

And then, suddenly release.

Lyra collapsed onto her side, trembling and gasping. The pain ebbed, but the echo of his intrusion burned behind her eyes.

He crouched beside her, grabbing her wrist with startling gentleness.

“Such a delicate vessel,” he murmured. His breath was icy against her skin.

He pressed his wand to her left forearm.

Lyra screamed.

White-hot fire etched itself into her flesh. Glowing runes flared briefly before fading, sinking deep into her blood.

Riddle smiled sick and satisfied. “You’ll never be out of my reach, Lyra. You carry the mark now. You hold the key. Not only to my survival, but to my triumph.”

He seized her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Then, softly, he murmured:

“Obliviate.”

Her pupils dilated. Recognition vanished from her eyes.

“Imperio.”

A false calm settled over her.

She rose, unnaturally graceful and began drifting back toward the castle, barefoot and silent.
________________________________________

Just beyond the pumpkin patch, Severus Prince moved through tangled brambles, collecting potion ingredients. Nearby, Lucius crouched beside a thick root cluster.

Lucius straightened, brushing off his gloves.

“Severus,” he began, “I’ve noticed you’ve grown distant from my sister. I hope she hasn’t done anything too... dramatic. She means well. She just feels everything too deeply. Our father spoiled her, and she’s never been good with boundaries—or other people’s fragile feelings.”

He paused, his voice tightening.
“You’re intelligent, cunning, and ambitious enough to go far. With the right alliances, your... less fortunate bloodline could be overlooked. But if you let it rule your emotions, people will use it against you.”

Severus opened his mouth to respond but froze.
“Lucius,” he said sharply. “Look.”

Lucius followed his gaze—and paled.
Lyra.

She was walking barefoot across the grounds, her robes soiled with leaves and earth. Her face was slack. Her eyes, empty.

“Lyra!” Severus called. “Lyra, stop!”

She didn’t react.

“Lyra!” Lucius shouted, sprinting toward her.

He reached her in seconds, grabbing her shoulders. Her body jolted slightly, but her gaze remained distant.
“Merlin,” he whispered, shaking her gently. “What happened to you?”

Nothing.

He stared into her eyes—and saw only void.

Without hesitation, Lucius scooped her into his arms.

“You’re alright. You’re safe,” he whispered, though the words were more for himself than her.

And with that, he sprinted toward the castle.

Behind them, the Forbidden Forest stood silent and watchful.

__
Lyra awoke with a jolt. Her head throbbed as if splitting open. Groaning, she clutched her temples and blinked against the harsh white light.

She lay on a narrow cot, white linens enclosing a sterile space. The air reeked of antiseptic and bitter herbs. To her right sat a small table holding several potion bottles.

The infirmary?

Tears pricked her eyes. Nothing made sense.

Just then, the curtains parted. A tall man stepped in, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon glasses, his robes an absurd patchwork of stars and colors.

“Good evening, Miss Malfoy,” said Headmaster Dumbledore. His tone was warm but cautious. He studied her face closely. “It seems you’ve had quite an evening. Can you tell me anything about it?”

Lyra blinked up at him. Her mind was a blank slate.

“I... I don’t remember anything, Headmaster. I can’t even recall if I went to the Halloween feast.”

“A shame,” he said lightly. “The desserts were exceptional this year. Still, quite concerning that you don’t recall how you ended up here.”

Frustration bubbled inside her. Of course it was concerning. Her silence wasn’t indifference it was terror.

The Headmaster’s eyes dimmed slightly.

“I’ve heard whispers, Miss Malfoy,” he said softly. “That you met an old... acquaintance of mine.”

Her head throbbed. How could that possibly matter right now?

She didn’t answer just stared.

“A certain Lord Riddle.”

Her entire body stiffened.
Unease turned to primal dread. Her teeth clenched. Goosebumps rose on her arms. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Dumbledore noticed. His expression shifted, eyes narrowing, then softened into a measured smile.

“I believe your brother has gone to fetch your parents. Poor Lord Severus did his best to stay by your side, but I thought it best your family have time alone with you.”

He gestured toward the green potion beside her.

“That will help with the headache.”

He tapped the side of his nose and turned to leave, robes trailing behind him.

Disoriented and aching, Lyra grabbed the potion and drank it in one gulp. The tart bitterness stung her tongue, but she didn’t care. She sank back into the pillows, struggling to stay awake for her family.

But the darkness returned soft, smothering and claimed her once more.

Chapter Text

Lyra had begun to stir, but the sound of heated voices kept her still. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep if only to listen and gather information.

“I have my suspicions, and I want you to know, I thoroughly blame you, Abraxas,” Acacia Malfoy's voice was soft but laced with venom.

“Acacia, not now. There are too many ears that could be listening.”

“Let them hear, Abraxas,” she snapped. “She’s only been at school for eight weeks, and already she lies in the infirmary. Without memories. Lucius said her eyes were vacant like she had no control over her body. We know what kind of spell that is. Someone used dark magic on our daughter, and I will not stand for it. And that Headmaster how dare he let this happen? I want you to make heads roll for this, Abraxas.”

Lucius interjected carefully. “It’s true, Father. She showed all the classic signs of being under the Imperius Curse. Whoever cast it must have lured her into the Forbidden Forest. Merlin knows what happened to her there.”

Acacia choked on a sob. “Abraxas, you allowed a demon near our precious daughter. You presented her to him on a silver platter.”

Abraxas’s voice rose. “We do not know it was Lord Riddle. You're jumping to conclusions out of fear, grasping for someone to blame. If I make false accusations, the consequences for this family could be disastrous.”

“You are not the man I married, Abraxas Malfoy,” Acacia spat. “You’ve lost your spine when it comes to Lord Riddle. And if you keep playing his games, you will lose your family along with it.”

At that, Lyra could no longer stay still. She clenched her eyes shut tighter and spoke, her voice thick with emotion.

“Mama, please don’t say such things. If I could remember what happened, I’m sure it wouldn’t be Papa’s fault...” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

Acacia rushed to her side, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Don’t fret, my darling. I’m sorry you had to hear that. Emotions are running high we’re just so worried for you.” She gently rubbed circles into her daughter's back, her voice soft but firm.
“Perhaps, after this... incident, it’s better if you finish the school year at home. Clearly, Hogwarts is no longer safe.”

Abraxas scoffed. “A girl died during our time at Hogwarts.”

Lucius shot his father a sharp look. “Father, do you really think that’s the best thing to say right now?”

He turned back to his sister, guilt etched into every line of his face. “Lyra... I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you. If Mother doesn’t whisk you away, I swear I’ll keep a much closer eye on you.”

Lyra, still reeling from her father’s cold deflection, managed a small, grateful smile for Lucius.

“Mama,” she said gently, “I know this is frightening, especially since I don’t remember what happened or who did this to me. But I want to stay at Hogwarts. I need to. If I leave, then they win. And if someone can reach me even here... am I truly safe anywhere?”

She considered telling her parents about the strange conversation she'd had with the Headmaster, but given her mother’s readiness to withdraw her, she decided against it for now.

Acacia narrowed her eyes at her daughter. “If you so much as break a nail while you're still at this school, Lyra Malfoy, I swear I will tear you out of here myself. And I’ll find Professor Winthrop and force her out of retirement to homeschool you.”

Lyra didn’t doubt her mother’s threat for a moment.

Abraxas stepped forward and gave his daughter’s hand a firm squeeze. “We will find whoever did this to you, darling,” he said, his voice low and steely. “And I will make them pay. No one touches a Malfoy and remains unscathed.”

His eyes flared with a flicker of rage—but it was fleeting. The fire dulled, replaced by a weariness that settled into his features like a shadow.

Lucius cleared his throat. “We should probably let Lyra rest. She’s been through quite an ordeal. I’ll check on her first thing tomorrow, I promise.”

Acacia looked like she wanted to argue, her lips twitching with protest. But after a moment’s hesitation, she rose, smoothed her robes, and bent to kiss Lyra gently on the forehead.

“Let us know if you want or need anything, dear.”

Then, without another word, she swept out of the infirmary, noticeably leaving Abraxas behind.

Abraxas grimaced, exchanging a look with his son. Lucius gave Lyra a small, reassuring smile before gently ushering his father from the room.

Once her family had left, Lyra lay in the infirmary, staring at the white canopy above her bed. Sleep evaded her. Her thoughts raced in frantic, disjointed loops—what had happened to her? Why couldn’t she remember? She begged her mind for even a single image, a sound, a voice, anything. But the harder she searched, the emptier it felt.

After what felt like hours, Lyra rolled onto her side, curling up beneath the sheets, heart heavy and mind buzzing. The silence pressed in.

Then a noise.

Her breath hitched. It was well past curfew. If it were Helena, she would’ve barged in already, talking a mile a minute and demanding answers. Helena never did subtle, and she certainly didn’t sneak.

Lyra’s body tensed. Her eyes flicked toward the entrance, just visible beyond the curtain. Footsteps—soft but deliberate—drew closer. Her instincts flared. She wasn’t in the mood for another surprise.

The curtain shifted.

Severus slipped into the room, his black school robes blending into the shadows, his hair damp with night air. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes softened when they met hers.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly.

Lyra sat up slowly. “Clearly.”

He didn’t smile, but his shoulders eased. He moved to the side of her bed, keeping a respectful distance.

“I had to see you,” he said after a pause. “I tried earlier, but the Headmaster sent me off before your parents arrived.”

She studied him, dark eyes, pale skin, that familiar blend of guarded and sincere. For once, she didn’t mind the silence that followed.

“How did you even get in?” she asked.

He gave a faint shrug. “I know things.”

She almost smiled.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

He finally broke the silence, his voice barely more than a whisper. “When I saw you walking out of the forest like that…”

Lyra looked away. “I don’t remember it. Any of it.”

“I know.”

She clenched the sheets in her fists. “It’s terrifying. It’s like... like I wasn’t me. And no matter how hard I try, it’s just—blank.”

Severus nodded slowly. “They said it might come back...in pieces.”

She scoffed, hollow. “I’m not sure I want it to.”

Silence stretched between them again, heavier now.

“I’m sorry,” Severus said, pausing awkwardly. His posture was stiff, uncertain. “I know we discussed this before… but I’ll try harder. If something had happened to you tonight… I’d have regretted pushing you away.”

Then he stepped forward and placed a small, folded cloth on her nightstand.

“I brought you something. It’s calming tea. I added valerian root and chamomile.”

Lyra blinked, momentarily stunned by both the apology and the gesture. “Thank you.”

He nodded once, already backing away.

“I’ll go before Pomfrey comes back. She’d have my head.”

“Severus—” she stopped him. “You’re not... afraid of me?”

He tilted his head. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know. I just came from the forest clearly touched by dark magic,” she admitted.

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “Not of you.”

And with that, he slipped through the curtain and into the shadows, leaving behind only the scent of brewed herbs and the faint warmth of presence.

Chapter Text

Madam Pomfrey stood at the foot of Lyras bed, wand in hand, casting a diagnostic charm that glowed a steady, reassuring green. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling across the crisp white sheets. Lyra sat upright, fidgeting with the hem of her hospital gown, equal parts relieved and anxious.

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey said with a brisk nod, “you’re cleared to leave, Miss Malfoy, on one condition. Straight to the Great Hall for a proper meal, and if you feel even the slightest headache or pain, you are to come straight back. Understood?”

Lyra's face lit up with a smile of genuine relief. “Yes, ma’am.”

Just then, the doors to the Hospital Wing burst open. Lucius strode in, every inch the concerned older brother behind a mask of dignified irritation. Trailing behind him came an eclectic collection of students: Helena leading the group with sharp determination, followed by Sirius, James, Remus, and finally, Peter trying to keep up.

“Lyra!” Helena gasped, rushing to her side. “Oh, Merlin, are you alright? What happened? Do you remember anything?”

Lyra blinked, her brow furrowing. “No… nothing. It’s just... blank.”

Sirius dropped dramatically into the chair beside her, flashing a grin. “If you needed an excuse to skip History of Magic, you could’ve just said so. No need for all the dramatics.”

Smack. James promptly clipped him across the back of the head.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Be serious.”

“I am Sirius.”

Lucius sighed heavily. “Gryffindors,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple. Then, with a pointed look at Madam Pomfrey, he asked, “How is my darling little sister?”

“She’s well enough to leave,” Pomfrey replied crisply, tucking her wand back into her robes. “But she needs rest and a proper meal. I’ll be checking in.”

Lucius turned to Lyra, his tone gentler now. “Good. That’s... good.”

Helena was already tugging at Lyra’s arm, eager to escort her away. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up before lunch.”

“Wait,” Lucius said firmly. “May I have a moment with my sister?”

The group exchanged quick glances. Helena nodded, reluctantly letting go of Lyra’s arm, and motioned for the others to head out.

“Don’t take too long,” Sirius called as he strolled out. “Wouldn’t want us to start rioting out of sheer boredom.”

Once the room had quieted, Lucius stepped forward. For a rare, unguarded moment, he pulled Lyra into a tight embrace.

“Lucius!” she gasped, caught off guard.

He didn’t let go immediately. When he finally did, he leaned in close and whispered, “I will find out who did this to you... and I will make them pay. I swear it on my magic.”

Lyra froze, absorbing the weight of his words.

“I’m glad you’re well enough to leave,” he said, releasing her with a sharp exhale. “But if anything, anything, feels strange, you come to me. Immediately.”

She nodded, solemn and steady.

Lucius straightened his robes, clearing his throat. “Now go. Before that ragtag band of misfits tears Hogwarts apart in their impatience.”

Lyra laughed softly and walked out of the infirmary. Helena was already waiting, arms folded but eyes alight.

“We’re just heading to the Slytherin common room so Lyra can freshen up,” Helena informed the boys, shooting James a pointed look. “We’ll meet you in the Great Hall.”

“And since it’s the weekend,” she added with a sly grin, “maybe after lunch, we’ll take her on a light adventure, if she’s up for it.”

“Ugh, females and their endless primping,” Sirius groaned.

Smack. Another firm swat from James.

“Be serious, Sirius.”

As the boys sauntered off down the corridor, their banter echoing against the stone, Helena and Lyra made their way through the dungeon halls. The torches flickered as they passed, casting dancing shadows across the cold stone floor. Helena kept her voice light, her questions gentle, but her hand never fully relaxed on Lyra’s arm. Beneath her calm exterior was a current of fear.

Lyra could feel it.

When they reached the Slytherin common room, its familiar green glow greeted them like an old friend. They climbed the stairs to their dormitory where, to Lyra’s mild surprise, Theresa Greengrass stood near her bed, slipping into a soft sweater.

Theresa looked up, her pale green eyes calm and clear. “I heard you were in the Hospital Wing,” she said gently. “I hope you’re alright.”

She was steady, understated in her concern—never one for dramatics, always quietly observant. Lyra felt a brief pang of guilt. She’d never made a real effort to get to know her.
Before she could respond, Helena stepped in with practiced ease.

“She’s fine,” Helena said quickly. “A bit shaken, but Pomfrey cleared her. Nothing serious.”
The answer was vague deliberately so, and Lyra was thankful for it. She had no answers to offer, not really.

Theresa offered a faint smile. “Good. I’m glad you’re okay.”

With that, she gathered her things and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

As soon as it clicked shut, Helena turned and wrapped Lyra in a fierce embrace. The control, the composure, it cracked like glass. Her voice trembled against Lyra’s shoulder.
“I was so scared,” she whispered. “What if something really happened to you? What if you didn’t come back? Lucius told me almost nothing. I had to hear from Severus that you were even found.”

Lyra hugged her back tightly, her throat thick.
“I’m alright,” she said. “I swear.”

She tried to explain, choosing her words carefully. “One minute I was here in the common room. The next... Lucius and Severus found me in the Forbidden Forest. Barefoot. Covered in dirt. Just... walking.”

Helena pulled back, eyes wide. “The Forbidden Forest?”

Lyra nodded. “I don’t remember a thing. It’s just... blank. Except for a headache and this weird ache in my forearm, I have no idea what happened to me.”

Helena looked like she might spiral again, so Lyra quickly changed the subject.
“So,” she said with a teasing smile. “What’s going on with you and James Potter?”

Helena narrowed her eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”

Still, she fished a handkerchief from her robe and dabbed her eyes, making her way to the mirror. She inspected her reflection, smoothing her curls, carefully reapplying the mask of poise.

With her gaze fixed on her own face rather than Lyra’s, she spoke in an even tone.

“Lord Potter and I are friends. That’s all. I like his mischief. If the two of us ever truly combined forces…” She smiled faintly. “We’d bring Hogwarts to its knees.”

Lyra chuckled, the tension finally beginning to lift. “Helena Parkinson, you are truly not to be trifled with.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual lunchtime chatter, but to Lyra, it felt as though every pair of eyes was fixed on her. Whispers echoed faintly, trailing her like shadows. She kept her head down, avoiding glances and muttered questions, and made a beeline for the pastries.

All she wanted was a chocolate croissant and an escape route.

Thankfully, James noticed her discomfort. “Hey,” he said, nudging Sirius, “what if we take lunch outside? Just a short walk to the Black Lake. It’s sunny might be nice under the trees.”

Remus chimed in gently, “It’s not too far, Lyra. You won’t get tired, we promise.”

Relief crossed her face almost instantly. “Please. Yes. That sounds perfect.”

They gathered sandwiches, fruit, and pastries, then stepped into the crisp autumn day. The air held a slight chill, but the golden sun did its best to chase it away. The grounds glowed with late-season color, and the lake shimmered under the light.

They found a perfect tree near the shoreline, its branches stretching protectively overhead. The view of the water was serene, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves.

Blankets were spread out. Shoes were kicked off. Conversation turned light and playful full of laughter and mock arguments.

Lyra found herself deep in quiet conversation with Remus, whose voice had a soothing cadence. She was mid-sentence when a familiar figure emerged from the treeline.

Severus.

He greeted the group with a formal, “Hello.” Then, his dark eyes settled on Lyra. “I’m glad to see you up and about.”

Sirius snorted. “Merlin, always so proper, Severus. Do you rehearse that in the mirror?”

James added with a grin, “Bet he has scripted lines for every occasion. ‘Hello, glad you’re not dead. Would you like tea with that?’”

Surprisingly, Severus chuckled. “At least I can form a sentence without a Quidditch reference, Black.”

Even Sirius gave a dramatic bow.

Then Severus’s expression shifted, his gaze sharpening. “Lyra… could I steal you for a moment?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.”

They walked a short distance down the lake, far enough for their friends’ laughter to fade into the background. The wind tugged at Lyra’s sleeves as Severus spoke, his voice low and serious.

“Lucius and I went back to the forest this morning.”

Lyra stopped in her tracks. “You what?”

“It was early,” he continued, brushing off her tone, “and we didn’t go far at first. We were looking for clues, anything to explain what happened. We came across a clearing, and that’s when we saw the Headmaster.”

He paused briefly. “He was crouched in the dirt, wand out, projecting runes I’ve never seen before. The moment he sensed us, the spell ended. He stood, looked at us like he’d expected us all along, and told us the forest is called the Forbidden Forest for a reason."

Lyra folded her arms. “Did he say anything else?”

“He said he wouldn’t deduct house points or contact our Head of House if we left immediately. Lucius tried to argue, but Dumbledore just smiled and said, ‘I’m handling Miss Malfoy’s incident personally. You’re still children. Leave the worrying to the adults.’”

Severus frowned, clearly frustrated. “Lucius didn’t take that well. But we left. We didn’t find anything.”

Lyra touched his arm gently. “Thank you, for trying. But it was still foolish to go in there.”

He didn’t argue.

She looked away, eyes distant. “When I first woke up in the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore came to see me. He asked… strange questions. I thought about telling my parents, but I knew it’d be the final straw, they’d pull me from Hogwarts in a heartbeat.”

Severus was about to respond when a voice cut through the breeze.

“Sev!”

They both turned. Lily Evans was approaching, red hair streaming behind her. She didn’t slow as she reached them, grabbing Severus’s arm with startling familiarity.

“Come on, Marlene and I are going for a walk. You promised!”

Severus looked caught off-guard, but didn’t protest.

Lyra, watching the exchange, blinked. They’re… close, she thought. Comfortable.

Something tugged at her chest. A silent longing. Just for a moment, she wished she and Severus had that kind of ease.

What she didn’t see was the flicker of discomfort in Severus’s eyes as Lily pulled him away.

Lyra turned back toward the tree, thoughts swirling, when she caught another look—Remus, gazing at Sirius with a tenderness so deep it bordered on reverence.

As if Sirius had hung the moon.

Lyra tucked the moment away, a quiet note stored in the back of her mind and returned to her patch of grass beneath the tree, rejoining her odd, chaotic group of friends.
------

Lily’s fingers curled around Severus’s wrist with surprising strength, dragging him away from the lakeside before he could properly say goodbye to Lyra.

He didn’t resist. Not physically, at least.

But his thoughts lingered—on Lyra, standing in the sunlight, her expression unreadable. He wanted to go back. Say more. Explain better. He hadn’t even asked how she felt—not really. He should’ve stayed longer.

“Sev,” Lily chirped as they crossed the lawn. “You said you’d walk with me and Marlene.”

Severus gave a tight nod, trying to push Lyra from his mind. But she lingered her quiet gratitude, her fierce reprimand, the way her fingers had brushed his arm. It burned into his memory like a brand.

They reached the edge of the courtyard where Marlene McKinnon waited beneath a fluttering birch, arms crossed and an amused smirk on her face.

“There you are,” she teased. “Thought Evans had hexed you into a broom closet.”

Severus forced a half-smile. “No hexes. Yet.”

But Lily had gone quiet. She released his arm and folded hers, lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at him.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said since we left the lake,” she snapped.

Severus blinked. “I—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Oh, you’re sorry?” Her voice pitched higher, indignant now. “I drag you away from your little cryptic moment with Lyra Malfoy and all I get is I’m sorry?”

Severus faltered. Words stuck in his throat. Lily had always been kind to him—especially when no one else had. When he’d been mired in bitterness, she’d shown him patience. It made it hard to push back now, even when her jealousy was laid bare and childish.

“I wasn’t trying to ignore you,” he muttered. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Is it?” she scoffed.

Marlene, bless her, cut through the tension with a laugh. “Alright, children, save the drama for the stage, yeah? It’s a sunny day, no one’s dead, and I haven’t had my pumpkin tart yet.”

She elbowed Severus. “Sev, if you don’t cheer up, I’ll start singing Celestina Warbeck at full volume.”

Severus gave a faint, reluctant chuckle. “That’s hardly a threat it’s more of a crime.”

Marlene grinned. “There’s the snarky bat we know and love.”

Lily, soothed by the laughter, finally relented. She slid her arm through Severus’s and leaned in, flashing him a soft, demure smile, one she’d clearly practiced.

“I’m glad we’re spending time together,” she said sweetly.

Severus gave a noncommittal nod but didn’t pull away. His eyes remained fixed on the distant lake. Still thinking of the girl beneath the tree, surrounded by warmth that felt just out of reach.
----
Lily followed his gaze. Lyra was laughing at something James had said, a genuine smile lighting her face. The sunlight caught the silver in her hair, making her look almost otherworldly.

Lily straightened, chin rising, eyes narrowing. Her expression shifted—something between pride and possession.

She had her prize now.

Lord Severus Prince.

And Lyra Malfoy?

She’d just be another name in the margins of his story.

At least, that’s what Lily told herself.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning energy, clinking silverware, rustling newspapers, and the low murmur of sleepy conversation. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, casting a clear blue sky above the students below. Another week had passed at Hogwarts, and while things weren’t entirely normal, they were beginning to settle.

Lyra sat across from Helena at the Slytherin table, her teacup steaming gently. A plate of toast and poached eggs lay untouched as she absentmindedly picked apart a chocolate croissant.

“You’re barely eating,” Helena observed, her eyes as sharp as ever.

“I am eating,” Lyra replied mildly, tearing off a flaky corner. “This is eating.”

Helena raised a brow. “Mmm. Nibbling like a Niffler in a jewelry shop is not eating, darling.”

Lyra offered a wan smile and glanced down at her left forearm, tucked beneath the table. It had begun its morning ritual again a subtle, throbbing pain that flared briefly, then ebbed just as fast. She pressed her thumb into it beneath her robe sleeve, trying not to grimace.

No headaches this week, thankfully. But this? This was something new.

“Still flaring?” Helena asked softly, her tone more cautious now.

Lyra nodded. “Off and on. Nothing I can explain.”

Before Helena could press further, Lyra felt that familiar prickle at the back of her neck the distinct sensation of being watched. She lifted her gaze across the Hall and met the calm, unreadable stare of Albus Dumbledore.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

It became a silent contest, until infuriatingly he gave a small, knowing smile and tapped his nose with one long finger. Then, just as casually, he looked away toward the Gryffindor table.

Lyra bristled.

“What was that about?” Helena asked, watching her reaction.

“I don’t know,” Lyra muttered. “But he’s definitely not finished with me.”

Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden whoop and a clatter of silverware drew their attention.

James and Sirius were at it again.

The two Gryffindor boys were halfway out of their seats, waving strips of bacon like victory flags and chanting, “Gryffindor! Gryffindor!” in mock-harmonized singsong. Around them, their housemates cheered and groaned in equal measure. Even McGonagall looked torn between amusement and despair.

Lyra caught James mouthing something across the hall. She narrowed her eyes.

Slytherin is going to LOSE.

Sirius echoed him, grinning like a Cheshire Kneazle. James added a dramatic thumbs-down gesture for flair.

Lyra couldn’t help it she laughed.

“Children,” Helena sighed, though she looked vaguely amused.

Just then, Severus entered the Hall. He crossed to the Slytherin table with his usual quiet presence and took the empty seat beside Lyra. She turned slightly toward him as he offered a small, tentative smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning.” Lyra smiled back, the tension from moments earlier easing slightly.

“Are you going to the match?” he asked in a low, measured tone.

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. Lucius is playing Seeker.”

“Thought he might be,” Severus said, beginning to spoon porridge into his bowl. “I’d love to go with you, if you don’t mind.”

Lyra tilted her head. “I’d like that.”

They ate in companionable silence—the kind that only existed when two people felt no need to fill every moment with noise. Around them, the Hall continued to buzz—Gryffindors getting loud, Slytherins growing competitive, and the promise of the first Quidditch match hanging in the air like electricity.

Lyra glanced across the table again.

The pain in her arm had faded.

But the feeling of being watched… hadn't.

As breakfast wrapped up and plates cleared, the Great Hall’s energy shifted.

It was time.

In the corridors outside, students surged toward the pitch in vibrant waves of house colors. Lyra, Helena, and Severus had just stepped into the growing crowd when they spotted Sirius and James, practically vibrating with anticipation.

James was mid-conversation as they approached.

“I’m thinking of trying out for the Gryffindor team next year,” he said, eyes sparkling. Then he glanced at Severus. “What about you? You’ve been solid in flying lessons, ever thought about going for Slytherin’s team?”

Severus looked almost surprised. “I haven’t decided.”

Before he could elaborate, Sirius cut in with a grin. “If he joins, I’m definitely trying out just for the chance to knock his prim and proper self off a broom.”

James rolled his eyes, looking like he might smack Sirius in the back of the head—again—but caught himself.

Lyra smiled faintly at their banter, until a thought struck her. “Wait, where are Remus and Peter?”

James waved a hand. “Peter ran off early to save us the best seats. Front row, center, obviously.”

Sirius’s grin faltered slightly. “Remus is… in the hospital wing.”

Lyra’s breath caught. “What? Is he alright?”

James was quick to reassure her. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just not feeling great. Pomfrey said it’s something genetic. He needs rest, and when he’s ready to talk about it, he will.”

Sirius nodded. “She kicked us out, actually.”

Lyra frowned, concern blooming in her chest. “He was there for me… I wanted to be there for him.”

James offered a kind smile but smoothly shifted the topic. “We better get going. I’m not missing a second of Lucius missing the Snitch and Gryffindor’s glorious triumph.”

Helena grinned and fell in step beside Sirius and James, sliding seamlessly into their chaos as they headed toward the stadium.

That left Severus and Lyra walking together.

“I didn’t know you were thinking about joining the team,” Lyra said quietly.

Severus gave her a contemplative look, hands behind his back. “I enjoy flying more than I expected. But I don’t exactly scream ‘Quidditch player.’”

Lyra glanced at him sideways. “I think you’d surprise them.”

The path to the pitch curved gently through the grounds, leading to the towering, wooden structure of the Quidditch stadium. The stands loomed high, decorated in bold stripes of scarlet and emerald. Flags waved. Students shouted. The energy was palpable.

At the gates, they separated, Sirius and James darted toward the Gryffindor stands, while Lyra, Helena, and Severus made their way to the Slytherin section. They found seats beside Theresa and Darla.

Darla had gone all out, half her face painted in gleaming silver and green, a miniature snake charmed to hiss rhythmically on her shoulder.

Theresa giggled behind her hand. “The paint’s running down your neck.”

“It’s called commitment,” Darla sniffed.

Lyra barely responded, her eyes fixed on the pitch. Her brother, Lucius, was already in the air, circling the goalposts, robes whipping in the wind.

Her stomach twisted.

Flying had never been her strong suit. She could stay on a broom—but Lucius soared. Watching him dive and loop made her fingers dig into her robes.

The whistle blew.

The game exploded into motion. Bludgers screamed through the air, Beaters swung, and the crowd roared. Lyra couldn’t look away. Twice she saw a player knocked hard—once a Gryffindor Chaser, once a Slytherin Beater—but both scrambled back up.

Then Lucius shot forward after something a blur of gold.

A Bludger screamed past far too close. He barely dodged it.

Lyra gasped, her body going rigid. Without thinking, she grabbed Severus’s arm.

The world shifted.

She was no longer in the stands.

A boy with broken glasses wobbled on a broomstick high in the air. His broom bucked wildly beneath him, possessed.

Dread filled her chest.

The vision changed.

A man with long, black hair stood in the stands, chanting something dark, Lyra presumed. His robes caught fire. His focus broke.

But there was someone else—a shadow clinging to the vision. Then, a voice screamed:

“Harry!”

Lyra blinked, and it vanished.

The roar of the crowd crashed over her like a wave. She was back in the stands, hand still gripping Severus’s sleeve. He was staring at her.

“Lyra? Are you alright? You just… froze.”

She blinked rapidly, heart pounding. “I—I’m fine. Just dizzy for a second. If it happens again, I’ll go to Madam Pomfrey. I promise.”

Severus didn’t look convinced. His eyes lingered on her face, as if he wanted to say more but then,

The whistle blew again.

Lucius had the Snitch.

The Slytherin stands erupted. Darla leapt up, her face paint smeared by tears of joy. Helena shrieked and hugged Lyra tightly.

Even Lyra stood and clapped, the residual dread of the vision chased away—momentarily—by victory.

But deep inside, the name still echoed.

Harry.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin dormitory echoed with laughter, bouncing softly off the stone walls. The chill of December had crept into the dungeon corridors, and the girls had armed themselves appropriately, fuzzy socks, oversized jumpers, and the fluffiest pajamas they could find.

Lyra, Helena, Theresa, and Darla were sprawled across their beds, giggling as they folded robes and packed school trunks in preparation for tomorrow’s departure. Hogwarts would soon empty for the holidays, and the girls were full of anticipation.

“I still can’t believe it’s almost Yule,” Lyra said, shaking out a pair of emerald-green gloves before tossing them into her trunk. “It feels like the term just started.”

“It does go faster when your life is turned upside down by a forest mystery,” Helena quipped with a teasing grin.

Theresa, still breathless from laughter, added, “You have to hear what happened earlier, I saw Peeves attack Thaddius Nott. I mean, full-on banana peels, ink bombs, and a vat of what smelled like spoiled pumpkin juice. I’ve never seen anyone slip so many times in one hallway.”

They all dissolved into giggles again, even Darla, who was usually the first to scold anyone for improper conduct, especially if it involved Pureblood heirs.

Lyra chuckled, reaching for a jar of perfume. “Serves him right for being cruel to just about everyone. I think I might get Peeves a present.”

Theresa snorted.

Helena, sitting cross-legged on her bed, tilted her head. “Where are you going for the holidays, Lyra?”

“To the chateau in France,” Lyra replied, tucking a book into her trunk. “Mother says she needs a break from London’s social politics, and I suspect Father needs a break from Mother.”

“That sounds absolutely divine,” Helena sighed dreamily. “A whole chateau in France. You’ll have to write.”

Lyra glanced at her. “You have a neighboring manor, Helena. We’re going to see each other.”

Helena scoffed. “Not immediately. Father has to go to the States again. So, while you're enjoying yourself without me, I’ll be surrounded by witches and wizards who think my accent is weird.”

She huffed, then turned to the others. “What about you ladies?”

“I’ll be in Cornwall,” Theresa replied. “Snow on the cliffs and all. Magical, really.”

“My family’s going to Switzerland,” Darla said with a proud sniff.

Before Helena could respond, a sudden flutter drew their attention. A small, enchanted paper plane soared through the air, dipped once, and landed gently in Lyra’s lap.

She blinked. “That’s not from my parents.”

Helena leaned over. “Oooh, mysterious messages via owl-less paper? Romantic. Or in your case, possibly a disaster. Go on then, open it.”

Lyra carefully unfolded the parchment. Her eyes immediately caught the unmistakably elegant scrawl:
______
Come down to the common room if you're not yet asleep. —S.P.
______
Helena leaned in again. “Severus Prince?” She raised her eyebrows. “This is very promising.”

Lyra flushed with excitement, nearly forgetting she was still wearing pink flannel pajama bottoms covered in tiny cauldrons and a fuzzy green jumper with a stitched serpent on the front. She didn’t think twice, just reached under her bed, grabbed the wrapped package she’d prepared for him, and darted out the door.
______

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, warmed only by the crackling fire in the grand hearth. Shadows danced on the stone walls. Severus sat in his usual chair, still in his school robes, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest as he waited.

He had written the note hoping she was still awake. He didn’t want to exchange gifts on the train in front of others.

When Lyra entered, she stopped halfway across the room.

He blinked.

Fluffy slippers. Pajamas. A soft green jumper. She looked nothing like the composed, elegant Malfoy heir he was used to.

She looked real.

“Your pajamas,” he said, unable to stop the smirk tugging at his lips, “are very festive. And they do seem warm.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled back. “Don’t get used to it. I panicked and ran.”

Lyra came and sat beside him; Severus could tell she was humming with excitement.

With a flick of his wand, two mugs of hot chocolate floated over and landed gently on the low table beside them, steam curling from the tops.

Lyra beamed. “You remembered.”

They sat side by side by the fire, warm mugs in hand, the silence comfortable and filled with unspoken thoughts.

Lyra was practically dancing in her seat, enjoying the hot chocolate before smiling at Severus and asking what he would be doing for Yule.

“My grandmother doesn’t care for Yule,” Severus said quietly. “So I’ll be staying at the manor, mostly in the library. Which is fine, I don’t mind the quiet.”

Lyra made a face. “But Yule is wonderful. How could anyone not like it? There are lights, music, gifts, and snow, and...”

Severus raised a brow, amused. “I didn’t say I hated it. Just… not much of a celebration where I’m from.”

She frowned but didn’t press.

Instead, he reached beside his chair and drew out a box wrapped in rich green velvet, tied with a silver satin bow.

“I got you something.”

Lyra blinked. “Severus…”

He handed it to her. She unwrapped it carefully, peeling back the layers as if they might shatter.

Inside was a first edition of Advanced Arithmantic Equations, a rare book she had mentioned once, months ago.

Her breath caught. “You remembered this.”

“Of course,” he said softly.

Lyra forgot about the slippers. Forgot about the pajamas. Forgot entirely that he was Lord Prince and she was meant to be composed.

She threw her arms around him.

Severus froze, stiff, uncertain then slowly, slowly returned the embrace, his hand settling lightly against her back. His first hug.

It was warm. And strange. And not unwelcome.

Lyra pulled back, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, just...thank you.”

She reached under her arm and produced her own wrapped gift. “Here, I got you something too.”

He opened it with careful fingers. It was a first edition of Foundational Defense: Shadows and Strategy.

His eyes lifted. “I’ve wanted this…”

“I know,” she said. “You talk about Defense more than Potions, even if no one else notices.”

He stared at the book a moment longer. “You were paying attention.”

She shrugged, then smiled. “Always.”

Severus looked down, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

“Thank you.”

And for the first time in a long while, he meant it.

They leaned back, side by side, sipping hot chocolate as the firelight danced and the rest of the world faded away, leaving only them and their warm conversations.
_____
The following day we find The Hogwarts Express rumbling steadily along the tracks, cutting through the snow-covered countryside as it makes its journey back to King's Cross. The soft hum of conversation and the occasional bursts of laughter echoed down the corridors of the train.

Inside one of the compartments, Lyra sat curled up by the window, a blanket draped over her legs and the Advanced Arithmantic Equations book Severus had given her resting open in her lap. She wasn’t reading. Not really. Her fingers traced the edge of the page as she stared absently at the frost-laced glass, her thoughts still caught in the warm flicker of the night before.

She smiled.
Hot chocolate. The firelight. Her hugging him like a fool. Lyras’ face then immediately flamed, he had seen her in fluffy pjs. Her mother would lecture her for an hour if she found out.
Lyra might take it to her grave.

But her time with Severus, it had been… different. And nice.

Helena sat across from her, feet tucked beneath her, painting her nails with the tip of her wand. Sirius lounged like a cat beside James, boots kicked up on the seat, while James attempted to teach Peter how to shuffle Exploding Snap cards without setting them on fire. So far, it was not going well. Remus seemed to be asleep.

The door slid open with a soft clack.

Severus stood in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, his expression tired but composed.

“Is there any room?” he asked, his voice even. “My compartment has been overrun by Lily and a few third-year girls who’ve discovered makeup charms and apparently don’t need to breathe between gossip.”

Sirius looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Well, well, Lord Prince,” he drawled. “Finally deciding to join the riffraff, are we?”

Severus didn’t bother responding with a glare. Instead, he simply raised a brow.

Sirius waved him in with a dramatic flourish. “Come on then. Join the club. We might even let you have a biscuit. Just don’t expect me to bow or anything until we are at a social event. Hogwarts is my break from having to do the regal charade.”

Severus laughed, “I understand that feeling more then you know.”

Lyra scooted over slightly and gestured to the open seat beside her. Severus stepped inside, shutting the door with a relieved sigh as he sat down.
She caught his eye briefly, gave him a small smile.
It was warm in the compartment, filled with laughter, subtle teasing, and the clatter of cards.
Lyra let her gaze drift around at her friends. Her heart was full, peaceful, even. For once, she felt like she belonged somewhere, not because of her name or her bloodline, but because of the people who had come to mean something to her.

And then, burning.

A sharp, searing pain flared in her left forearm.

Lyra’s breath hitched. Her fingers instinctively pressed over the sleeve of her jumper, hiding the tremble, the tight expression that briefly crossed her face.

She turned slightly toward the window, disguising the movement with a sigh as if she were simply stretching.

No one noticed.

No one, except maybe Severus, whose eyes lingered on her a second too long before he returned his attention to the conversation.

The warmth of the train surrounded her, the comfort of laughter just a breath away, but the pain in her arm whispered something different.

Something darker.

She smiled again, weaker this time, and turned to another page of her book.

Lyra was silent for most of the train ride home, worried about what the burning meant and how she would ever hide it from her mother.

Chapter Text

Snow fell in lazy flurries outside the grand windows of the Malfoy vacation estate in Chambéry, France. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of pine, firewood, and spiced mulled wine. Tasteful silver and emerald decorations adorned every arched entryway. Delicate strands of enchanted mistletoe hung above doorframes, and soft strains of festive classical music echoed through the marbled halls.

Lyra moved gracefully down the corridor, the polished floors gleaming beneath her slippered feet. Pixie had dressed her in a sumptuous set of emerald robes that shimmered faintly with every step. Her hair was swept into an elegant updo, adorned with her favorite tiny silver star-pins that caught the candlelight with every movement.

She entered the Great Chamber, where a towering fir stood in the center of the room, its branches draped in silver garlands and emerald ribbon. Beneath it lay an impressive spread of meticulously wrapped gifts. A crackling fire roared in the hearth, casting a golden warmth into the already opulent space.

Lucius and Abraxas stood near the mantle, deep in conversation, both holding glasses filled with something amber and clearly too strong for Lucius’s age. Lyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Acacia rose from a nearby chaise and approached with open arms.

“Happy Yule, darling,” her mother said warmly, pulling her into a rare, heartfelt embrace.

At the sound of her voice, both Lucius and Abraxas turned.

“Happy holidays, my star,” her father added, brushing a kiss to her forehead.

Lucius gave her a quick but sincere hug.
Since the incident, Lyra thought, they’ve all grown strangely... affectionate.
It wasn’t unwelcome. Just unexpected.

Abraxas sniffed, his gaze drifting toward the mountain of presents under the tree.
“By Merlin, Acacia. Must we always be so excessive? That pile rivals Gringotts’ vaults.”

Acacia waved a hand, feigning innocence.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Abraxas. There are far fewer than last year.”

He narrowed his eyes, then leaned in slightly, his voice laced with disdain.
“Unless my vision fails me, I see parcels wrapped in garnet and gold. How garish.”

His gaze flicked toward Lyra.
“I suppose it speaks to the company one keeps these days.”

Acacia’s spine straightened.
“Young James Potter comes from a well-respected and influential line. Politics aside, the Potters have always raised their children with kindness. And as for Sirius Black, he is related to Narcissa. I would suggest, Abraxas, that you hold your tongue. I’d hate for you to sour Lucius’s chances of marrying her.”

Lucius flushed and cleared his throat.
“Speaking of gifts,” he said hastily, “I’ve got something for you, Puppet.”

He handed Lyra a slim silver box. Her childhood nickname still made her smile, though she'd never admit it aloud.

Inside was a delicate heart-shaped locket. Within, a moving photograph from her introduction gala showed the family, Lucius, Acacia, Abraxas, and Lyra herself, all smiling, captured in a rare moment of unity.

“To always remind you,” Lucius said softly, “that your family is near, and that we cherish you. You were the missing part of our family, Lyra.”

Her throat tightened. Tears welled in her eyes as she threw her arms around Lucius’s waist.

Acacia and Abraxas joined them in a rare family embrace, arms folding around one another without hesitation. Their eyes met, briefly, softened by something unspoken.

What would the Malfoy family have looked like without their darling Lyra?

They couldn’t even imagine it.
_____
Yule at Prince Manor was the polar opposite of a Malfoy celebration.

Where theirs was gilded with warmth and affection, his was a cold, formal affair marked by his grandmother’s relentless disapproval.

There were barely any decorations, just a few floating candles in the drawing room, flickering wearily. The walls, once filled with family portraits, were bare. She’d had them all removed.

Severus lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, silently counting the days until he could return to Hogwarts.

On his bedside table rested an opened parcel from Lily: an assortment of Muggle sweets wrapped in tissue and ribbon. The gesture was kind, thoughtful, so very Lily. But the sight of it made his stomach twist.

He couldn’t keep them. If his grandmother found them, she’d burn them without a second thought. Merlin forbid Severus show even a flicker of interest in the Muggle world.

She had already erased most of his life before Prince Manor. It was as though Severus had sprung from the ground the moment she took custody, fully formed, devoid of past or parentage. He didn’t mind not having anything from Tobias Snape that man deserved to be forgotten.

But his mother...

He missed her. Or rather, the idea of her. The scent of rosewater. The softness of her lullabies. The way her hand trembled when brushing back his hair. Even those memories, though, were tainted, haunted by the image of her weary, tearless eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock, followed by the creak of a door.

Thimble, the house-elf, bowed low.
“Master Prince, sir. You have a guest in the parlor.”

Severus sat up at once. A guest?

He raked a hand through his hair and straightened his robes before hurrying downstairs.

When he stepped into the parlor, he froze.

Standing casually by the fireplace, arms folded and surveying the somber room, was Sirius.

For once, Sirius didn’t lead with a joke. His gaze swept over the undecorated room with something like... recognition. As if he’d seen all this before. And maybe, in some form, he had.

When his eyes met Severus’s, there was no smirk only solemnity.

“I thought we might have a few things in common,” Sirius said quietly.
“When it comes to Yule... and disappointing our families.”

Severus said nothing, but his jaw tensed.

Sirius continued, “I wanted to know if you wanted an escape route. To James’s place. I can promise it’s more cheerful than... this.”

Severus blinked. The instinct was to scoff, to curl behind sarcasm like armor. But Sirius held up a hand.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he added, his voice steady. “I can lie quicker than most. And James is good at not asking questions. His parents too.”

There was a long pause.

Severus’s pride warred with his longing to get away, even just for a few days. But the yearning was stronger. Hotter.

“…Fine,” he said at last, voice quiet.

Sirius’s mouth curved into a grin, not smug, not mocking. Just warm.
He clapped Severus lightly on the back and stepped toward the fireplace.

“Happy Yule, you dungeon bat.”

And for the first time in days, Severus allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch, just barely.

Chapter Text

The snow in Chambéry lay deep and dazzling across the grounds of Château Malfoy. It blanketed every hedge and spire, transforming the estate into a glittering wonderland. Delighted laughter echoed across the lawn as Lyra and Helena dashed through the fresh powder, cheeks flushed with cold and joy.

Helena had only just returned from the States with her family, but the two girls picked up as if no time had passed. They ran, hurled snowballs, collapsed into drifts, and laughed until their sides ached.

“My father got me this incredible clockwork dragon from Prague,” Helena said breathlessly, brushing a clump of snow from her curls. “It breathes fire when it roars.
And—oh! I heard from James that Severus and Sirius are staying at his place for part of the holiday.”

Lyra blinked, her breath puffing white in the air. “Really?” she said, surprised. “That’s... unexpected. But good, I suppose.”

She smiled to herself...then the smile faltered.

A sudden, searing pain tore through her left forearm.

Lyra gasped, staggering back and clutching at the burning skin beneath her sleeve. Her knees buckled slightly as the agony intensified.

“Lyra?” Helena rushed to her side, alarm in her voice. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Before Lyra could answer, her eyes snapped upward drawn to a shadowy figure standing at the tree line. A tall silhouette cloaked in darkness. Still. Watching.

“There, look!” Lyra cried, pointing. “Do you see that figure?”

Helena followed her gaze, then turned back, frowning. “There’s no one there, Lyra.”

Lyra’s breath hitched. The pain flared—hot, blinding—and she dropped to her knees in the snow. But just as suddenly, the burning faded. Gasping, she looked back toward the trees.

The figure was gone.

Panic surged in her chest. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward where it had stood. Her thoughts spun. Who was that? Did they Disapparate? How did they get through the wards? But when she reached the spot, the snow lay pristine. No footprints. No trace of anyone.

She stared, heart pounding, doubt creeping in.

Am I losing my mind?

Helena caught up a moment later, breathless. “Lyra, there’s nothing here. Maybe it was the light on the snow... or an animal? Or maybe the pain made you hallucinate. Delirium, maybe?”

Lyra turned to her, voice trembling. “Please don’t tell my parents. If my mother thinks something’s wrong with me again...”

Helena hesitated. Concern clouded her expression, but she nodded.

“All right,” she said softly.

She reached out and took Lyra’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Warm up. Maybe Pixie can bring us something sweet.”

The two girls turned and made their way back toward the château, boots crunching in the snow.

As they stepped inside and shook off the cold, a low murmur of voices drifted from the corridor. Lyra stiffened.

“It’s the parlor,” Helena whispered. “That’s your father.”

“And yours,” Lyra murmured, recognizing the other voice.

Helena’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Just one little listen—”

Lyra’s breath caught. She remembered the last time she had eavesdropped. That was the night she’d learned Lord Riddle wanted her as a bride. The memory churned her stomach.

“I don’t know if I want to,” she whispered.

But Helena, stubborn as ever, was already edging forward.

“Come on. Just for a moment.”

Reluctantly, Lyra followed, hiding in the shadows just outside the parlor door.

Inside, Lord Parkinson’s voice trembled. “He’s growing more powerful; he’s found followers even in the States. It’s like a noose tightening. Abraxas. I have to choose soon.”

“I know the feeling,” Abraxas replied grimly. “I’m under pressure as well. But I have... personal reasons to be cautious. I’m not ready to bow.”

“You’d better find a way around it,” Parkinson muttered. “If you fail, we’re running out of places to flee with our families.”

A long silence followed.

Then Abraxas said quietly, “Our world is fracturing, old friend. If we flee now... there may be nothing left to return to.”

The room fell still, heavy with unspoken fear.

The girls slipped away from the door and hurried back down the corridor, footsteps muffled by thick carpet. Neither spoke. The château’s warmth felt distant now, dimmed by the weight of what they had overheard. The golden sconces lining the walls flickered as they passed, casting nervous shadows.

By the time they reached Lyra’s room, the air was heavy with tension neither wanted to name.

As the door clicked shut, Helena leaned against it and exhaled. “I’ve never heard my father sound like that before,” she said softly. “He sounded... scared.”

Lyra moved to her bed in silence. Her hands trembled as she untied her cloak and let it fall over the footboard. She sat on the edge of the mattress, back rigid.

“Who do you think they were talking about?” Helena asked, stepping closer.

Lyra hesitated, brushing imaginary creases from her skirt. Her voice was measured, almost rehearsed. “I... I’m not sure.”

But she was sure. Or at least, her gut was. One name screamed through her thoughts—Lord Riddle.

“No,” she said aloud, shaking her head.

But her mind battled her instincts. Riddle’s awful—yes—but he couldn’t be the one our fathers fear. He’s always lurking, always watching, but not like that. Not international-threat level terrifying...

Helena shot her a skeptical look but didn’t press. Lyra glanced up and offered a faint smile, patting the bed beside her.

“Come lie down,” she said gently.

Helena didn’t hesitate. She crossed the room and curled up beside Lyra. Wordlessly, they clasped hands—just like they had when they were even younger, whispering in the dark about sweets and adventures to come.

Lyra closed her eyes, the soft pressure of Helena’s hand anchoring her.

Things were simpler then, she thought. Before the parties. Before courtship talks and whispered alliances. Before the burning.

Growing up, frankly, was ridiculous.

“I’m frightened,” Lyra whispered. “And so awfully confused.”

Helena squeezed her hand tighter. “You’re not alone,” she whispered back. “I’m frightened too. But we’ll make it through. We always do.”

She paused, her voice warming with conviction.

“And besides... your father is Abraxas Malfoy. One of the cleverest men in the country. If anyone can get us through this it’s him.”

Lyra nodded faintly, the knot in her chest loosening just a little.

They drifted into silence, their breathing slow and synchronized. Sleep tugged at their limbs like a tide, and eventually, they surrendered to it.

That night, Lyra dreamed.

A man stood in a room without walls, where shadows slithered like smoke. His skin was deathly pale, stretched taut over hollow bones. His eyes glowed red, two coals smoldering in ash. And his nose... was not a nose at all, but slits like a serpent’s.

He reached for her.

Long fingers curled in her direction, beckoning.

Lyra tried to run, but her legs would not move.

His voice—like silk soaked in poison—whispered her name.

“Lyra...”

She jolted awake, a gasp caught in her throat.

The room was dark. Silent. The fire had long since gone out.

She lay still, heart pounding in her ears.

Then—a soft click.

The sound of her window latching shut.

Her breath hitched. She didn’t dare look.

Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned into Helena, burying her face in the warmth of her best friend’s shoulder.

Please let that be the wind. Let it be nothing. Just a dream.

She clutched Helena’s hand and begged sleep to take her again.

Chapter Text

A sharp crack shattered the silence of the manor’s west wing as a figure materialized in the center of a cold, dark parlor. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination flickering from a dying fire in the hearth. Shadows danced across high walls lined with portraits whose subjects had long since ceased to stir. The air smelled faintly of dust, aged wood, and something acrid—like old magic.

At the sound, a man seated near the fire leapt to his feet. Clad in formal robes trimmed with silver, he approached the newcomer quickly, head bowed in deep reverence.

“Lord Riddle,” the man said, his voice tight with nervous anticipation. “I trust your journey was... fruitful?”

The newcomer, tall and cloaked in black, offered a thin, cruel smile. Snowflakes clung to the hem of his cloak and lashes, melting slowly in the room’s faint warmth. He brushed a bit of snow from his shoulder with an idle hand.

“Yes, Maxwell,” Lord Riddle said at last, his voice smooth and cold. “Fruitful. Enlightening, even.”

Maxwell Nott, father of Thadius Nott and long-time associate of Lord Riddle, straightened slightly but kept his eyes averted. The weight of Riddle’s presence filled the room like creeping fog—silent, oppressive, inescapable.

Riddle turned his head sharply. Snap.

A house-elf appeared with a faint pop, trembling as it bowed. Its ragged shift barely covered its spindly frame, and its wide eyes remained fixed on the floor.

“Fetch the black book from my writing desk,” Riddle commanded, his tone quiet but absolute.

The elf vanished and, within seconds, reappeared holding a worn, leather-bound diary clutched tightly to its chest.

“Will Master require anything else?” it whispered.

Riddle gave no answer. He flicked his hand in dismissal, and the elf disappeared again.

He turned the book over in his hands, fingers brushing the faded embossing on its cover. A darker smile tugged at his lips as he looked up at Maxwell.

“Your son attends Hogwarts, doesn’t he?”

Maxwell blinked. “Yes, my lord. Thadius, he’s in Slytherin.”

“And does your son have a relationship with Lyra Malfoy?”

The question sliced through the still air. Maxwell hesitated, clearly caught off guard.

“They’re... not particularly close,” he said slowly. “Thadius mentioned that Lyra has chosen strange company. Blood traitors, half-breeds, and one boy in particular a Pettigrew. Clings to her circle like a stray Kneazle.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed. He repeated the name softly, as if tasting it. “Pettigrew...”

He stepped toward Maxwell, who instinctively leaned back under Riddle’s piercing gaze.

“This Pettigrew boy. He sounds weak. Eager. Desperate to belong.”

Maxwell swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Riddle said nothing. The Pettigrew boy might prove useful.

“Maxwell, I need your son to do me a small favor. This diary is enchanted—whatever he writes in it will come directly to me, and I can respond, if I choose. Since your son is at Hogwarts, I want him to keep an eye on Miss Malfoy. Report on her companions, her routines, everything. I need to know the ins and outs of her day.”

“She is a puzzle I intend to solve, and a weakness I intend to exploit. If I can bring Abraxas Malfoy to heel, the rest of the families withholding their full support will follow.”

Maxwell swallowed hard. “Yes, Lord Riddle. I’m sure I can talk the boy into doing this.”

Riddle turned to gaze at the dying embers in the hearth.

“Make sure that you do.”

A smile crept back onto Riddle’s face.

“Oh, and Maxwell, gather my closest supporters for a special meeting. I’ve recently tested a new spell, and after witnessing its effectiveness, I believe I have a gift to share with all of you.”

The morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of Malfoy Château, casting a pale golden hue over the white marble floors of the breakfast room. A quiet tension hung in the air—delicate, unmistakable. Like the moment before a storm breaks.

Acacia sipped her tea in contemplative silence, her pale fingers tapping lightly on the porcelain as her gaze drifted toward the hallway. Beside her, Evangeline Parkinson had abandoned all pretense of reading the society pages. She now watched the two girls at the far end of the garden with narrowed eyes.

Lyra and Helena sat beneath the frost-touched arbor, backs straight, hands folded in their laps. Their conversation was hushed too hushed and their movements too deliberate. The kind of behavior that set off warning bells in seasoned mothers.

“They’re acting strange,” Evangeline murmured.

Acacia nodded, eyes still on the garden. “Strange and tense.”

“Do you think something happened last night?”

“They won’t say. And trust me I asked.” Acacia set down her teacup and stood with a sigh. “Maybe they’re just sulking about being away from the others.”

Evangeline arched a brow. “You think they miss their friends?”

“Merlin help me, but yes,” Acacia muttered, already moving toward the fireplace.

With a flick of her wand and a murmured incantation, green flames flared to life in the hearth. She leaned in.

“Potter residence.”

Moments later, the fire flickered, and Lady Euphemia Potter appeared. Her black hair was swept into a casual knot, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Behind her, the usual chaos—laughter, a crash, a broom streaking past.

“Acacia! What a lovely surprise.”

“I hate to impose, Euphemia, but do you have room for two more among the menagerie?”

Euphemia laughed brightly. “Do we ever not? James will be thrilled to have the whole lot together again. It’s quieter when they’re all entertained.”

Acacia gave a dry laugh. “Perhaps. I was hoping Lyra and Helena might settle around familiar faces. They’ve been... odd.”

Euphemia raised a knowing brow. “Youth mixed with secrets. The most volatile combination.”

“Exactly,” Acacia said with a sigh.

“Well, send them over whenever you like,” Euphemia said warmly. “Honestly, maybe Lyra and Helena can calm the chaos a bit. James says they’re the voice of reason among that crew.”

Acacia chuckled. “My daughter? The voice of reason? You must be thinking of another Lyra. She can be positively dramatic when the mood strikes.”

“They all can,” Euphemia replied, grinning. “That’s half the charm.”

Acacia smiled. “We’ll send them shortly. Thank you.”

When the flames died down, Acacia turned to find Evangeline watching her, arms folded, amused.

“Didn’t even ask me,” Evangeline teased.

“I knew you’d say yes.”

“Well, I would have—but still.”

Acacia rang the silver bell beside the mantle. A second later, their house-elf, Pixie, appeared with a polite pop and bowed deeply.

“Pixie, would you bring the young ladies to the parlor?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the elf replied and vanished.

Moments later, Lyra and Helena entered. If they had seemed tense before, now they looked as though they’d swallowed entire wands. Their shoulders were stiff, eyes wary.

Acacia narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She gestured to the settee across from the fireplace.

“Girls, sit. Lady Parkinson and I have something to say.”

They obeyed wordlessly, their silence only deepening the concern.

“We’ve noticed how... careful you’ve been these past few days,” Acacia began. “You’re walking on eggshells when you should be enjoying your holiday.”

Helena blinked, startled. Lyra’s lips parted, but she said nothing.

“So,” Acacia continued, “we’ve decided to send you to the Potters for the rest of the break.”

A beat of silence—and then, release. Helena’s shoulders dropped. Lyra exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Tension melted into delight.

“Really?” Lyra gasped.

“Yes,” Lady Parkinson confirmed with a smile. “You can floo there shortly, if you’d like.”

“Oh, thank you!” Helena leapt up to hug her mother. Lyra threw her arms around Acacia.

Lyra glanced down at her soft green sweater and charcoal skirt and frowned. “Is this alright?”

“You look perfectly presentable,” Acacia assured her.

Helena smirked. “You always look ‘perfectly presentable.’ It’s nauseating.”

Lyra rolled her eyes but laughed.

“Well, Lady Potter is expecting you, so don’t keep her waiting,” Acacia said warmly.

With gleeful chatter and barely-contained excitement, the girls rushed to the floo. A flash of green flames—and they were gone.

The parlor fell quiet again. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of fire.

Evangeline sighed, glancing at her friend. “Do you remember when we used to do that? Running to each other's houses every chance we got?”

Acacia smiled softly. “Feels like yesterday.”

“They’re growing up fast.”

Acacia nodded. “Too fast.”

They sat in companionable silence, the ghosts of their own childhood giggles echoing faintly through the halls.

Chapter Text

Potter Manor was a sanctuary of warm light and natural wood. Sunlight poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, dancing off polished floors and catching in the leaves of potted plants that lined the corridors. The walls were painted in welcoming creams and honeyed golds, every room alive with the soft hum of warmth and domestic cheer.

Lady Euphemia Potter sat in the parlor, a book resting in her lap, a teacup hovering beside her. Her smile was serene, even as her son James thundered down the corridor with Sirius and Severus in tow, sounding as if they were preparing for a duel rather than just entering a room.

The parlor fireplace crackled softly behind Lyra and Helena as the two girls sat on the plush rug, deeply engaged in a game of wizarding chess. Helena’s queen had just devoured Lyra’s knight with theatrical flair when the boys arrived.

Sirius was bundled in a wool cloak and fur-lined gloves, his cheeks pink from the cold and his expression entirely too smug for Lyra’s liking.

“Well, well,” Sirius said, drawing the syllables out like a bowstring. “James, I’ve just heard something particularly ridiculous. Care to hear it?”

James ever ready to entertain, flopped onto the nearest couch and grinned like a man already in on the joke. “Do I ever. Enlighten me, Black.”

Sirius leaned dramatically against the doorframe, throwing his scarf over one shoulder like an actor on stage. “Our dear pureblooded princess” he gestured at Lyra with a flourish “is terrified of flying. Imagine that. A toddler on a toy broom could out-fly her.”

James clucked his tongue and shook his head in mock despair. “Lyra, a witch who can’t use a broom? Sounds like the setup to a very bad joke.”

Lyra stood up slowly, brushing down her robes and arching a brow. “I know what this is,” she said coolly. “You lot are trying to bully me into compliance.”

She turned to Severus, eyes narrowed. “And you? I expected better. Really, Severus?”

He looked slightly chastened, but didn’t back down. “Lyra, it’s not just about fun. Flying’s a useful skill. If you ever get into a tight spot... being able to escape might save your life.”

Before Lyra could reply, Sirius threw an arm over his chest and feigned dramatic concern. “Yes, Lyra, we only torment you out of love. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t ensure your safety?”

Lyra glared at him, seriously contemplating smacking the back of his head.
Arms crossed, she muttered, “I would prefer not to plummet to my death before we even make it back to Hogwarts.”

Severus looked up at her shyly from where he was standing beside the chessboard. “You could ride with me,” he said quietly. “I’m good on a broom. If it’s just the heights, maybe being with someone would help. You won’t have to think about steering. You can just... relax. It’s really freeing.”

Sirius waggled his eyebrows from behind him. “Oh, how romantic,” he stage-whispered, and Lyra gave him another withering look.

Then Helena stood, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves. “Oh, come on, Lyra. Do you really want to admit that Sirius Black is better at something than you?”

Lyra whipped her head toward her friend, betrayed. “Et tu, Helena?”

But her resolve was crumbling under the chorus of voices and smirking faces.

She exhaled loudly and narrowed her eyes at all of them. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll get on the broom with Severus. But, if I hate it and want down, you have to let me off, and none of you are allowed to bug me about it ever again.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then a unified, overly enthusiastic chorus of promises rang out:

“Absolutely.”

“Scout’s honour.”

“Not a word, ever again.”

With that, the boys dashed off, tripping over one another to fetch the brooms from the back shed, Sirius shouting something about “preparing the landing strip,” whatever that meant.

The girls exchanged a look, part exasperated, part amused and turned to head upstairs.

“Come on,” Helena said, linking her arm with Lyra’s. “Let’s get changed into something warm. Wouldn’t want you breaking your neck in a silk skirt.”

Lyra groaned, dragging her feet toward the stairs. “If I die, I’m haunting all of you.”

Helena just laughed. “We’d deserve it.”
_____

The crisp air nipped at Lyra’s cheeks as she stood at the edge of the snowy clearing, her boots half-buried in the frost. The low winter sun hung behind a veil of clouds, casting long golden shadows over the white expanse of the Potter manor grounds.

Her eyes flicked to the others—Sirius, James, and Helena had already mounted their brooms, their figures poised and eager, casting long silhouettes against the shimmering snow. They were watching her expectantly, grins tugging at their faces, excitement dancing in their eyes. The pressure twisted in her chest like a knot.

What if I fall? What if I can’t do it? What if they laugh?

A wave of doubt crashed over her, sharp and intrusive.

Am I going mad? Why can’t I just get on the broom like everyone else?

Just as she was about to step back, a quiet presence appeared beside her. She turned slightly to see Severus standing there, broom in hand. His expression was unreadable, calm and steady—the exact opposite of the chaos in her mind.

He leaned in, his voice low and meant only for her ears.
“I know I said it’s an important skill and it is but if you truly don’t want to get on the broom, you don’t have to.”

Lyra’s hardened expression softened as she looked up at him.
“Thank you for the offer, Severus. But knowing Sirius, he’ll never let me live it down if I let fear rule my decisions.”

A faint smirk tugged at Severus’s lips. “Most likely not.”

Without another word, he swung his leg over his broom and extended a gloved hand toward her. Lyra hesitated for a moment, then reached out with a trembling hand and took his. She swung her leg over the broom, gripping it with white-knuckled intensity. Her posture was stiff, every muscle in her body locked with tension.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m going up now,” Severus said softly. She felt his arm wrap protectively around her waist. She gave a tiny nod speech was beyond her in that moment.

The broom lifted slowly.

Lyra’s stomach dropped as the ground slipped away beneath her boots. She clenched the broom tighter, bracing against the rising sensation. The cold wind brushed her face, but she didn’t dare open her eyes.

“You’re doing fine,” Severus murmured, his tone steady and reassuring. “We’re not moving anymore. Try opening your eyes.”
It took a moment, but she forced her lashes apart.

Her breath caught in her throat.

They hovered high above the manor. The snow-covered grounds sparkled like crushed diamonds under the setting sun. The clouds were streaked with brilliant hues—rose gold, soft violet, and warm amber. In the distance, a frozen lake glistened like a pane of glass.

“How are you doing?” Severus asked gently.

Lyra nodded. “I’m… okay.”

“Good. I’m going to start moving now, slowly. Is that alright?”

She hesitated, then gave a tiny nod, though her heart pounded so loudly she wondered if he could hear it.

They began to glide through the air, slow and steady. The breeze brushed through Lyra’s hair, and the tension in her limbs gradually eased. It wasn’t as terrifying as she’d imagined it was almost peaceful. Freeing even.

Below and around them, Sirius, James, and Helena zoomed through the air in chaotic loops, shouting and laughing with reckless delight. Lyra managed a small smile.
She still wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to fly solo—but she could finally see why others loved it.

After several more minutes in the air, they gradually began to descend. As their boots touched the snowy earth again, Sirius raised an eyebrow, flashing her a knowing grin.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Lyra?”

Not willing to give him any more smug ammunition, Lyra narrowed her eyes and said dryly, “I’ve had worse experiences. Like… Potions class. With you.”

Sirius barked a laugh.

James, still catching his breath, clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Better get used to it. We’ll have you flying like a pro in no time. You’ll be good enough to join the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

Lyra paled. “You might get me into the air, James, but you’ll never get me to chase after enchanted balls and risk life or limb for them.”

That sent Sirius and James into fresh peals of laughter.

A voice echoed from the manor. “Children! Hot chocolate’s ready!”

Lady Potter’s call was a siren song. They grinned at each other, cheeks red from the cold and exhilaration, and took off running toward the manor.

Chapter Text

The soft crunch of snow and the scent of pine were already a distant memory as Lyra stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor. The holidays had ended too quickly,
and the familiar castle walls now wrapped around her like a chilly embrace. She took her usual seat and cast a quick glance around the room.

Professor Matilda Clarence stood at the front, a stern yet energetic witch with a no-nonsense demeanor and a penchant for structured teaching. They had spent the first term immersed in theory, pages upon pages of notes on
jinxes, counters, magical law, and the ethics of defense. But today marked a long-awaited change: practical dueling.

Lyra’s stomach fluttered with anticipation.

She scanned the room as pairings were announced. Severus had been partnered with Lily. The redheaded girl looking entirely pleased with herself and for some reason stared at Lyra when it was announced.

Then the professor called out her name and announced her partner would be, Sirius. Lyra felt a wicked smile spread over her face.

He swaggered over to her, a crooked smile playing at his lips, already radiating cocky energy.
“Try not to hurt yourself keeping up with me love,” he said smugly, wand twirling between his fingers.

She rolled her eyes. Across the room, Helena had been paired with James, who was already planning mischief instead of focusing. Remus stood beside Theresa, calm and collected as always. Peter, unfortunately, looked utterly
miserable standing next to Darla, who was ignoring him entirely.

James overheard Sirius’s quip. “Mate,” he called over, “you might want to rethink provoking the girl who’s about to hex you.”

Sirius laughed dismissively, turning up the smugness. “Please. If she hits me, she will only have beginner’s luck.”

Professor Clarence clapped her hands for silence. “Wands ready! Duel stance, everyone!”

Lyra drew herself upright, heart thudding. She mirrored the stance they’d practiced: feet planted, wand at the ready. She inhaled deeply and focused. This was it.

“Begin!”

With a sharp flick and jab downward, Lyra shouted, “Flipendo!”

The spell surged from her wand in a flash of blue light, hitting Sirius before he could even raise his wand. He stumbled backward, arms flailing, and landed hard on his backside, the smug grin still half-formed on his face.

A stunned silence followed. Then, a ripple of laughter.

Professor Clarence raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Excellent form, Miss Malfoy! Ten points to Slytherin for quick reflexes and execution.”

From the corner, James muttered with satisfaction, “Told you so.”

Sirius groaned as he stood, brushing himself off. “Beginner’s luck,” he grumbled, though the redness in his cheeks betrayed his wounded pride.

They reset.

And again—Flipendo!

Sirius went tumbling.

Twice more, she knocked him down. The class was in hysterics by the third fall, and even Clarence couldn’t hide her smirk.

As the lesson wrapped up, students began filing out, still buzzing from the excitement. Lyra was packing away her books when Severus approached.

“You’re insufferable,” he said dryly, though a smirk played on his lips. “You know that, right?”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

He scoffed. “Hardly. Just reminding you, but it was great to see Sirius fall back so many times.

She smiled faintly. “Hopefully he won’t hold it against me for too long... I need a favor”

They exited the classroom together and headed for dinner.
__
The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall shimmered with the last hues of twilight as Lyra entered beside Severus. The long tables buzzed with the usual evening chatter, the smell of roast lamb and treacle tart wafting through the air.

Sirius was seated near the middle of the Gryffindor table, pointedly turned away the moment he caught sight of her. He laughed at something James said, though it felt a bit forced, like he was working too hard to pretend she didn’t exist.

Lyra sighed. “Charming,” she muttered.

Severus glanced at her. “You’re not seriously going over there?”

“I need to talk to him,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Go find us seats.”

Severus gave her a skeptical look but didn’t argue. He peeled off toward the Slytherin table, his robes sweeping behind him.

As Lyra crossed the Hall, she felt eyes on her, students nudging each other, whispering. No doubt the rumors of her knocking Sirius flat four times in class had made the rounds already. She lifted her chin and walked with poise, ignoring the stares.

She reached the Gryffindor table and stood directly behind Sirius.

“Black.”

Sirius didn’t turn. “Oh look, the silver princess graces us with her presence,” he said loudly, still facing forward.

Peter looked up at her uncertainly, eyes narrowed with thinly veiled suspicion. James glanced between them, chewing on a chicken leg with mild amusement.

“Still sulking?” Lyra asked sweetly.

“Me? Sulk?” Sirius finally turned, his expression pure smug sarcasm. “You knocked me over, what, four times? Hardly bruised my pride. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“You’re being incorrigible,” Lyra said sharply. “The entire point of the lesson was to demonstrate the jinx, not to bruise egos.”

“Oh, my ego’s just fine,” he said, flashing a grin. “You should be flattered. I’m ignoring you on purpose.”

“How noble.”

Sirius leaned back against the bench, stretching lazily. “If this is an apology, you’re off to a terrible start.”

Lyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Would it help if I said, ‘Your Royal Highness, may I request your assistance in a bit of... mischief?’”

That got his attention.

Sirius raised a brow. “Mischief?”

Her lips curled in a small, demure smile. “Yes, Sirius. I need your wisdom.”

The smugness returned in full force. He nudged James with his elbow. “Hear that? I’m wise now.”

“Terrifying,” James muttered into his goblet.

Sirius looked back at her, intrigued now. “Go on, Silver Princess. What’s the mischief?”

Lyra lowered her voice. “I need help sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library. It’s... something personal. You always seem to know your way around the castle at night.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes, his tone quieter now. “Found a few secret passages. Pretty sure there’s more... someone should really map those out someday,” he added offhandedly.

He studied her face, now serious beneath the easy grin. “Why? What are you looking for?”

“It’s important,” Lyra said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. I’m practically begging here.”

Sirius smirked. “You? Begging? That’s almost worth the risk alone.”

She stared him down. He paused, considering.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll help you. On one condition.”

“Of course there’s a condition.”

“In the next Defense class... I get to hit you with the Knockback Jinx. Full force.”

Lyra rolled her eyes dramatically. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.”

She gave him a half-smile. “Thank you, Sirius.”

He winked. “Anytime, Princess. I will meet you by the entrance of your common room at 10 tonight, don’t be late.”

Chapter Text

The clock on the Slytherin common room wall struck 9:50 PM with a quiet chime that echoed faintly through the stone chamber. The flickering fire cast long, dancing shadows, and most of the house was winding down, retreating to books or sleep. Lyra moved silently, her steps light, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. She approached the common room entrance with measured calm, wand tucked into her sleeve and heart pounding.

She had nearly made it to the stone archway when,

“Where are you going?”

Lyra froze.

Her brother’s voice, cool, precise, and unmistakably unimpressed cut through the dim silence like a knife. Lucius Malfoy stood just inside the doorway, his prefect badge gleaming faintly, his pale brows raised in suspicion.

“I…” she faltered, caught completely.

Lucius folded his arms. “You were about to sneak out just as I was leaving for patrol? How incredibly poor your timing has become.”

Lyra grimaced. There was no point in lying he’d see through it instantly.

“I’m going to the library…to the restricted section,” she admitted quietly. “I asked Sirius Black to escort me.”

Lucius blinked once. “You’re using Sirius Black as a chaperone?”

“Not a chaperone,” she said quickly, “just... someone who knows how to sneak around without getting caught.”

Lucius stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “And why, in the name of Merlin’s beard, do you need to go to the Restricted Section?”

Lyra hesitated. “There was a spell I read about,” she said slowly. “In class. It wasn’t entirely... light magic. It intrigued me.”

Lucius frowned. “Lyra.”

She winced. He didn’t believe her.

“I know you have a thirst for knowledge,” he continued, “but I doubt you’ve already developed an interest in extremely questionable spells.”

She looked away, guilt flashing across her face. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

Lucius’s expression softened, and he dropped his arms with a quiet sigh. “Lyra,” he said, more gently now, “I’m not angry. I’m worried. You’ve not been the same since... since the Forbidden Forest.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the hem of her cloak.

“No one knows who attacked you,” he went on, “and sneaking around the castle in the middle of the night, what are you thinking?”

“My arm,” she murmured. “It’s been burning…nothing Madame Pomfrey is doing is working…and it feels like it’s something more than just a plain injury.”

Lucius stiffened.

“Since the forest,” she added. “It flares up out of nowhere. Over the holidays, I…” She paused. “I thought I saw someone. At the edge of the château grounds. When the pain was at its worst.”

His jaw clenched. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I didn’t want Mama to pull me from Hogwarts,” Lyra whispered. “I thought... maybe it would just go away.”

Lucius stared at her for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly.

“I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, still not looking up.

He sighed again. “I don’t like this, Lyra. I don’t agree with it. But if you must sneak out, at least I know you’ll be with Black. He may be reckless, but he’s not careless."

He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Avoid the east wing and the astronomy corridor—Ketteridge is on patrol tonight, and she’s a bloodhound for rule-breakers.”

Lyra lifted her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m going to worry about this all night.”

She hugged him tightly before he could say more. Lucius hesitated, then returned the gesture with a soft pat on her back.

“Be quick,” he said. “And careful.”

Lyra slipped out the door, her steps lighter this time, her cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. The air in the corridor was cool and still.

Sirius was waiting for her at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “Thought I was going to have to come rescue you from your own dungeon.”

Lyra gave him a wry look, “The night is young maybe Ill be the one saving you.”

Sirius gave her a doubtful look, but he laughed all the same and they began their journey.

The castle was silent, save for the occasional creak of ancient stone and the low hum of torchlight flickering against the walls. Hogwarts after dark was a different world, colder, older, and filled with shadows that stretched too
far. Lyra followed Sirius closely, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum.

Sirius moved with practiced ease, scanning every corridor before stepping forward. He hugged close to the stone walls, cloak swaying softly with each calculated step. He glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Keep up," he whispered, barely audible. “And stay close.”

Lyra nodded, adjusting the hood of her cloak and falling into step beside him. He was quick, too quick for someone who wasn't used to moving under threat of detention. It was obvious he’d done this a dozen times or more.
Probably more.

He reached a corner and paused, peering around it before motioning her to follow. They slipped into a corridor dimly lit by a single torch. The silence was so deep it almost rang in her ears, until a soft, unmistakable meow echoed from behind.

Both froze.

Sirius slowly turned his head toward her, his expression one of grim annoyance. “I highly doubt McGonagall’s out looking for a pet,” he muttered. “That damnable cat... I swear she knows things a cat shouldn’t know.”

“Mrs. Norris?” Lyra whispered.

Sirius nodded. “Filch is probably not far behind. We need to move.”

Without hesitation, he grabbed her wrist and took off, weaving them through a series of winding corridors and narrow passageways. His pace never slowed, even as Lyra’s breath started to come in short gasps. Her boots skidded
slightly on the stone floor as he rounded a corner sharply, pulling her into a dark alcove.

A tall painting of a robed knight glared down at them.

Sirius stepped forward and muttered something under his breath, words Lyra couldn’t quite catch. With a groan of stone and the soft creak of old hinges, the portrait swung forward to reveal a tunnel cloaked in darkness.

Lyra leaned forward, squinting. “That’s... kind of cool.”

Another meow, closer now.

“Time to be cool inside the tunnel,” Sirius snapped, yanking her in behind him. The painting slid shut with a quiet thud, sealing them into utter blackness.

“Lumos,” Sirius whispered, his wand illuminating with a pale white glow. The light flickered across the damp stone walls of the secret passage, casting long, uneven shadows.

As they moved down the tunnel, Sirius glanced over at her. “Whatever you’re looking for in that dusty old section... it better be worth the heart attack I’m going to have if Filch finds us.”

Lyra gave a nervous smile. “I hope it is.”

He gave her a side glance, picking up on the seriousness in her voice. For once, he didn’t make another joke.

They walked in silence, the sound of their footsteps echoing around them. The tunnel curved and twisted downward until finally, a narrow flight of steps led them to a dead end. Sirius pressed a small stone at the base of the wall,
and the passage opened onto a familiar corridor just outside the library.

He helped her out of the tunnel, brushing dust off his sleeve as he did.

“Well,” he said with a grin, “you’re officially sneaking out like a proper delinquent now.”

Lyra turned to him, eyes wide impressed and with some disbelief. “Sirius... you are absolutely brilliant.”

He smirked. “I’ll need that in writing. Preferably signed. In ink. And framed.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine.

“Now comes the real challenge,” he added, growing serious again. “Madam Pince.”

They crept toward the library doors, which creaked faintly as Sirius pushed one open just enough for them to slip through. The library was bathed in darkness, the only light coming from faint moonlight through high arched windows. Dust motes danced in the silver beams, and the scent of old parchment and leather hung thick in the air.

Somewhere within, a book snapped shut.

They ducked behind a row of tall shelves, Sirius pulling Lyra down just as a silhouette appeared between the stacks. Madam Pince, the hawk-eyed librarian, shuffled past, muttering to herself about misfiled volumes and “no
respect for the Dewey Decimal system.”

They waited, barely breathing, as she passed.

Sirius gave her a quick signal, and they slipped deeper into the library, darting between shadows, hidden behind rows of ancient tomes and heavy reading desks.

After two more close calls, including a moment where Lyra accidentally knocked over a quill stand and Sirius caught it mid-fall, they finally reached the cordoned-off section: the Restricted Section.
Thick iron chains looped across the entrance, secured by a simple but heavy magical lock.

Sirius tapped it with his wand. “I’ve seen trickier.”

With a whispered spell and a confident flick, the lock clicked open and the chains slithered aside.

He looked at her. “Ready, Princess?”

Lyra took a breath and stepped through the threshold.

“Ready.”

Chapter Text

Sirius hung back at the mouth of the Restricted Section, one hand on the edge of the shelf, the other gripping his wand loosely. His grey eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, alert and calculating. Behind him, the library was still and dim, the sound of the ancient building settling into silence.

Lyra stepped deeper into the Forbidden Section, wand held out in front of her like a lantern. The dim Lumos glow cast eerie shadows across cracked spines and dust-slicked titles. Shelves loomed around her like sentinels, watching.

She shivered. These books felt wrong—not just dangerous, but sentient in some awful, malevolent way.

Her fingers skimmed over a cracked leather binding titled Transmutation Beyond the Soul: Sacrifice and Alteration. The words seemed to pulse faintly, as if aware of her touch. She jerked her hand back. Another title read:
Anatomy of Agony: Pain, Power, and Preservation.

“Merlin,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “These shouldn’t just be restricted, they should be locked away.”

She reached for a thick volume that looked promising, Sigils of the Forgotten Flesh and the moment her fingers touched it, the book let out a piercing, bloodcurdling scream.

“Bloody hell!” Sirius hissed from the entrance, whipping around. “Could you not touch the screeching horrors?”

“Sorry!” Lyra whispered back, cringing as the echoes of the scream faded into silence. “It looked normal!”

“It never is down here.”

Flushing, Lyra continued scanning. She tried to tune out her heartbeat pounding in her ears. A title caught her eye, Burning Marks and Elemental Brandings.

Her breath caught. Her arm pulsed, as if responding to the words. She pulled the book down this one blessedly silent and opened it quickly, leaning against the cold wood of the nearest shelf.

Her wand light illuminated dense, angular script and hand-drawn diagrams. She flipped pages with growing disappointment. Branding sigils, magical initiations, ceremonial scarification, none of it matched what she had experienced. There were mentions of pain, fire, and runes, but nothing that described a mark awakening or flaring of its own accord.

She let out a slow, frustrated sigh.

I should’ve come with a plan... I came all the way down here, and for what?

Still, desperation clawed at her. She couldn’t leave empty-handed.

She replaced the book and kept looking, fingers now moving faster along the spines, more urgently. Her eyes landed on a tome bound in what looked unsettlingly like skin, Dark Runes and Blood Curses.

Her breath hitched. She reached for it.

“Please don’t scream,” she murmured, opening the cover.

It didn’t.

She turned the pages slowly, grimacing at the contents. Diagrams of carved symbols and rituals involving blood sacrifice, lineage corruption, ancestral bindings. She didn’t want any of it to relate to her—but even as she skimmed, a creeping dread settled into her chest. Some of it was too close. Words like unbidden marks, latent curses, and pain-activated runes leapt off the page.

Her stomach twisted.

Then, from behind her, Sirius cleared his throat.

“Lyra,” he said in a low voice that was suddenly very serious. “We have a much bigger problem than Madam Pince.”

Lyra froze.

She slowly looked up from the cursed book she still held in her hands.

There, standing just past the threshold of the Restricted Section, illuminated by soft candlelight, was none other than Dumbledore.

His eyes, twinkling with a quiet intensity, rested calmly on the book in her hands.

“Well,” he said, in that calm, knowing voice, “I do admire the pursuit of knowledge, Miss Malfoy... though I’d rather hoped your curiosities wouldn’t involve blood curses until at least sixth year.”

His gaze drifted briefly to her left, to where Sirius stood, half-defiant and half-ashamed.

“Back to Gryffindor Tower, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore said gently.

Sirius opened his mouth, as if to protest, but before a word escaped his lips, the headmaster added, with finality, “Goodnight.”

Sirius hesitated, casting a guilty glance toward Lyra. Their eyes met briefly, his filled with apology, hers tight with embarrassment before he melted into the shadows without another word.

Dumbledore returned his attention to her, his expression unreadable.

“A little bit of light night reading, Miss Malfoy?”

Lyra scrambled for words, clutching the book to her chest as if it could protect her from the weight of his gaze. “Just... some research, sir. I saw references to blood curses and ancient runes in a book I read over the summer, and
I wanted to learn more. Not to do anything with them, I swear.”

For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing. His eyes twinkling, curious, and unsettling in their clarity bore into hers. It was as if he could see straight past the words and into her thoughts, unraveling intentions she hadn’t fully understood herself.

Then, he smiled softly, but with a glimmer of something deeper.

“I’ll escort you back to the Slytherin common room, Miss Malfoy.”

The words felt more like a sentence than kindness. Lyra swallowed hard and followed him as he turned, his robes whispering against the stone floor.

They walked in silence at first. The castle was hushed, the torches burning low along the walls, casting long, dancing shadows. Lyra walked a step behind him, glancing occasionally at his back, as if trying to read something in
the tilt of his shoulders.

Then he spoke so softly it almost blended into the silence.

“Sometimes,” Dumbledore mused, “we seek answers in books not because we wish to learn, but because we already know something... something we cannot admit aloud.”

Lyra's hand twitched at her side. The mark on her arm had begun to burn again, subtle, like a whisper beneath her skin, but enough to steal her breath.

She narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. “If you know something, sir... why not just say it?”

Dumbledore chuckled gently. “It is not always my place to speak truths before they are ready to be heard.”

His vagueness grated on her nerves. “But it is your place to warn students wandering into dangerous magic?”

He stopped walking. The sudden halt startled her, and she nearly bumped into him.

“I must warn you, Miss Malfoy,” he said, turning to her. “Not all knowledge is earned without a price. And not all questions deserve answers, especially not tonight.”

They resumed walking, the silence heavier than before.

As they descended into the dungeons the corridor grew colder. The warmth of the upper castle seemed to fade into the damp chill of the lower levels.

Just as they reached the entrance, Dumbledore paused. His hand rested lightly on the stone wall, fingers tapping thoughtfully.

“Miss Malfoy,” he said, his voice low but piercing, “what is your connection to Lord Riddle?”

The question hit her like a blow. She blinked, caught off guard.

“I—” she began, but fatigue and frustration made her sloppy. Her guard slipped.

“I know he has tried to make an arrangement for a marriage, when I am older, but my mother is fervently against it. And he quite strongly introduced himself to me at my introduction gala… but I have no true connection with Lord Riddle.

Lyras brain pushed her to speak of her suspicions of the Forbidden Forest incident and her burning arm but she stayed silent.

For the first time tonight, Dumbledore’s eyes lost their twinkle. A sharp, hungry light flashed in them, curiosity? Calculation? But then it was gone, shuttered beneath a veil of mild amusement.

“Thank you for your honesty, Miss Malfoy,” he said smoothly. “Now, I suggest you get some rest. And try to avoid any further late-night sessions in the Restricted Section.”

She nodded, feeling as though her knees might give out.

“And Miss Malfoy?” he added, his voice floating back to her as he turned to leave. “Curiosity is a gift... but gifts, like curses, can grow dangerous in the wrong hands.”

The wall slid open, revealing the Slytherin common room beyond. Lyra stepped inside, her thoughts churning, the weight of Dumbledore’s words pressing down on her chest like stone.

Chapter Text

The following day was a Saturday, and Lyra was grateful for the chance to sleep in. She waved Helena off with a muffled groan when the girl tried to rouse her.

But peace didn’t last.

Enchanted paper airplanes began dive-bombing her bed with maddening persistence. Frustrated, Lyra sat up and snatched one out of the air. She scanned the message, it was from Lucius, written in his precise, impatient scrawl:

"Wake up this instant and meet me in the common room, or I will find a way into your dormitory."

She rolled her eyes. Typical Lucius.

Muttering under her breath, she got out of bed and began her morning routine. He could wait just a few more minutes.

By the time she entered the common room, she swore Lucius’ ears had turned pink. He strode toward her with such intensity, she half-expected him to box her ears.

“Lyra,” he hissed, “I’ve been worried sick. You disappear into the Restricted Section and don’t leave a single note? Nothing to say you made it back in one piece?”

Lyra winced. “I’m sorry. The Headmaster escorted me back. I was so exhausted, I just collapsed into bed.”

Lucius blinked. “The Headmaster caught you? How many house points did we lose? What did he say?”

“That’s the strange part. We didn’t lose any points. No detention either. If I’m honest... it was just weird.”

Lucius turned toward one of the tall dungeon windows, his expression unreadable.

“He doesn’t usually spare punishment. Not unless you’re wearing red and gold. I wonder what he wants with you, Lyra.”

Then he turned back to her, his tone softening.

“Did you find anything about your arm?”

“I found a book on blood curses and runes,” she said with a sigh, “but I’d only just started it when he showed up.”

Lucius’ frown deepened. “We should tell Father. If it’s a blood curse, it’s serious. We can’t keep this from them forever.”

Her heart sank. She met his gaze.

“Not yet. Please. He’s already overwhelmed, and I just need more time. Just until summer. If I haven’t figured it out by then, I swear, we’ll tell them.”

Lucius looked torn.

“You’re clever, Lyra, but you’re still a first year. This kind of magic is advanced. Even I struggle with it... maybe I can think of another way.”

She nodded, but her voice was firm.

“I can do this. Just a little more time.”

Lucius ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I’m not agreeing. But... we can drop it for today.”

His tone lightened a touch. “Go find your friends. I saw some Gryffindor boys skulking around earlier, one looked particularly guilty. Probably checking to make sure you haven’t been chained to the old dungeons by Filch.”

Lyra let out a quiet laugh. “I’ll go find them.” She gave her brother a quick hug. “Bye, Lucius.”

She stepped out of the Slytherin common room, the heavy stone door sliding shut behind her with a low groan. The dungeon chill still clung to her skin, but a strange warmth bloomed in her chest, Lucius’ worry, his protectiveness, lingering in her thoughts.

She didn’t have to walk far.

Just past the first turn, leaning against a suit of rusting armor, stood James, Sirius, and Remus. Peter hovered behind them, tugging at his robe.

Sirius straightened as he saw her. James nudged him forward.

“Well, well,” James began, aiming for cheerful but falling short. “If it isn’t our favorite library outlaw.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow and folded her arms. “Is this an ambush? Or a Gryffindor intervention?”

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. “We just... wanted to check on you.”

James cut in, “After Sirius said Dumbledore materialized, we figured you’d be a goner."

Remus gave James a look. “What James means is, we were worried. Are you alright?”

Lyra paused, surprised by the sincerity in Remus’s voice. She glanced at Sirius, who looked properly sheepish.

“I’m fine,” she said. “The Headmaster walked me back to the common room. No detention, no house points lost.”

Four pairs of eyebrows shot up.

“No detention?” James echoed.

“None,” Lyra confirmed.

Sirius raised a brow. “Either you’ve brewed an illegal potion to charm professors, or Dumbledore’s gone soft.”

She didn’t laugh.

“I don’t think it was softness,” she said, quieter now. “He knew something. Or guessed. He was... too calm.”

Remus frowned. “Knew what?”

She shook her head. “That’s the problem. He spoke in riddles. Like he was waiting for me to say something I didn’t know I was supposed to say.”

There was a pause.

James crossed his arms. “So... he was weird. Oddly comforting.”

Peter piped up. “Did you find anything?”

Lyra tensed.

Sirius noticed. “You don’t have to say.”

“No, it’s alright.” She looked between them. “I found something. A book about blood curses and runes. But I barely got through the first page.”

Remus looked thoughtful. “Blood magic’s dangerous. It’s not even in seventh-year classes.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But something’s wrong with me. I can feel it. I can’t just do nothing.”

James tilted his head. “Is this about the incident in the Forbidden Forest? Have you told your brother?”

“Yes. And yes.” Her voice was clipped. “He wants to tell our father.”

A shared understanding passed between them, family expectations, pressure, secrets.

Sirius stepped forward. His usual swagger was gone.

“If you need help,” he said quietly, “we’re here. We’re not just good for illegal midnight adventures.”

James smirked. “Though we do excel at those.”

Sirius looked sheepish. “Some of us more than others.”

Lyra smiled faintly.

“Thanks. I just need time. And maybe... another library trip.”

Sirius threw up his hands. “There she goes again. Straight to trouble.”

Remus sighed. “Please try not to get expelled.”

James winked. “We’ve saved you a seat in the Dumbledore’s Personal Headache club.”

Lyra laughed. “Have you seen Severus or Helena?”

Remus nodded. “I passed Severus near the Great Hall. Said he was walking the Black Lake. No sign of Helena. Probably up to something.”

“Thanks, Remus. I’ll go find Severus. See you all later!”

She waved and turned down the corridor.

But just before she reached the doors leading to the grounds, someone called her name. She winced, straightened, and turned with a forced smile.

“Thadius. I’m on my way to meet someone, so if this is nonsense, it’ll have to wait.”

The older boy stood stiffly. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, and for someone who prided himself on propriety, he suddenly looked almost... human.

“Miss Malfoy...Lyra... I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. I’ve said cruel things to Lord Prince. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’ve learned from it. Slytherins should support one another. I promise I’ll treat him with respect.”

Lyra studied him with wary eyes. “What do you want, Nott?”

He looked startled. “Nothing. I’m just trying to be better than I was. That’s all.”

She didn’t fully trust him, but her father’s words echoed in her mind, alliances matter.

“I can’t speak for Severus. You’ll need to apologize to him yourself. But I’m willing to let the past go if you mean what you say.”

She met his eyes. “Just remember, Malfoys make terrible enemies.”

Thadius gave a slow nod. “Thanks for the chance... and the warning. I’ll let you go. Enjoy your day.”

He hurried off.

Lyra watched him disappear, then continued on toward the lake. She decided that she would not mention the encounter, for now. Thadius nearly ruined her friendship with Severus once. No need to stir old wounds.

Chapter Text

The early afternoon sun filtered through scattered clouds, glinting off the still waters of the Black Lake. A faint breeze stirred the trees, coaxing the bare branches into creaking conversation. Lyra tugged her cloak tighter as she stepped onto the familiar footpath winding along the water’s edge. Winter was giving way to spring, but far too slowly for her liking.

Ahead, she spotted Severus, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tense. He didn’t seem to hear her approach, his boots pacing in a slow, deliberate rhythm across the dew-kissed grass.

“You look like you’re about to walk straight into the lake,” Lyra called out, her tone teasing.

Severus glanced over his shoulder and stopped. “Oh. I didn’t hear you.”

“Clearly,” she said with a smile, stepping up beside him. “Everything alright?”

He exhaled, breath fogging in the chill air. “Yeah. Just needed to clear my head. I was working on the Potions essay all night.” He rubbed his forehead. “Felt like my brain turned into melted frogspawn. I figured some fresh air might help.”

“You do tend to overwork yourself.”

“And you, apparently, sneak into the Restricted Section,” he said dryly, not missing a beat.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Did someone tell you?”

“No. Just a lucky guess,” he replied with a smirk.

Lyra laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as the wind picked up again. “I didn’t know Lucius had such a talent for gossip. I was thinking of telling you about it and the subsequent chat I had with Dumbledore, but…” She glanced at the tired look in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll save it for when you’re a bit less fried.”

Severus gave a small, grateful nod. “Thanks.”

They walked in silence for a few moments. Lyra looked out over the lake and sighed. “I can’t wait for spring to finally arrive. I’m so tired of being cold.”

“You say that like spring’s going to fix everything,” he muttered.

“Maybe not everything,” she said with a smirk. “But it is my favorite season.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Really? I always figured you for a winter person. Something dramatic.”

Lyra laughed again, the sound catching on the breeze. “That’s the Malfoy brand, not me. I like flowers. Warmth. New beginnings.”

“Huh,” Severus said, thoughtfully. “I always thought you liked sharp edges.”

“I do,” she said. “But I like soft things too.”

They continued walking, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path. The lake shimmered beside them.

After a beat, Lyra asked, “What’s your favorite color?”

Severus blinked, confused. “What?”

“I’m serious,” she said. “If we’re destined to be arranged and married one day” her voice was laced with dry humor, though something unspoken hung beneath it, “I should know more about you. I know the big stuff, favorite subject, tea preference but not the little things.”

He stared ahead, considering. “Deep green. Like pine needles. Or…” He glanced at her. “Glacial blue.”

Lyra raised a brow.

He gave her a look.

She smiled. “Mine’s periwinkle.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Of course it is,” she said, proudly. “It’s delicate, subtle, and a little magical. Like the sky just before sunset.”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“What about your favorite season?”

“Autumn,” he answered immediately. “I like the quiet. Things slow down. The cold sets in, but there’s a calmness to it. And I like watching the leaves fall.”

“Poetic,” she said, bumping his arm gently. “I like that.”

He looked at her, eyes softening. “What’s your favorite memory?”

Lyra was quiet for a moment. “It’s silly. But… when I was eight, my mum wasn’t home, and my father let me take apart one of his old magical clocks in the drawing room. I ended up covered in dust and grease, and we both got in trouble, but it was the first time I felt like he saw me. Not just some doll to dress up.”

Severus nodded, taking it in.

She turned to him. “Your turn.”

He paused. “Flying at Potter Manor.”

She smiled gently. “That was...surprisingly enjoyable.”

And so, they kept walking trading questions, both light and meaningful. First pet. Dream job. A spell they’d invent if they could. Whether they’d rather live in the past or future. The conversation wound with them, as easy and natural as the path beneath their feet.

As they rounded a mossy outcrop near the far end of the lake, laughter broke through the stillness.

“Oi, lovebirds!” Sirius’s voice rang out.

Lyra groaned, though without any real irritation. Sirius, Helena, James, Remus, and Peter came into view.

“We were wondering where you’d disappeared to,” Helena said, grinning.

“Game of Exploding Snap?” James offered, flipping a card between his fingers.

“We need another pair,” Sirius added with an exaggerated pout. “Evans won’t play with me anymore. Says I cheat with charmwork.”

“You do,” Remus said flatly.

Lyra looked at Severus, amused. “Shall we?”

He sighed, resigned. “If it stops them shouting across the lawn, fine.”

James clapped. “Brilliant!”

And just like that, the quiet dissolved into the chaos of friendship. Laughter echoed across the lake as they all headed back toward the castle, together.
____

That night, after the castle had quieted and the hearth in the Slytherin common room had burned down to glowing embers, Lyra curled into bed, drawing the emerald curtains shut.

The dormitory was hushed, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of blankets and the faint hoot of an owl echoing down the corridors.

She sat cross-legged beneath heavy blankets, a thick, leather-bound tome on her lap. Its title, Blood Curses and Forbidden Runes was etched in faded gold leaf. It was a dark book, but Lyra smiled down at it, thinking of her brother, and how he’d come to her rescue again.

Lucius had gotten it from their father without raising suspicion. He claimed it was for out-of-class research, and somehow, he’d secured it in record time. She almost wanted to scold herself for going to Sirius first instead of Lucius. But then she remembered their conversation when he’d handed it over.

She could still hear Lucius’s voice in her head, sharp with disdain.

“Wouldn’t want you caught in the Restricted Section again.”

He would’ve drawn it out in theatrical disappointment before sneering something about finding more Slytherin-appropriate methods than sneaking around with a Gryffindor.

But she’d shot back that he hadn’t exactly stopped her. He’d let her go. Which meant he hadn’t come up with a better plan either.

A dull throb pulsed in her arm, dragging her back from the memory. She winced and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes dropped to the book. She needed answers. Dumbledore had been evasive, riddles, vague reassurances. If she wanted the truth, she’d have to find it herself.

Page after page detailed obscure blood curses, some terrifyingly close to what she’d experienced. Many required rare ingredients, forgotten rituals, or potion skills beyond mastery. Some had no known cure at all.

Her heart sank.

The thought of years chasing half-truths, of constant pain gnawing at her, of never knowing and it hollowed her.

But it was still better than this: the not knowing. The silence. The pain etched into her skin as a cruel reminder of what had been done to her.

She would need help. Slughorn couldn’t be trusted, too nosy, too loose-lipped. Her father and Lucius… they understood the darker sides of magic. However, if the solution required brewing, it was neither of their specialties and would require an outside brewer which ran the risk of someone letting out they were working for the Malfoys and the person who had done this to her finding out.

Her eyelids drooped. The runes blurred. The last spell seared into her brain, Sanguinem Vinculum. She tried to fight it, but exhaustion pulled her under. The book slipped from her fingers, landing with a soft thud as sleep finally claimed her, leaving behind unanswered questions and the dull ache still burning beneath her skin.

Chapter Text

The library was hushed, cloaked in shadows and the soft rustle of parchment. Pools of golden light glowed beneath floating lanterns, casting long beams over tables cluttered with ink-splattered essays and crumpled notes. In a secluded corner, Lyra sat curled over her work, quill in hand, the words on the page blurring as her eyes fought to focus.

The past week had been a relentless barrage of essays, quizzes, and impossible reading lists. With Easter break looming, professors had shed any trace of mercy. Rest had become a myth; something earned through academic bloodshed.

Lyra sighed quietly and dipped her quill again, blinking against the sting in her eyes.

“If this is only first year,” she muttered, “I’m terrified of seventh.”

Her arm ached with a dull, rhythmic throb. She rubbed it absently, grimacing. There hadn’t been time to look into it properly, not with classes, assignments, and the constant struggle to stay afloat. Maybe over break, she'd finally make a plan.

She glanced down at her parchment an essay on the Forgetfulness Potion. Writing about memory loss when there were holes in her own memories was enough to raise the hairs on her arms.

A voice, soft and tentative, broke the quiet.

“Mind if I join you?”

Lyra looked up. Theresa stood at the edge of the table, warm and shy all at once, a stack of books hugged to her chest. Her honey-blonde hair was tucked neatly behind her ears.

Lyra smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Of course. I could use the company.”

Theresa slid into the seat opposite with graceful ease. “Didn’t think anyone else would be here this late.”

“Neither did I,” Lyra said. “What’s keeping you up?”

“Transfiguration essay,” Theresa groaned, dropping her books with a soft thud. “McGonagall’s brilliant, but terrifying.”

Lyra chuckled. “She has this uncanny ability to know when we’ve skimmed the theory. I’m convinced she uses Legilimency.”

They shared a conspiratorial glance.

“Will I see you at the Malfoy garden party during break?” Lyra asked.

Theresa perked up. “I believe so. My parents got the invitation last week.”

Lyra gave a small nod. “Good. It'll be nice to see you outside Hogwarts, for once, not buried under homework or caffeine-induced stress.”

Theresa giggled. “A true holiday miracle.”

The quiet stretched between them, comfortable. Quills scratched parchment. Pages turned. It felt almost... peaceful.

Until—thud.

The library doors slammed open. The echo bounced off the stone walls like a curse.

Lyra’s head snapped up. Her frown arrived before the culprits did.

“Potter. Black,” she said crisply, folding her arms. “Lower your voices, or Madam Pince will string you up by your ears.”

James clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Lyra. Right through the heart.”

Sirius, still catching his breath and grinning like he’d just stolen a dragon egg, offered a sweeping bow. “Our sincerest apologies, your highness. We were busy rewriting history.”

Lyra arched a brow. “Do I want to know?”

“We may or may not have helped Peeves pull off the prank of the decade,” James said, puffed with pride. “Avoid the third-floor corridor. It’s… festive.”

“Glitter-bombed the entire hall,” Sirius added with glee. “Even the portraits are sparkling. Peeves says it’s the best thing since the Headless Hunt got stuck in the Prefect’s Bathroom.”

Lyra couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Impressive. But how exactly do you have time for pranks and essays?”

The boys exchanged a look, the kind that usually spelled trouble.

“We were hoping,” James began, his voice syrup-sweet.

“That perhaps,” Sirius continued, grinning, “our brilliant, charming Lyra might feel generous.”

Lyra gave them a long, unimpressed stare. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not doing your homework. Again.”

“But Lyra…” James whined, with far too much dramatic flair.

“We don’t want answers,” Sirius added quickly. “Just… guidance. A whisper. A spark of genius.”

Theresa snorted behind her hand.

Sirius turned to her, eyes twinkling. “Or maybe you, Greengrass? You strike me as someone with excellent taste, and probably neatly written notes.”

Theresa raised an eyebrow. “It’ll take more than a pretty smile, Sirius Black. But I can see why half the girls are already swooning.”

“Just half?” he gasped. “I must be losing my touch.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lyra muttered, rolling her eyes.

Sirius tilted his head toward her. “You’re not one of them, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Lyra said a little too fast.

A beat of silence. Her voice had caught for just a second. Her cheeks didn’t betray her, but inside, something fluttered. A different boy’s eyes came to mind.

She turned back to her parchment, too pointedly.

Trying to shift the conversation, she asked, “Where’s Remus? If anyone belongs in a library, it’s him.”

The atmosphere shifted.

Sirius’s smile thinned. “We guess he’s unwell. Again.”

James added, quieter now, “Skipped breakfast. Vanished all day. Pomfrey said he’s not feeling well. Said we’d see him later.”

“It’s like clockwork,” Sirius murmured. “Every month. Disappears. Brushes it off.”

He looked at her pointedly. “Kind of like how you keep brushing off your arm.”

Lyra’s breath caught. She exhaled slowly. “I’m not brushing it off. I just… don’t know what it is yet.” She hesitated. “Lucius found me a book, an old one. A few curses match, but the potions needed to treat them are expensive. Rare. Way beyond anything I could manage on my own.”

Sirius raised a brow. “You’re a Malfoy. Money’s not the issue, is it?”

Lyra shook her head. “It’s not just the gold. It’s finding someone willing to brew something obscure, risky… possibly dark.”

“Have you talked to Severus?” James asked with a smirk. “He practically sleeps in the potions lab.”

Lyra shot him a look. “He prefers Defense, actually. And he's a first year like the rest of us. This kind of potion? It needs a master.”

James leaned back lazily. “He’d do it. For you.”

She colored slightly. “That sounds like you're implying something. We’re just friends. If he helps, it’ll be out of curiosity about the curse, not me.”

James grinned. “Sure. I’ll ask my parents, though. They might know someone who works in… experimental circles.”

Lyra blinked. That was unexpected. “That would be... kind of you. Thanks, James.”

Before he could respond, Madam Pince appeared like a bat from the shadows.

“This is still a library, not a conversation pit,” she hissed. “Time to return to your common rooms.”

The group scrambled to gather their things, chuckling under their breath and offering quiet goodnights.

Lyra missed James and Sirius giving each other pointed looks.
_________________
Even later that night...

The corridor was darker than James expected.

Their footsteps echoed too loudly on the stone, and every now and then, Sirius flinched when a portrait mumbled in its sleep.

“Brilliant idea,” James whispered. “Let’s sneak around the castle after curfew with no idea where Remus is.”

“You agreed,” Sirius muttered. “Don’t blame me now.”

“I didn’t say no,” James admitted. “But we’re going to get caught. And you know McGonagall has ears like a hippogriff.”

They turned down a narrower passage near the Astronomy Tower, dimly lit and dusted with the kind of cold that clung to your bones. James squinted into the gloom—and grabbed Sirius’s arm.

“Wait. Someone’s there.”

A small figure stood near the wall, wand lit in her hand.

Sirius leaned forward. “That’s... Lyra?”

Lyra turned, clearly startled. Her wand rose instinctively, light flaring across her face.

“What are you doing here?” she whisper-snapped.

“We could ask you the same,” Sirius retorted, stepping into the open. “Is everyone sneaking around tonight, or just the people we know?”

James stepped beside him. “You alright, Lyra?”

She stiffened. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Sirius said flatly. “You’re pale. And holding your arm like it’s about to fall off.”

She hesitated, then turned away slightly. “The pain was bad tonight. I thought walking might distract me. Don’t tell Lucius, he’ll throw a fit if he finds out I’m sneaking out again.”

“What are you two doing out of bed?”

James frowned. “We’re looking for Remus. He didn’t come back to the common room. And I don’t think Madam Pomfrey’s telling the truth.”

Sirius added, more quietly, “We’re worried.”

Lyra lowered her wand a little. “I haven’t seen him during my walk.”

The three of them stood in silence for a moment, torchlight crackling behind them.

Sirius finally said, “You should tell someone, Lyra.”

“I’ve told Lucius. And you know. I’ll even talk to Madam Pomfrey,” she said. “Isn’t that enough?”

That shut them up.

James nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

Sirius glanced around. “Come on. Help us look for Remus. Might as well all get in trouble together.”

Lyra snorted. “That’s your solution? Just make the rule-breaking group bigger?”

“You’re already out here,” Sirius pointed out with a grin. “Might as well have backup.”

She shook her head, but she joined them anyway.

It didn’t take long once they started searching. They found him behind the Charms corridor, half in shadow, one hand pressed to the wall like it was the only thing holding him up.

“Remus?” James’s voice cut through the stillness.

Remus flinched.

When he turned, the torchlight revealed everything he’d tried to hide, split lip, dirt-smudged robes, bruises blooming like ink beneath his collar. His left eye was swelling shut.

“What in the bloody hell happened?” Sirius breathed, stepping forward.

“I’m fine,” Remus said quickly. Too quickly. “Just tripped.”

“On what, the Whomping Willow?” James shot back. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a mountain troll.”

Remus stiffened. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is,” Lyra said softly.

Remus froze at her tone, gentle, not accusing. He looked at all three of them, wide-eyed, cornered. Opened his mouth like he might say something real, then shut it again. Tension coiled in his shoulders.

“I was out,” he muttered. “I went for a walk. I wasn’t paying attention.”

James frowned. “Why didn’t you come back to the common room? We’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“We’re not going to wait for an invitation if you disappear and show up half-dead,” Sirius said, frustrated now. “You’re our friend, Remus.”

Remus went very still.

Then, quietly, “You can’t come with me. Ever.”

James blinked. “What?”

“When I leave like that... you can’t follow me.” Remus’s voice was tight. “I don’t care what you think is going on. Just stay out of it.”

Silence.

Lyra stepped forward, cautious. “Remus, we just want to help.”

Remus shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

“You think we’d stop being your friends if we knew the truth?” Sirius asked, sharper than he meant to.

Remus’s jaw clenched. His eyes flashed, just for a second—with something raw and terrified. “I think once you do, you won’t get the chance to decide.”

No one had an answer.

The weight of whatever Remus was carrying pressed between them like a wall.

But then James said, softly, “We’re not leaving, you know. Even if you never tell us. We’re still here.”

Sirius nodded. “You’re stuck with us.”

Remus gave a soft, bitter laugh. “For now.”

Lyra didn’t speak, but her eyes stayed on him. Steady. Kind. Unmoving.

And that, for tonight, was enough.

Remus pushed off the wall. “I’m going back to the common room. You don’t need to follow me.”

“I mean... we kind of need to. We’re out after curfew,” Sirius muttered.

But none of them stopped Remus as he walked ahead—limping slightly, pulling his torn sleeve down as he went.

They gave him space.

Even if it hurt to.

After a moment, Lyra murmured her goodbyes for the second time that night and melted back into the shadows.

And James and Sirius felt impossibly heavy for their young age.

Chapter Text

When Abraxas stepped into the study at Malfoy Manor, he was surprised to find Acacia already there, seated in his chair. Her posture was rigid, arms crossed, and her gaze, sharp as a blade, tracked his every movement as he entered.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice cold and clipped. “Again.”

He removed his cloak, brushing ash from the hem with deliberate care. “I didn’t expect—”

“Spare me,” she cut in, eyes narrowing. “Where were you this time, Abraxas? Another secret meeting you conveniently forgot to mention. Another decision made for our family that didn’t require my voice?”

He met her glare with a weary look, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. “I was with Dumbledore.”

Her eyebrows lifted, then her face twisted into fury. “Dumbledore?” she echoed, her tone thick with scorn. “And did His Eminence send his regards again? How generous.”

“He did,” Abraxas said, voice tight.

“To hell with his regards,” Acacia hissed. “That man doesn’t care about Lyra. He doesn’t care about us. All he sees are chess pieces and grand plans. Lyra is not his pawn.”

“He offered help,” Abraxas countered. “Actual help. Training. Protection. He’s assigning staff to her. She’ll begin Occlumency next term.”

Acacia scoffed. “Why stop there? We should just invite Riddle to dinner and poison his wine while we’re at it. If we’re going to consort with dangerous manipulators, we might as well go for efficiency.”

“If it were that simple,” Abraxas snapped, the veneer finally cracking, “don’t you think I’d have done it already? Riddle isn’t just a man anymore, Acacia. He’s something else. You cut off one head, two grow back. He’s a Hydra. And his eyes are on our daughter.”

For the briefest moment, her fury faltered. But she buried the fear beneath sharper anger. “You think you’re the only one protecting her?”

“I can’t afford to think only as a father,” he said, stepping closer. “Not anymore. I have to be the strategist, the diplomat, the survivor. If we make one wrong move, just one, we lose everything. And not just our names. Our lives.”

Acacia’s voice dropped to a deadly calm. “And what did you give Dumbledore in return?”

Abraxas held her gaze for a moment, then turned toward the fire. The embers cast long shadows across his face.

“My soul,” he said. The words hung in the room like smoke, thick with meaning, heavy with regret.

Acacia’s expression softened. The sharpness drained from her features, replaced by something far older: weariness, sorrow, fear.

“You went to him out of desperation.”

“No,” he replied, bitterly. “I went to him out of love. Desperation came after.”

She slowly lowered herself into the chair, no longer full of fire but of quiet tremor. One hand pressed against her temple, the other curled around the armrest like she needed something solid to hold.

“We are not pawns in someone else’s war, Abraxas.”

“No,” he said, voice flat, determined. “We’re not. But Lyra’s already on the board, whether we like it or not. And I will burn the entire game to ash before I let Riddle win.”
______
The following morning, the air was crisp but sweet, touched by the scent of budding crocuses and wet earth. Acacia and Evangeline strolled through the manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor, heels ticking softly against the gravel path. A notepad floated beside them, enchanted to record their murmured observations.

“I’m not convinced those daffodils will survive another frost,” Acacia said, frowning at a cluster of bright yellow blooms.

“Oh, don’t underestimate them,” Evangeline replied with a smile, brushing a strand of dark hair from her brow. “They’re stubborn little things. Like Helena, she’s already making noise about not coming home for Easter. Claims she has too much revision. As if that’s ever stopped her from making an entrance.”

Acacia allowed herself a faint smile. “Lyra’s just as bad. Swears her professors expect her to master every spell in existence by June.”

“Ah, to be young and dramatic again,” Evangeline sighed. She reached out and gently squeezed Acacia’s hand. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but... you’ve seemed distant lately. There’s a weight on you, Acacia. I can feel it.”

Acacia’s gaze drifted past the hedges, toward the orchards. The apple trees had just begun to bud, their bare branches dusted with green.

“You’re not wrong,” she said softly. “Abraxas went to Dumbledore.”

Evangeline blinked, visibly surprised. “Dumbledore? Why?”

“For help,” Acacia said. The word tasted bitter. “Because of Riddle. Because of Lyra.”

Evangeline linked her arm through Acacia’s as they walked on. “My husband’s been restless too. He hasn’t said it aloud, but I hear him pacing at night. Once, he admitted he thought about fleeing. America, maybe. Then wondered if it would even matter. He thinks, he fears that Riddle’s war won’t stop at England’s borders.”

Acacia nodded. “He’s not wrong. But this... this is something else. Abraxas has agreed to spy for Dumbledore. He’s still seated at Riddle’s table, smiling and nodding while planning treason in his head. One wrong word, one twitch out of place, and it’s over. For all of us.”

Evangeline’s jaw tightened. “They always say they’re protecting us. Sparing us the burden. But what they’re really doing is holding the weight alone because they’re afraid we might carry it better.”

Acacia laughed a sharp, humorless sound. “As if we haven’t been carrying it this whole time.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, the breeze stirring the ivy along the stone wall. Behind them, the charmed notepad hovered, forgotten.

“I won’t sit idly by,” Acacia said at last. Her voice no longer trembled. It rang with purpose. “I love my husband. But he made a choice for all of us without asking if we were willing to pay the price. And if they think they can fix this alone, they’re wrong. They may have led us here... but it’ll be women who find the way out.”

Evangeline smiled, slow and knowing. “Then let’s make sure we do.”
That night, when the manor had fallen silent and the last lantern in the hallway flickered out, Acacia made her way down the narrow stone stairwell beneath the east wing.

She moved like someone returning to sacred ground.

The cellar door groaned as she opened it, the protective wards recognizing her presence and peeling back. Dust and memory clung to the air. Candle sconces along the walls ignited with a soft hum, lighting the chamber in amber tones.

She hadn’t been down here in years.

This was the place where many Malfoy wives had whispered forbidden things, where blood magic and ancient rites were not taboo, but heritage. Where power didn’t parade itself in courtrooms or salons but hummed in the very walls.

She crossed to the back shelf. Thick spellbooks waited in quiet dormancy, their spines lined like soldiers.

Her fingers drifted over worn leather until she found it.

Magicks Forgotten, Not Forbidden.

The book shimmered faintly beneath her hand, as though recognizing the weight of her intention.

She pulled it free.

Behind her, a portrait stirred to life, a great-aunt Honoria, looking down from the frame with a practiced frown and a familiar gleam in her eye.

“You always had a talent for turning quiet into danger,” the portrait remarked.

Acacia raised her chin. “And you always said the most dangerous thing a woman could do was remain quiet too long.”

Honoria gave a slow, satisfied nod. “Indeed.”

Acacia laid the book on the central worktable and opened it with care. Dust lifted from its pages like breath after a long sleep.

Her eyes scanned the ancient script until she found the rite she remembered.

Covenant Rites of Maternal Shielding.

Magic passed through blood. Old protections, once woven into cribs and stitched into wedding gowns. Magic that didn’t shout it endured.

She exhaled, steadying herself.

Abraxas could play the politician. He could shake hands with devils and barter with ghosts.

But she would be the anchor. The shield. The line in the sand that even monsters would think twice before crossing.

She would not be a pawn.

And she would not wait for someone else to save her daughter and entrap her son.

If war was coming, then she would meet it with inked runes, whispered rites, and magic that bent to no master.

Let Abraxas carry the masks.

She would carry the fire.

Chapter Text

Lyra had been home for several days, though the word home no longer fit like it used to. The grand halls of Malfoy Manor hadn’t changed, but something in the air had. The silence wasn’t peaceful, it was suffocating. Each chandelier-lit corridor, each polished marble floor, seemed to echo a kind of loneliness.

Breakfasts and dinners were quiet performances. Lucius sat across from her, spine rigid, his silver eyes shadowed with thoughts he didn’t say aloud. They hadn’t spoken much, but their glances across the table told whole stories, tension, distance, questions neither of them dared ask. Their parents, as if bound by unspoken agreement, kept up appearances with brittle politeness. But it was all surface. Underneath, the family was splintering.

Her father, once a commanding presence, now retreated into his study, emerging only to speak in clipped phrases that felt more like punctuation marks than conversation. Her mother? She had buried herself in preparations for the annual Malfoy Spring Garden Party, as if hydrangeas and seating charts could patch the cracks widening through the household.

Now Lyra sat at her vanity, sunlight spilling in through gauzy curtains. Outside, birds sang. Inside, her house elf, Pixie, hummed a lullaby as she twisted Lyra’s hair into an elaborate braided crown.

“You’ll be the loveliest bloom in the garden, Miss,” Pixie chirped, tying a silver ribbon with a proud flick of her fingers.

Lyra managed a smile, small and strained. Her fingers found the locket at her throat; the one Lucius had given her for Christmas. She thumbed the cool silver, aching for the version of them who still believed in warmth.

A knock interrupted the moment.

Before Pixie could even scurry toward the door, it flung open.

“Lyra!”

Helena burst in, sunshine in the shape of a girl. Her robes shimmered lemon-yellow, cinched at the waist with a ribbon that matched the one in her glossy hair. She looked radiant, except for the tightness around her eyes.

“You look stunning,” Lyra said.

Helena huffed as she threw herself onto the bed. “House elves are miracle workers. You, however, look like you just stepped out of a painting.”

“Liar,” Lyra said, but her smile widened a touch.

Helena’s voice dropped low. “Tell me your house doesn’t feel like it’s seconds from cracking open. Mine’s a slow-motion disaster. I swear if Mother grits her teeth any harder behind a smile, she’ll shatter her own jaw.”

Lyra nodded grimly. “It’s like they’ve forgotten how to speak to each other. Father barely says two words. And Mother… she’s performing happiness like she’s on stage.”

Helena gave a dry laugh. “At least we know one thing, Malfoys don’t separate. You’ll get matching icy silences for the rest of your life, but divorce? Unthinkable.”

Lyra chuckled, despite herself, and Helena reached out to grasp her hand.

“I hate this,” Helena said suddenly, voice softer. “This feeling. Like we’re old enough to see the cracks and hear the whispers, but too young to be part of the conversation. It’s like our futures are being drawn for us in ink we didn’t choose.”

Lyra squeezed her friend’s hand in return. “I know.”

The mood was beginning to weigh too heavily on them both, so Lyra, in a gentle attempt to shift the energy, asked with a teasing smile, “Will you be walking the gardens with a certain James today?”

Helena’s cheeks tinted the color of spring roses. “I... what? No. Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed, brushing invisible lint off her robes. “He’s far too pleased with himself. Thinks being clever is a personality trait.”

Lyra laughed. “You didn’t say no.”

Helena gave a mock gasp. “How dare you. Turning my own deflection against me.” Then, with a sly look, she added, “What about you? Will you be strolling the hedgerows with a certain brooding Lord.”

The laughter drained from Lyra’s face.

Helena caught it instantly. “Oh. Lyra, I didn’t...”

“It’s alright,” Lyra said, gaze dropping. “Last time we walked together in those gardens, he told me I was being thrust upon him.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed. “And yet he circles you like a moon to a star.”

“We’ve… mended things. A bit. But I think his heart’s somewhere else now.” Her voice dimmed. “Red-haired. Gryffindor.”

Helena scoffed. “Lily? Please. She’s sweet, but she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “You’re a little biased.”

“I’m brilliant. There’s a difference.”

They both laughed, real and sudden. The tension broke, if only for a moment.

A melodic chime echoed faintly from the hall, Acacia’s enchanted bells. Guests had begun to arrive.

Helena groaned dramatically. “And so, the performance begins.”

Lyra stood slowly, smoothing the front of her robes and glancing once more at her reflection in the mirror. Pixie had truly done a wonderful job, her braids were secure, the delicate ribbon still perfectly placed, and her makeup subtle yet refined. She looked every bit the polished pure-blood heiress she was expected to be.

Helena rose too, checking the ribbon in her hair. “At least the weather’s nice. That’s something.”

Lyra smirked. “Mother would’ve hexed the skies if the weather hadn’t been perfect.”

They shared a brief laugh before stepping toward the door, skirts whispering against polished floors. As they exited Lyra’s room and began descending the grand staircase, they could already hear the hum of conversation and distant music drifting in from the open French doors that led to the gardens.

The entrance hall had been transformed. House-elves scurried politely about, offering refreshments to arriving guests. Floral arrangements spilled over from ornate vases, each carefully selected to match the seasonal palette:
ivory roses, lavender sprigs, soft gold lilies. Lyra could practically see her mother’s signature in every detail.

And beyond the doors, the garden was already teeming with guests, laughing, sipping drinks, and meandering through the hedgerows and patio paths as if rehearsing lines in an old play they knew by heart.

Helena leaned closer. “Well, this is your family’s battlefield. Lead the charge.”

Lyra shot her a look but stepped forward.

They moved through the doors and onto the stone patio. Warm sunlight bathed the scene in gold. The air smelled of lilacs and rosewater, and a soft string quartet played from a shaded corner beneath a silken canopy. Everything was perfectly curated.

“Lyra, darling!” came a high voice from the right. Lady Selwyn approached, her robes a swirl of pale lilac, dragging her daughter along behind her like an accessory. “How grown you look. Just stunning. And Helena! What a treat!”

Both girls offered polite smiles and dipped their heads in practiced bows.

As Lady Selwyn moved on to charm the next socialite in sight, Helena muttered under her breath, “She once mistook me for my cousin and told me I’d grown taller. I’d like it noted that I am the shortest girl in our year.”

Lyra barely suppressed a laugh. “I am surprised she didn't think I was another Black sister again."

Together, they began to weave through the gathering, graceful, composed, but not entirely at ease. Lyra felt her spine straighten with each new gaze that settled on her. She caught her father's eyes once through the crowd. He nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t approach. He stood near the back, talking in low tones with a group of men Lyra didn’t recognize, men with sharp eyes and darker robes than most of the crowd.

“Who are those men with him?” Helena asked quietly.

“I don’t know. They don't look like the usual crew on the guest list.”

“Excellent,” Helena said dryly. “Mysterious men in dark robes. Always promising.”

Lyra’s gaze flicked toward her mother, champagne glass in hand, laughter bright and brittle.

“She keeps looking at Father like she doesn’t know him anymore.”

“She probably doesn’t,” Helena said softly. “But it’s not your job to fix it.”

“Feels like it is.”

“Come on. Let’s get drinks before someone tries to auction us off.”

At the refreshment table, Lyra reached for lavender lemonade.

“Lyra.”

She turned.

Lucius stood there, every inch the perfect pure-blooded son, immaculate robes, composed expression. But his eyes seemed tired.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice quiet, “Mother wants you greeting guests at the Rose Arch.”

Lyra blinked. “Of course. Anything else I should do to uphold the family brand?”

Lucius’s jaw twitched. “Not today, Lyra. Please. Too many people are watching.”

Their eyes locked. Long enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

Helena nudged her lightly. “Let’s go, darling heiress. Duty calls.”

As they stepped beneath the rose arch into the golden sunlight, Lyra straightened her back once more and smiled, poised, polished, pureblood perfection.

Even if inside, she felt like someone else entirely.

Chapter Text

The rose arch at the heart of the Malfoy gardens was the crown jewel of the estate’s spring display. Blooming with pale pink and ivory roses, it framed the garden's central path like an enchanted gate. Guests passed beneath it
one by one, pausing to admire its beauty, unaware of the careful choreography it demanded from its hosts.

Lyra and Helena stood just beneath its flowering canopy, the picture of pure-blood grace. Their smiles were polite, their curtsies elegant, and their practiced greetings were delivered with the fluidity of girls raised to handle scrutiny.

“You look radiant, Miss Malfoy,” an older gentleman remarked, offering a courteous bow.

Lyra dipped her chin. “You’re too kind, Lord Travers. Enjoy the gardens.”

Helena leaned closer as he passed, whispering through her smile, “I’m going to develop a cramp in my cheek before we even make it through the hour.”

“Three more rounds of this and I’m naming a rose after my patience,” Lyra whispered back.

Just as another couple approached, Lyra caught movement from the far end of the path, three figures, not stiff and slow like the other guests, but casual, relaxed, and very much out of place in the carefully curated elegance of the event.

James, Sirius, and Severus.

Lyra blinked, briefly thrown off her rhythm. Helena followed her gaze, then let out a breathy chuckle. “Well, well. Look who’s been allowed off their leash.”

The trio were walking without the careful postures expected of the occasion. James's hair was predictably wild, but his robes were crisp and freshly pressed, betraying a mother’s intervention. Sirius, in dark blue, looked far too charming for someone who claimed to detest formality. And Severus, stoic in simple black, walked a half-step behind, reserved, unreadable.

“Lyra!” James called, his grin bright and untamed. “Didn’t expect to find you playing garden statue!”

Lyra’s lips twitched. “Some of us were born to suffer for our family names.”

Helena added with a smirk, “And some of us just enjoy judging others in formalwear.”

Sirius grinned. “That’s my favorite part of the afternoon so far.”

James offered an exaggerated bow. “Miss Malfoy. Miss Parkinson.”

“Mr. Potter,” Helena replied smoothly, a curious glint in her eye. “You’re dressed like someone who was threatened into it.”

James beamed. “Correct. My mother, a wand, and three separate threats that involved my ability to fly.”

Helena smirked. “So that’s why you’re behaving.”

James leaned a bit closer to her. “Am I?”

Helena blinked, caught slightly off guard.

“May I say,” Sirius cut in, his tone dripping with mischief, “you both look terrifyingly perfect.”

Helena recovered and laughed. “Terrifying is the goal. Keeps the less interesting suitors away.”

Then, all eyes turned almost instinctively to Severus.

He stood a little apart, hands tucked in his sleeves. His dark gaze flicked to Lyra, intense and fleeting.

“Severus,” she said, quieter than the rest, her voice almost hesitant.

He stepped forward, nodding. “You look… lovely.”

A pause. It was delicate, the space between their words. Too much to be casual, too little to be obvious.

Lyra offered a small smile. “You wear black like it’s your second skin.”

“I’m comfortable in it,” he replied, then, after a beat, “It suits the contrast.”

She tilted her head. “Contrast to what?”

“To pink roses,” he said, and then looked away, ears tinged faintly red.

Helena raised an eyebrow at Lyra but said nothing, her smirk growing more pronounced.

“So,” Sirius began, clearly trying to break the tension, “do you two ever get to leave this post, or are you rooted here truly like decorative statues?”

“Another twenty minutes and we’ll be allowed to roam,” Helena replied. “Assuming we don’t faint from all of this curtsying in heavy robes."

“Allow me to catch you,” James offered.

“You’d drop her,” Sirius muttered.

He smirked. “Only a little.”

Helena found herself blinking again.

James smirked. “Well, the three of us are officially bored out of our minds, so if you’re looking to disappear for a stroll... we know the way to the west gardens.”

Lyra arched a brow. “You know the manor’s layout?”

James winked. “Sirius may or may not have gotten us lost trying to find the loo. We discovered several servants’ corridors, a portrait that whistles when you walk past, and a highly judgmental cat.”

“The cat belongs our neighbor Lady Burke,” Lyra said, deadpan. “It’s older than all of us and hates everyone equally.”

Helena nudged Lyra gently. “Shall we escape for a bit? Let the arch host itself?”

Lyra glanced over her shoulder. Her parents were distracted, her mother laughing with guests, her father deep in conversation.

“I wouldn’t mind walking,” she admitted. “Just for a few minutes.”

Helena looped her arm through Lyra’s. “Let's go quickly then, before someone tries to marry us off to a third cousin.”

They turned, but Sirius paused and offered an arm to Theresa, who had silently approached. “Miss Greengrass, care to accompany us in our scandalous retreat?”

Theresa smiled primly. “So long as there are no cats or gossiping portraits.”

“I make no promises,” Sirius said solemnly.

The group turned from the rose arch together, Severus fell into step beside Lyra, quiet but present. He didn’t speak, but his hand briefly brushed hers, intentional or accidental, she wasn’t sure.

Lyra didn’t pull away.

The noise of the party faded behind them with every step they took. The string quartet's delicate notes became a whisper on the wind, drowned out by the rustling of tall hedgerows and birdsong echoing through the trees. The
western gardens of Malfoy Manor were far less manicured than the main lawn, a place where wildflowers were allowed to bloom freely, and the paths curved more like streams than straight lines. It was quieter here. Softer.
It felt like breathing for the first time in days.

Lyra kicked off her heels as soon as they were out of view. “I swear, these were designed by someone who wanted women to suffer beautifully.”

“Agreed,” Helena muttered, following suit. “The pain in my feet was starting to match the ache in my cheeks from all of the smiling.”

James, walking a few steps ahead, turned around and grinned. “You mean that wasn’t real charm radiating off you two?”

“About as real as your hair being combed today,” Helena shot back.

Sirius barked a laugh. “She got you, mate.”

“Et tu, Black?” James feigned betrayal, pressing a hand to his chest.

Helena then pointed toward a weeping willow that arched dramatically over a small stone bench. “Race you,” she challenged, already gathering her robes like a daring child.

Lyra blinked. “You’re serious?”

“No, I’m Sirius,” the boy in question replied with a wink.

“Merlin help us,” Lyra said with a grin, and without another word, she sprinted after Helena, laughing as she kicked up grass and scattered petals in her wake.

James whooped and followed, dragging Sirius with him in an explosion of energy and charm. Even Severus cracked a faint smile before strolling after them, he didn’t run, but he kept them in view.

They collapsed under the willow in a heap of laughter and tangled robes. Lyra flopped onto the grass, breathless, her braid slightly loosened, and her cheeks flushed in the best way.

“I needed this,” she said, eyes turned to the canopy of leaves above. “All of it, just this.”

Helena nodded from beside her. “Same. No parents, no expectations, no professor telling me my essay wasn't long enough."

James was still panting. “No offense, but I thought pure-blooded girls were trained to glide around silently in ballrooms. Not sprint like wild hounds.”

“We’re full of surprises,” Lyra quipped.

Sirius dropped down beside her. “Clearly. And here I thought this party would be all champagne, chandeliers, and mind-numbing conversation about bloodlines.”

“To be fair,” Theresa said, settling on the grass with the grace of someone raised in society, “that’s exactly what it was until about fifteen minutes ago. At least now we’re not being paraded like prize ponies.”

Helena lay back with a grin. “Not yet. Parading of the ponies is at five this evening. I saw it clearly outlined in the schedule."

James, catching his breath, nudged Helena with his shoulder. “You’re a better runner than I expected.”

“Your better company than I expected,” she shot back, then blinked. “I mean..."

James’s smirk deepened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Helena groaned. “You would.”

Sirius then tossed a blade of grass at James. “Now would you look at us, scandalously unchaperoned in the western garden.”

Helena gasped theatrically. “Think of the headlines. Daughters of Ancient Houses Caught Romping with Gryffindors.”

“Romp?” Lyra raised a brow. “Please never use that word again.”

Laughter erupted again, and for a while, it didn’t matter who their parents were or what burdens they carried. Here, under the trees and away from expectation, they were just young and free.

Eventually, the group fell into quieter conversation.

James plucked a dandelion and absently twirled it in his hand. “So... we do this again next year?”

“If we survive another year of Professor McGonagall’s essays,” Helena added.

“Or another year of society luncheons,” Sirius said with a grimace.

“Or glitter bomb pranks from Peeves,” Theresa muttered.

Lyra closed her eyes, breathing in the spring air, the smell of grass and rosewater, of something simpler.

“Let’s just survive this day first,” she said. “And maybe not trip on our way back to the rose arch.”

Helena groaned. “We will have to go back to smiling like our surnames depend on it.”

“They kind of do,” Lyra said quietly. “But we had this. We’ll remember this.”

Severus sat slightly apart, knees drawn up, gaze flicking over the group, but pausing again on Lyra.

“You deserve more than just a moment,” he said softly.

She turned her head toward him, caught off guard.

For a heartbeat, she believed him.

Then the wind moved. The leaves rustled.

And the moment passed.

Chapter Text

The last lanterns of the garden party had long since gone out, their golden light replaced by moonbeams slipping through the tall windows of Malfoy Manor. The air still carried the faint, bittersweet scent of trampled rose petals and spilled champagne, like echoes of laughter clinging stubbornly to the hedgerows.

Inside Lyra’s bedroom, affectionately dubbed the silver room by her closest friends, the atmosphere had shifted from stifling civility to something warmer. Intimate. Conspiratorial. Her four-poster bed had become a sprawling nest of silk cushions, rumpled throws, and hastily discarded outer robes. The girls lounged in a comfortable sprawl, all soft nightdresses, messy braids, and bare feet.

A teapot floated lazily between them, enchanted by Pixie to keep refilling itself with soothing lavender and lemon balm tea. On the low table, a plate of slightly-stale party pastries sat half-raided, beside a dainty bowl of candied violets, Helena’s singular endorsement from the entire affair.

Helena groaned dramatically, flopping backward into a cushion like a dying starlet. “If one more old man had asked whether I’d ‘blossomed into my mother’s figure’ or inherited her ‘hostess instincts’, I swear to Circe, I’d have thrown myself into the koi pond and let the carp finish me.”

Lyra snorted. “Can you imagine the headline? Parkinson Heiress Leaps into Ornamental Fishpond: Claims She’s Fleeing the Ghost of Pureblood Femininity.”

“I wouldn’t even deny it,” Helena sighed, draping an arm over her eyes.

“You’d still complain about the water temperature,” muttered Theresa from her cocoon of blankets by the headboard.

Helena opened one eye and gestured vaguely. “Hypothermia beats leering old men any day my dear.”

Lyra giggled, the sound warm and unguarded. “Honestly, you would be the scandal of the season.”

“Better that than the walking cautionary tale Lady Bulstrode tried to make me into,” Theresa said, wrinkling her nose. “She cornered me by the punch and asked if I’d been gargling gravel over summer break. Elocution lessons, my arse.”

Lyra made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “She told me once I blinked too much when spoken to. What do you even say to that?”

Helena raised her arm just enough to smirk. “You double down. Blink dramatically. Bat your lashes until she’s halfway to a nervous breakdown.”

Their laughter this time was real, full and bright and tangled with youthful friendship. Not the tight, polite chuckles from the garden party. Not the kind that came with teacups and practiced posture.

This was real.

Lyra leaned back into her cushions, sighing contentedly. “This was the first party I didn’t want to vanish from before dessert. And that’s entirely thanks to you two, and a certain group of Gryffindor degenerates.”

Helena sat up, raising a sharp eyebrow. “Ah yes, your little garden romp with the Gryffindor boys. And one particularly charming, albeit brooding Slytherin Lord.”

Theresa gave Lyra a teasing nudge. “It was nice. Like, for a while we weren’t pretending. We weren’t polished. We were just… us.”

Lyra’s smile softened. “Exactly.”

Then she straightened with mischief gleaming in her eyes. “Alright, new game. One good thing from tonight. Just one. Something that didn’t make you want to scream.”

Helena’s answer was immediate. “James's tripping over his own robes while bowing to Lady Selwyn. I thought she was going to faint with horror.”

They all burst out laughing.

“Wasn’t that right before Sirius offered to duel Lady Nott’s parrot?” Theresa added, grinning. “What did it say again? Something about Gryffindors having fleas?”

Lyra grinned. “I nearly spit tea on my cousin when he pulled out his wand and addressed the parrot as ‘sir.’”

Helena laughed so hard she wheezed. “Honestly, worth attending just for that.”

Theresa turned to Lyra. “And you? What’s your one?”

Lyra hesitated, then looked toward the nightstand, where a certain book laid next to her wand. She thought about the run through the gardens, about how Sirius had made her laugh until her stomach hurt, about how Severus had touched her hand without flinching.

“I remembered I’m allowed to laugh,” she said softly.

A beat of quiet passed. Then Helena threw a pillow at her.

“Absolutely not. Too poetic. I demand something embarrassing.”

Lyra giggled, catching the pillow. “Fine, fine. Lucius tried to sneak out through the rose hedge. Got tangled in the thorns and was caught with Narcissa trying to kiss his wounds. I think I saw Mother pull him by the ear. It was glorious.”

Helena gasped. “You were holding that, and you gave us an emotional revelation first?!”

“I was setting the mood!” Lyra laughed.

They dissolved into giggles again. The sound drifted around the silver room like incense, soft, safe, sacred.

Eventually, the laughter gave way to whispers. Then whispers gave way to the kind of silence that only exists between people who know you down to your bones. The manor outside slumbered under the moon’s gaze. And for the first time in too many nights, Lyra fell asleep not with fear pressing against her ribs, but with warmth curling in her chest.
____
The dream began softly, as dreams often do.

A gentle hush blanketed the world, as if the universe itself were holding its breath.

Lyra stood in the library at Hogwarts.

But not as it was, not quite. The space shimmered at the edges, as if reality couldn’t fully remember its shape. The lamps overhead glowed with a faint, golden haze, their light dusting the rows of high-arched shelves like spilled honey. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, suspended in a world made of silence, parchment, and ghost-breath.

The scent of old books wrapped around her like a memory, parchment, ink, polished oak, and something faintly metallic beneath. Familiar. Comforting.

In her hands lay an ancient tome bound in cracked, dragon-hide leather. The words etched on the cover shimmered and shifted before her eyes.

Blood Magic: Ancestral Rites and Sacrifices.

Her fingers, trembling slightly, traced the spine. The pages fluttered open as if on their own, revealing faded script and runes that blurred as she tried to read them. Her eyes moved over the text, but nothing stayed. Nothing made sense.

Then...

A whisper.

“Lyra…”

Soft. Thread-thin. Brushed against her neck like cold breath.

She turned.

No one.

The shelves loomed tall and shadowed behind her, stretching far longer than they ever should have. A breeze stirred, though no windows were open. The flame of the nearest lamp guttered.

Then again, closer. Sharper.

“Lyra.”

She jerked around, heart thudding. Her grip tightened on the book, but her hands weren’t her own.

They were smaller. Softer. Tanned instead of pale.

The nails were bitten to the quick.

A cold ripple tore through her spine.

The book shivered, shifted, changed.

No longer Blood Magic. Now it read: Arithmancy: Intermediate Theories.

She blinked.

It changed again.

Hogwarts: A History.

The pages turned themselves. Faster. Faster. A blur of ink and time.

Then...silence.

A mirror rose from the book like smoke.

Her own face stared back at her, but it wasn’t her face.

Brown eyes.

A wide, expressive mouth.

Frizzed, bushy hair pulled into a loose, hurried ponytail.

Her breath hitched. Her knees wobbled.

“Miss Granger,” someone said behind her.

She spun.

Professor McGonagall stood just beyond the aisle tall, severe, her robes as crisp and dark as a midnight bell.

But she didn’t look at Lyra.

She looked through her.

“You can’t save them all,” McGonagall said, her voice not unkind. “But you must try.”

The library groaned. The stones wept ink. The shelves cracked open like ribs.

Everything twisted.

The ceiling melted upward into a yawning vortex of smoke and stars. The books dissolved into ash that fell like snow. The warmth vanished.

Now she stood in a long, narrow corridor.

The walls were stone, but slick and whispering. The torches lining them burned with cold blue fire, their light flickering like shattered glass. Shadows oozed across the floor like oil, crawling toward her with hungry fingers.

And at the end of the corridor...

He waited.

Lord Tom Riddle.

Young. Impossibly beautiful. Dressed in robes of black and maroon so dark they bled into the shadows. His face was perfection sculpted in marble, but wrong. Uncanny. Too smooth, too symmetrical. His dark eyes gleamed like wet obsidian, sharp with cruelty and curiosity.

“Curious little girl,” he said, voice velvet-laced steel. “Still trying to remember who you really are.”

Lyra tried to step back.

Her feet didn’t move.

“You wear her bones like a second skin,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward. “But you aren’t her, are you?”

Her voice came out hoarse. Hollow. “I... I don’t know who I am.”

He chuckled, soft, pitying.

“Don’t lie to me,” Riddle said, his smile razor-thin. “You’ve always known.”

Then...

Flashes.

Like lightning bolts behind her eyes.

A wand, broken in two.
A Time-Turner falling, smashing on stone.
The Room of Requirement, ablaze.
Smoke and screams.
A boy with wild green eyes calling her name.

“Hermione!”

Lyra dropped to her knees, clutching her head.

“No… no, I...I don’t know what that is. I don’t remember that!”

But she did.

Gods, she did.

For one terrifying moment, the memories surged, unstoppable.
She remembered running through the Ministry, cloak flying.
She remembered Ron.
Harry.
She remembered dying.

And then,

The memories tore from her like threads unraveling from a tapestry. Pulled away. Ripped out. Sucked into the void.

Riddle knelt beside her.

His presence was suffocating, magnetic. Like gravity had a voice.

“You can’t fight me forever,” he whispered, almost kindly.

“You were made for more than this charade.”

He reached out.

Cool fingers pressed to her forehead.

“You were reborn for me.”

—

Lyra shot upright.

Gasping. Drenched in sweat.

Her heart galloped beneath her ribs, wild and untamed.

Moonlight spilled across the silver room, soft and pale, slanting through sheer curtains like a benediction. The scent of roses and lemon balm tea still lingered faintly in the air, as if daring her to believe the night had been gentle.

Her fingers flew to her chest.

The locket.

Still there.

Cool. Heavy. Real.

To her left, Helena lay sprawled in sleep, one arm tossed above her head.

To her right, Theresa curled under a blanket, breathing soft and even.

The room was still.

But Lyra’s world was not.

Something ancient had stirred inside her. Something dark. Terrifying.

And far too familiar.

She wasn’t sure it was new at all.

She was beginning to wonder…
What if it had always been there?

The hours slipped past, slow and silent, until the room began to brighten.

Sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains. The silver room warmed in soft tones, lavender shadows retreating beneath golden morning light. A few half-eaten pastries still lingered on the tray. Teacups sat empty, cold.

Lyra hadn’t moved.

She sat upright, unmoving, staring at nothing.

Her hands rested atop the blankets, fingers curled slightly as if still gripping something unseen. Her breath came slow. Too slow.

She could still feel the dream clinging to her like fog that refused to lift.

But it hadn’t faded.

It had sharpened.

She closed her eyes, and the fragments rushed back.

Blood magic. A mirror. Brown eyes that weren’t hers. McGonagall’s voice. Riddle’s touch. Her name spoken in a way that didn’t belong to this life.

Hermione.

Her throat tightened.

She pressed her palm to her forehead where he’d touched her. The skin was cool, unmarked. But she could still feel the phantom imprint of his fingers, like a brand. Not painful.

But possessive.

Helena murmured something in her sleep and rolled over, but Lyra didn’t move.

The dream hadn’t come from nowhere.

She knew that now.

Something was pressing against the walls of her mind. Memories, or ghosts of memories, just beyond reach. Not dreams. Not fantasy.

Something deeper.

Older.

Truer.

She had felt it last night.

In the hedgerows with Sirius, when his laughter pulled something real out of her.
In Severus’s brief touch, when her heart had paused. She could acknowledge that it wasn't just in a young girl's infatuation but....

In recognition.

But recognition of what?

Or who?

She had always felt like she didn’t fully belong, not in Slytherin, not in society, not even in her own skin.
There had always been something off-kilter, a quiet friction beneath everything. The way pure-blood culture grated against her, even though it was all she’d ever known. The Sorting Hat stall that dragged on too long, whispering about Gryffindor. The way she never quite fit the mold this life seemed desperate to pour her into, no matter how hard she tried.

What if that was because it had never been hers to begin with?

But then, Theresa rose from her sleeping area, half wrapped in a robe, hair wild with sleep.

“You alright?” she asked gently. “You look… pale.”

Lyra blinked. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring.

“I’m fine,” she lied. Her voice sounded distant in her own ears. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

Theresa gave a sympathetic smile. “Too much candied violet and scandal? Happens to the best of us.”

Lyra tried to return the smile.

She couldn’t.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug with a whisper. The room still smelled faintly of tea and last night’s laughter.

But all she could taste was ash.

Chapter Text

Ash and Ink

Lyra couldn’t shake the taste.

Even after she rinsed her mouth twice each morning since the awful dream and it had been weeks since.

Ash clung to her tongue like a secret no spell could wash away.

The corridors of Hogwarts had taken on their familiar late-term hush. There were no more dawdling conversations or impromptu Quidditch chants echoing off the stone walls, only the anxious hush of academic survival. The castle had turned introspective, as if the very stones braced themselves for the weight of student stress.

She walked the halls in silence, one hand trailing the cool banister as she ascended toward the library. Her arm still ached, a dull pull deep in the muscle, but it was almost welcome now something tangible. Something she could name.

Unlike the dream.

Unlike the memory that wasn’t a memory.

Hermione.
The name echoed under her ribs. Each time it surfaced, she felt less like Lyra Malfoy, daughter of legacy and house pride, and more like something misplaced someone trying to fit into skin that didn’t quite belong.

She shoved the thought aside as the library doors came into view.

Inside, the shift in energy was palpable.

Every table was occupied.

Books rose like battlements between weary students, shielding them from distraction and daylight. Quills scratched endlessly against parchment. Sighs and whispered revisions floated between rows of shelves like drifting ghosts.

It was familiar. Predictable.

Safe.
She needed that.

Lyra made her way to her usual seat near the tall, arched windows where the afternoon sun spilled across the table like spilled ink. The light was warm on her shoulders, but her skin felt chilled beneath her robes. She sat down slowly, laying out her materials.

The ache in her arm pulsed with a slow rhythm. She ignored it.

From across the table, Theresa offered her a soft smile. “Moonstone,” she murmured, half-asleep over her notes. “It’s good for… clarity, I think?”

“In calming draughts and lunar elixirs,” Lyra said gently, her voice quieter than usual.

Theresa exhaled in relief. “Thank Merlin. My brain is soup.”

Lyra gave a weak smile but didn’t look up. Her quill moved on autopilot, her notes forming almost mechanically. She knew this content. Knew these spells. Knew the thirteen uses of dragon’s blood backward and forward.
It was the why that eluded her.

Why the air still tasted like fire and old magic.

Why McGonagall’s voice still echoed in her dreams.

Why Riddle’s eyes, those dark, gleaming eyes seemed so enraptured with her.

Her hand twitched, the ink smudging on the edge of her parchment. She cursed under her breath and rubbed at it with the side of her sleeve.

Nearby, Helena flopped into a chair with Witch Weekly in hand, already groaning about the heat and the injustice of academic expectations.

The usual banter returned Sirius sliding into the seat beside her with the swagger of someone who’d made the library his stage, James quipping like it was oxygen, Remus still acting wary around the group, and Severus materializing from behind a tower of books like a particularly judgmental shadow.

It should have been enough to anchor her.

It almost was.

But beneath the rhythm of exams, beneath the thrum of everyday stress and friendly bickering, something deeper stirred in her blood.
And no matter how hard she tried to focus on essays, charts, and potion ingredients…

She couldn’t stop wondering,
What had he meant?
You were reborn for me…
The words echoed like a hex inside her skull, silken and insidious.
Lyra’s breath hitched.

Lord Riddle.

What part does he play in all this?

She had her suspicions, but was he the one to cause the Forbidden Forest incident?

Or was Lyra just going insane?

She shoved back from the table so suddenly her ink pot nearly toppled. Her chair scraped against the floor with a sharp screech that drew a few curious glances, but she barely noticed.
“I need… another book,” she mumbled, already rising to her feet, pressing a hand to her arm as if the motion could ground her.

Severus looked up immediately from behind his stack of Potions texts. His eyes narrowed, not in annoyance, but in subtle concern. He closed the book in front of him without a word and rose to follow.

They slipped into the deeper reaches of the library, beyond the rows of frantic studying and whispered review questions. Here, in the cooler shadows of the older stacks, the air felt quieter, dustier, ancient. It smelled of forgotten parchment, and candle wax.

Lyra's fingers trailed along the spines, her pace fast at first, restless until she came to a halt near an old charms section. She reached up, pulled down a thick, weathered tome, and handed it to him with a slightly unsteady hand.

“Here,” she said, voice thinner than usual. “Might help. Or at least distract me from losing my mind.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Light reading?”

A flicker of her usual sarcasm returned, weak but present. “For the insomnia.”

His eyes lingered on her face, searching. Something was off. Not just exhaustion or stress. It was in the way her hand gripped her elbow. The way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for something unseen.

“Is it the arm again?” he asked quietly.

Lyra hesitated, then nodded. “That. And… other things.”

Severus waited. Patient. Silent.

She finally spoke, her voice low, intimate, weighted. “Do you remember when I got caught sneaking into the Restricted Section?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Vividly. Your brother nearly had an aneurysm. Said you had, and I quote, ‘astonishingly little self-preservation for a Slytherin.’”

A faint smile touched her lips before fading just as quickly. “I had to go. I was looking for something. I’ve been researching dark runes. Ancient blood curses. Not the usual textbook stuff, the kind that’s nearly scrubbed from records.”

His posture shifted, more alert now. “You think one of them was used on you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t feel like an ordinary hex. It feels... heavy. Alive. Like something is lingering. Watching.”

Severus didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t dismissive, it was measured. Thinking.

“I found references,” she went on, “to potions that slow the spread of corrupted or cursed magic. Some even claim to purge it, but they’re advanced. Some require ingredients I couldn’t get even if I tried.”

“Which ones?” he asked, already stepping closer, as if mentally cataloguing.

“One needed wyrmwood harvested during a lunar eclipse,” she said tiredly. “Another required refined blood crystals, a binding essence, even basilisk scale. Stuff I can’t touch without getting flagged...or killed.”

“They’re complicated,” Severus admitted, “but not impossible.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Severus, those brews challenge trained masters. I don't even understand the full theory behind half of them.”

“I’m no master,” he said with quiet certainty. “But I’m not unskilled. I like potions. I’m good at them. Show me the formulas, and I’ll take a look. Maybe I can find a way to simplify it. Or rework it. If it takes me time to learn, ill learn. Ill master the subject if I have to.”

Lyra stared at him, not with disbelief, but with a slow, fragile blooming of something like hope. The dream still pressed at the edges of her mind, the phantom memory of Riddle’s voice seeping into her bones, but Severus’s calm presence anchored her. His words weren’t dramatic. They were solid. Intentional.

“You’d really help?” she asked softly.

His answer was simple. “If it helps you, yes.”

Silence followed. But it wasn’t the sharp, uncertain kind. It was quiet, and deep, and full.

Then Lyra moved, sudden, unguarded. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a full embrace, pressing her face into his robes.

This time, Severus didn’t hesitate like he had around Christmas, his arms came around her, only struggling because of the book he was holding. His chin hovered just above her temple, his breath brushing the crown of her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice small but full.

They stood like that for a moment longer, and when they pulled apart. Severus let her go gently. His expression was composed, but his eyes held something softer now. Less guarded.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, glancing down at the book in his hands. “Just don’t get caught sneaking into the Restricted Section again.”

Then, a flicker of dry amusement touched Severus’s voice as he looked sidelong at her.

“At least not without me.”

That coaxed a real smile from Lyra, unfiltered, warm, and fleetingly free.

“No promises.”

Then from somewhere beyond the shelves, James’s voice rang out, unmistakably loud and full of exaggerated urgency.
“Oi, Severus! If you can hear me in your little library escapade, can you come help me real quick with a potions question?”

Severus let out a quiet, resigned groan.

Lyra tilted her head toward the sound, giving him a knowing grin. “You know he’s only going to get louder if you don’t go out there. And if he starts shouting about bezoars again, Madam Pince will throw us all out.”

Severus exhaled a soft chuckle. “James does have a gift for the theatrical. I’ll take this back to the table for you.”

He lifted the book in one hand and turned to leave, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he moved to intercept his persistent friend.

Lyra lingered in the shadows a moment longer, her fingers trailing absently along the edge of a shelf. The faint echo of her dream pulsed behind her eyes, the ghost of Riddle’s voice slithering through her thoughts.

You were reborn for me.

She shivered.

And then turned away.

She needed air.

Not a rush of it, just enough to remind her she was here, now. That the scent of old parchment wasn’t smoke, that the stone floor beneath her feet wasn’t ash. That she wasn’t her.

Not Hermione. Not whoever Riddle thought she was.

Just Lyra.

She ducked out of the far corner of the library, passing under the tall archway that led to the adjoining corridor. The afternoon light filtered through the long windows, casting latticework shadows across the floor. The air was cooler here, quieter. She leaned against the stone for a breath.

And that was when she heard him.

"Didn't think you were one to disappear mid-study session."

The voice was soft, warm, slightly amused.

Lyra turned.

Remus leaned casually against the far end of the hallway, half-shadowed by a high arched window, a book tucked beneath one arm. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his collar a little askew. His eyes a gentle, amber, were focused on her with quiet curiosity. He looked better than how Lyra remembered him the night she, James, and Sirius found him hunched over with blood on his sleeve and a lie already forming on his tongue.

“Needed a breather,” she said, brushing her braid over one shoulder. “Didn’t realize I was being monitored.”

He smiled, stepping closer. “I hate to break it to you Lyra, but if you are friends with James and Sirius, you are constantly monitored. I swear they would make a map to track us all if they could.”

“Mm. I don't actually think you're wrong on that, maybe let's not give them any ideas.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The kind of quiet where breath slows and neither party dares press too hard.

“You looked…” He trailed off, glancing away as if weighing the word. “Unsettled.”

She didn’t respond immediately.

Eventually, she whispered, “Dreams.”

He looked back at her.

“The bad kind?”

“The remembering kind.”

His expression didn’t change. But something shifted behind his eyes. A flicker, recognition. Pain, maybe.

“I know those,” he said quietly. “The ones that don’t feel like dreams at all.”

She nodded once. “Like you wake up with someone else’s name stuck in your throat.”

He hesitated. Then: “Whose name?”

Lyra’s fingers curled tighter around the stone sill. “Doesn’t matter.”

Another beat.

“You ever feel like something’s wrong with you?” she asked suddenly. “Not like, ‘failed a test’ wrong. But like… something is cracked in your bones and no one else sees it?”

Remus didn’t answer at first.

Then he stepped closer, still keeping space between them, but just enough to be heard over the hush of the corridor.

“Yes,” he said.

One word. One truth.

Her eyes met his then, startled.

He didn’t offer anything else. Didn’t explain.

But that was the thing about secrets, they recognized their own.

He rubbed the back of his neck absently, clearly uncomfortable now that something real had been spoken aloud.

“For what it’s worth,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter, “I don’t think you’re cracked. I think you’re carrying something heavy. And pretending not to.”

Lyra swallowed hard, the lump in her throat rising without permission.

“Maybe you don’t even know the real me.”

“I recognize the look.”

A long pause.

“Takes one to know one I suppose...” she said.

Remus didn’t deny it. Just offered a faint, crooked smile. “Some of us learn early how to wear masks that don’t quite fit.”

She studied him, her expression unreadable.

The haunted look she carried had met its match in his. Different shadows, same weight.

“I should get back,” she said, her voice quieter now. “James was pestering Severus on potions.”

Remus nodded and stepped back, his usual distance sliding back into place like armor.

As she passed him, he added without looking at her, “If you ever need a distraction… or someone who doesn’t ask questions…I am an excellent letter writer.

Lyra paused. Not long. Just a breath.

Then she nodded, and walked away.

Remus remained in the corridor, staring out through the same window she’d left behind, watching nothing in particular but worrying about everything.

Chapter Text

The final echoes of incantations still lingered in the stone corridors as the group spilled out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the setting sun slanting through the tall windows like a warm exhale of relief.

Sirius was grinning as if he’d just set off fireworks in the Great Hall. “Did anyone see that Knockback Jinx? Flung her clean off her feet, poetry in motion!”

“I let you land it,” Lyra muttered, brushing imaginary dust off her robes with wounded dignity. “And for the record, the floor is not forgiving. I’ll be bruised until July.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” James said, breezing up beside them with a smirk. “Would you have preferred a featherbed landing? Next time we’ll enchant a mattress to follow you around.”

Helena let out a melodramatic sigh, tossing her hair like a cursed opera heroine. “I don’t care if I got hit by a troll, I’m just thrilled it’s over. Exams are dead. Long live summer.”

“Hopefully we actually passed them,” Remus muttered, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed his relief.

“When’s the last time Hogwarts actually held someone back?” Sirius asked, slinging an arm around James’s shoulder. “They’d have to be a public menace, like James with a wand and three cups of tea.”

“September 1926,” Theresa said without missing a beat. “Corbin Yaxley. Slytherin. Failed Charms and Arithmancy. Headmaster Dippet barred his advancement.”

Helena groaned. “Theresa, I love you, but you can truly put a damper on things.”

Peter trailed quietly behind the group, close enough to hear, never quite close enough to join in, like a nervous moon orbiting a chaotic sun.

As the corridor narrowed, Severus drifted beside Lyra. Their shoulders brushed, just barely, in the tide of students.

He leaned in, voice quiet. “Are you actually sore from the fall?”

Without missing a beat, Lyra replied, “Don’t let Sirius hear you ask that. He’ll treat it like a trophy.”

A rare chuckle escaped Severus, quiet, dry, almost lost in the noise. But not to her.

Ahead, Sirius spun mid-step, walking backward like a showman. “Now that we’ve survived actual magical warfare and academic trauma, I say we celebrate! One glorious week left of school. No homework. No exams. Just us, Hogwarts, and mischief waiting to happen.”

James lit up. “We should raid the Great Hall, snag some food, get outside. It’s gorgeous out, and if I spend one more minute indoors, I’ll combust.”

Helena rolled her eyes. “You combust if someone slightly disagrees with you.”

But there were no real objections.

Within minutes, they’d scattered and regrouped, arms full of cauldron cakes, pumpkin juice, sandwiches, and enough napkins to stage a paper rebellion. They followed the worn path to the Black Lake, to the familiar tree that waited like an old friend.

The air was warm and humming with the promise of summer.

Conversation flowed easily as they sprawled across blankets and robes. James and Sirius were first to kick off their shoes and fling their socks into the grass.

“Come on, Remus!” Sirius yelled, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward the water.

“Wait—I—SIRIUS—!”

Peter squeaked and hurried after them, robes tangling around his legs.

Helena gasped in mock horror. “Oh no. Ankles! I’m scandalized!” She fanned herself with a napkin, then turned to Theresa with a wicked grin. “Come on. Let’s show them how real witches make a splash.”

Lyra’s eyes widened, but before she could protest, both girls had stripped off their outer robes and were sprinting across the grass, whooping with laughter. Helena wagged her eyebrows as she went, dragging Theresa along like a woman on a mission.

Left on the blanket, Lyra flushed under the deepening blue of dusk.

She closed her eyes and tried to hold the moment, to let it fill her without the ache of her dreams or the sting in her arm spoiling it. She was tired. Bone-tired. Her sleep providing her little comfort these days.

Severus sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulders nearly touching but not quite. His eyes followed the chaos for a moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before turning back to her.

“I’ve been looking into the potions,” he said, quiet but deliberate. “You were right, they’re not just obscure. They’re pompous in their complexion. But between your curiosity and my skill…” He tilted his head, dry amusement ghosting his voice. “We might just get somewhere.”

Lyra exhaled, tension unspooling from her shoulders. “Thank you. For looking. Really. But... not tonight.” Her voice softened. “I don’t want to think about the arm. Or dark runes. Truly after those exams, I want to think of nothing.”

She opened her eyes and looked out at the lake, where her friends shouted and splashed, lit gold by the last threads of sun. “We survived the year. I want that to be enough, for now.”

He nodded. He didn’t press.

After a pause, he said gently, “What’s your favorite thing about Hogwarts?”

She blinked, a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Is this your idea of small talk?”

“Call it an ongoing experiment in human observation,” he said dryly.

Lyra let her gaze drift, Sirius cannonballing with reckless glee, James shrieking about losing his wand, Helena declaring herself “Mer-Queen of Summer” from atop a rock.

“I think it’s this,” she said softly. “This weird, mismatched group I never expected to care so much about. Somehow... they became mine.”

Severus tilted his head. “Acceptable answer.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Your turn.”

He hesitated. Then: “There’s a girl. At first, I thought she was... a complication. Now, I find her endlessly confusing. And unexpectedly important.”

Her breath caught.

Before she could speak, it hit, sharp and sudden.

A bolt of heat sliced through her cursed arm. She gasped, clutching it.

“Lyra?” Severus’s voice shifted tight, immediate. His calm replaced by alertness.

She shook her head, biting down a wince. “It’s fine. Just a flare.”

But it wasn’t fine.

It was a reminder.

The curse wasn’t gone. The mystery wasn’t solved. The danger still hovered in shadow. And the name Hermione lingered like smoke, haunting and unfinished.

Next year would come. And knowing her luck it would bring even more problems.

But for now, Lyra looked out at the familiar, maddening, precious people who had stumbled into her orbit and stayed. Her ragtag group. Her accidental lifeline.

And she let herself believe, just for tonight, that she wouldn’t have to face what came next alone.

They would help her. Piece by piece, truth by truth.

Together, they’d put the puzzle back together.

Chapter Text

The clearing lay hidden in the heart of the forest, bathed in the cold silver glow of the full moon. Wind whispered through the trees restlessly, searching, pulling at leaves and branches alike. The scent of mist thickened in the air; a storm was approaching, its edge already fraying the calm with gusts of its warning.

Carved into the packed earth of the clearing were runes, ancient, intricate, and mercilessly precise. Symbols of balance and blood, warding and will. Flowers and crushed herbs littered the soil in deliberate patterns, petals already caught in the gathering wind, as if nature itself hesitated to interfere.

At the edge of the circle, three women stood barefoot, their white linen dresses rippling in the gale like mourning banners. They held hands in a silent bond, their voices rising in rhythmic, breathless chant. The words weren’t beautiful; they were raw, forgotten, laced with power that had not seen sunlight in centuries. Magic born of desperation, twisted into something grim, necessary, and defiant.

As their chant intensified, so did the storm. Wind lashed through the trees like a living creature, flinging branches and shrieking through the canopy. The runes began to glow faintly, first silver, then red, as energy crawled from
the ground like fire beneath the skin. The chanting never stopped. If anything, it grew louder, more urgent.

Then the earth pulsed.

A shock of red light surged from the runes, forming a dome of energy that bathed the women in crimson. The light was not warm. It hummed with hunger and judgment.

Acacia broke from the chain first.

Without hesitation, she stepped forward into the center of the circle, the wind howling around her. Her white dress clung to her skin, soaked with sweat and mist. She knelt to the runes with solemn grace, her movements fluid, practiced.

She removed three items from her person: a locket that was cherished and loved; a family ring gleaming with pureblood arrogance; and a ring of black obsidian that was curiously carved with the Prince crest and placed them on the earth.

She drew a breath, then reached her thigh holster strapped beneath her dress. From it, she withdrew an ornamental blade, silver and green, etched with emeralds and ancient script. The blade shimmered unnaturally in the red light, as if it remembered its purpose.

Acacia made a long, clean cut along her forearm. Blood welled, bright against the storm-lit night, and she let it drip over the tokens, staining them red.

Then she raised her voice, raw and unshaken:

“Lady Magic, hear our plea.
You who birthed bloodlines and bound us to power,
You who whispered spells into the bones of witches,
We are yours still.
Guard those born of our blood and those we have chosen
Your gift is being twisted by ambition, made cruel by fear.
Help us unmake what has been corrupted.
Help us shield the innocent.
Help us save our children.”

She bowed low to the items, forehead brushing the earth, a supplicant before the altar of something older than gods. Then she stood, silent and pale, and returned to the circle.

Evangeline broke next. She moved with less ceremony but no less conviction. At the center, she placed a small cluster of tokens tied to her beloved Helena. She opened her skin with the same blade, let the blood fall, and whispered her plea. It was not loud, but the circle took it all the same.

Then it was Euphemia turn. She placed several items down, her hand lingering on them for a breath longer than necessary. She thought of her boys, one biological, and one chosen by her heart. She then cut her arm with silent
resolve, blood slipping down to mingle with the rest. Her voice was soft and certain.

As she rejoined the circle, the storm seemed to reach a crescendo. The wind screamed. Lightning clawed across the sky like talons.

And then Acacia looked up eyes wide, voice hoarse with power and cried out:
“Lady Magic and Mistress of Fate,
Bear witness to our vow!
Let your judgment fall like thunder.
Let your answer blaze across the sky.
For love, for blood, for the children who bear our name and for the ones we hold in our hearts.

The skies answered.

Lightning forked in furious succession one, two, three, and then a final, blinding bolt struck the center of the circle, encircling the offerings in a flash of searing light. The women were thrown backward by the force, their bodies limp, unconscious, dresses whipped by the final fury of the storm.

Then silence.

Not peace. Not calm. A stillness that rang like the aftermath of prophecy.

In the center of the runes, two figures stood, bathed in golden light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
They wore robes of shimmering thread, woven from starlight and history. Their faces were solemn. Timeless. Their eyes scanned the broken ritual with sorrow and understanding.
They did not speak.
They only watched, remembering all the mothers, across all the timelines, who had knelt in blood and begged for their children’s lives.

Chapter Text

Lyra found herself once again in the family parlor, a place steeped in nostalgia and the quiet opulence of old magic. The chandelier above glimmered softly, casting shifting patterns over velvet chairs and polished marble. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, fresh parchment, and the perfume her mother always wore.

Mother, Father, and Lucius were seated around her, engaged in warm, unguarded conversation. For once, there was no tension. No expectation. Only laughter and light.

Lyra felt happy. Unusually, profoundly happy.

Lucius cracked a rare joke, dry, sharp, just risqué enough to make her snort into her tea.

“Honestly, Lucius,” Mother chided, though a smirk curled at the corners of her mouth, betraying her amusement.

Father leaned forward, raising his glass to speak.

But the words never came.

They caught in his throat.

The chandelier flickered. Then sparked.

The parlor walls fractured.

Hairline cracks split through the wood paneling like lightning across glass. One by one, her family’s faces shattered into nothing, swept away by a sudden, icy wind.

Lyra blinked.

She was back at Hogwarts.

The stone corridor around her shook. A spell screeched past her ear and struck the wall behind, exploding into a shower of stone. Screams echoed real, shrill, panicked.

She spun.

Masked figures emerged from the smoke. Rushing. Firing. Dueling.

Lyra ducked, her wand slipping from her fingers. She dove for it just as another curse struck the floor near her feet, sending her skidding across the stones.

She scrambled upright.

Run.

It was the only word that made sense.

She ran, faster than she knew she could. Movement and light blurred together. A familiar face, Theresa? flashed past, dueling with reckless precision.

Then the floor gave way beneath her.

She screamed as she fell, down, down into choking darkness before crashing onto rotting floorboards. Pain screamed through her side as the air was knocked from her lungs.

Gasping, she sat up.

And gagged.

The scent of blood choked her. It hung thick and wet in the air. Her eyes adjusted slowly, and bile rose in her throat.

A body lay sprawled nearby. The professor from her other dreams. His neck was torn open, eyes staring into nothing. His robes were soaked red, the blood spreading like ink across the floor.

Lyra backed away, trembling and breathless.

Then came the footsteps.

She saw them.

Three silhouettes slipping down a crooked hallway. One of them a familiar girl with wild brown curls.

Lyra surged to her feet, legs screaming. She caught the girl’s shoulder.

The girl turned.

Amber eyes locked onto hers; they were blazing with a mixture of fury and utter despair.

Then she vanished.

Gone. All of it.

The shack. The body. The girl.

Lyra was back in the parlor.

The golden glow returned, soft and silent. For one impossible moment, she almost believed that the chaos was over.

Lucius then entered the room. But this time, he was older. Worn. His once-golden hair dulled, his posture sagging under unseen weight.

Behind him stood a teenage boy, eerily familiar. Pale, tense, his grey eyes scanned the room like a ghost in search of memory.

Lucius leaned toward the boy and whispered, “Is that the girl, Draco? Is that Hermione Granger?”

Lyra’s heart stuttered.

Hermione...Granger?

The name echoed like a stone dropped in still water. What did she have to do with this?

A scream rang out, sharp and feminine from just beyond the door.

Lyra turned toward the sound, bracing herself.

But the scene shifted again.

She stood outside now, in a moonlit field. The grass brushed her calves. The sky above shimmered with starlight.

A cloaked figure waited ahead, half in shadow, half caught in the moon’s silver glow.

He turned slowly. Though his face remained hidden, she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her. Dread closed around her chest like iron.

He raised his wand.

Avada...

A flash of green light

"No!"

Someone shoved Lyra.

Lyra hit the ground hard. As she turned, winded, she saw Helena standing in the path of the curse.

The spell struck her in the chest.

Lyra’s scream split the sky.

Helena’s face was frozen, grim, determined. Her eyes lifeless but knowing. She had chosen this.

She had sacrificed herself.

Lyra screamed again, ragged and raw.

“Lyra! Wake up! Lyra, wake up, my dear!”

She gasped and jolted upright. The world around her trembled.

She was in bed.

Her mother’s arms encircled her, warm and familiar, just like when Lyra was small and afraid of storms.

Lyra sobbed against her, clutching her nightgown with trembling fingers.

“Shh,” her mother murmured, smoothing her hair and tracing circles across her back. “Only a dream, my darling. Only a dream.”

But Lyra knew better.
___________

The manor was silent at dawn. Pale grey light filtered through the tall windows of the east corridor, casting shadows across the polished floors. The stillness didn’t feel peaceful. It felt expectant.

Lyra’s slippers made no sound as she walked toward the library, arms crossed tightly as if holding herself together.

She hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Helena’s face. The professor’s body. The girl with burning eyes. Every time she closed her eyes, they surged back.

She found Lucius awake already, standing at a window with one hand on the frame and a cooling cup of tea in the other.A fire was giving off a pale glow.

“Lyra,” he said, not turning. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied, stepping inside and closing the door. She hovered near the hearth before taking a nearby seat.

Lucius turned. “Bad dreams again?”

She nodded. “But they have become different.”

He placed his tea cup down and then went to sit and gestured for her to speak.

And she told him everything.

The parlor. The castle. The corpse. The girl with curls. The field. The green flash. Helena.

And finally, Lucius’s whisper: Is that Hermione Granger?

When she finished, silence stretched between them, heavy with thought.

“You’ve never heard the name before?” Lucius asked quietly.

Lyra nodded. “Never in real life, but in my dreams, she is a constant presence as of late. And the way you said it, it was as if you recognized her.”

Lucius’s brow furrowed. “And yet I don’t recognize the name.”

“Lucius… am I going insane?”

There was a pause. Then Lucius leaned forward.
“Dreams, Lyra, especially in our family, are rarely without meaning. We carry old magic, traces of bloodlines so ancient they’ve outlived their own histories. Sometimes that magic remembers things we don’t.”

Her voice wavered. “I have had suspicions... but are you truly saying this is past-life magic?”

“I’m saying,” he muttered carefully, “that reincarnation is not as far-fetched as many in our circles would like to believe. Certain souls are drawn back to the world again and again, especially those tied to strong magic… or unfinished purpose.”

The fire cracked behind her. Lyra’s voice wavered. “So…this Hermione Granger…is me?

“Perhaps,” Lucius said slowly. “Perhaps you were her. Or she will be you. Magic is not bound by linear time, it echoes, folds, sometimes bleeds into itself.”

Her breath caught. “Then the dream… Helena dying, the shack, the professor, it’s not all in my head.”

“No,” Lucius said quietly. “But it may not be your future, either. It could be a shadow of a life that was lived. Or one still waiting to happen.”

She rubbed her hands together, trying to calm the tightness in her chest. “And Draco? The boy who looked like you?”

Lucius’s expression flickered. “A future son? Or a mirrored soul. If your dream-self has lived multiple lives, then perhaps mine has as well. These threads may tangle more than you expect.”

“I don't understand how I can be someone else. And why now? Why haven’t I always remembered her? Does it have anything to do with my arm? Why these people?” Her voice broke a little on the last word.

Lucius didn’t answer at first.

Then he said, “Because, Lyra... something is stirring. You feel it, don’t you? The shifting. The way the air tastes wrong some days. The quiet in the manor that doesn’t feel like peace, but like something holding its breath.”

Lyra only nodded

“I’ve been trying to trace it since your incident,” he continued. “And I’m hearing whispers. Tom Riddle is gathering strength. Not just power, but purpose. Influence. The world is changing. And the magic in your soul is waking to meet it.”

Lyra’s jaw tensed. “What do I do?”

Lucius stood and moved to the bookshelves. He ran a finger along the spines, selected one, and handed it to her.

A Study of Magical Echoes: Temporal Reincarnation and Blood Memory.

“Start here,” he said. “Track what you dream. Pay attention to the moments that repeat. Faces that return. Emotions that don’t feel like your own. And that name, Hermione Granger. Find out what it means to you.”

Lyra took the book, hands trembling slightly.
“Another old book with riddles on how I am supposed to fix myself, I don’t want this to be real,” she whispered.

Lucius looked at her gently. “And yet, it is.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was reflective. Shared.

Lucius stepped toward his sister and pulled her into a quiet embrace. Lyra folded into him, the familiar scent of parchment and cologne grounding her as the threat of tears swelled again.

“I know this is overwhelming, puppet,” he murmured. “The world we live in is shifting growing darker, more uncertain by the day. You’re still so young, yet somehow, you’ve found yourself at the center of a treacherous web, surrounded by players far more dangerous than they appear.”

He gave her a gentle squeeze.

“But we’re Malfoys. And Malfoys survive.”

Lyra stepped back, offering him a small, tired smile.

Lucius returned the light smile, “Now, let us put our somber moods aside we have company coming over for tea.”

Lyra peered at her brother, “I wasn’t aware we were having company?”

Lucius clicked his tongue. “You don’t know everything, Lyra. Narcissa, Lady Prince, and a certain brooding young Prince will be joining us for tea this morning. You might want to start getting ready for your young lord.”

Lyra choked on her breath. “He is not my young lord.”

A flush crept up her neck despite her protest.

Lucius smirked. “Of course not. What a ridiculous thing for a brother to say.”

“I’m going to get ready,” she muttered. “But not for him. By chance, I am missing my locket, have you seen it?”

Lucius tilted his head. “Odd. I’m missing my family ring. Pixie may have taken them for polishing. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

Lyra nodded faintly and turned to leave, the weight of the old book still heavy in her arms. As she walked the familiar halls, the tightness in her chest returned like a vice.

How many more mysteries would Lyra be handled in this lifetime?

Chapter Text

The gravel crunched softly beneath their shoes as Lyra and Severus took a slow walk around the central fountain in the Malfoy gardens. The summer sun was kind that afternoon, bright but not blinding, casting a warm light that shimmered over the enchanted lilies bobbing on the surface of the water. The petals pulsed faintly, releasing sweet, perfumed wisps that mingled with the scent of honeysuckle and clipped grass.

Lyra’s pale green dress robes rustled as a breeze stirred the hem. She walked beside Severus with careful grace, her arm occasionally brushing his, though neither of them mentioned it. Severus, ever too stiff in formal company, seemed slightly more at ease outdoors. He wore dark blue robes, neatly pressed, though a faint grass stain had crept along the hem.

“I think the garden gnomes are stealing from the kitchens again,” Lyra said as they rounded a curve in the path. “The elves won’t admit it, but I caught one dragging off a whole strawberry tart under the rose arbor. Crust and all.”

Severus arched a brow. “Criminals.”

“Worse,” Lyra muttered. “They left the custard.”

Severus gave a quiet, reluctant laugh. “Remind me not to cross the gnome clans. They clearly have no moral code.”

“Not even a pastry code,” she said solemnly.

They reached the shaded edge of the path, where the marble of the fountain caught flickers of light between the leaves. It was peaceful here in a way that felt strange lately, like the stillness that came just before a spell was cast.

“You know,” Lyra said lightly, “it’s been almost a year since you told me I was being thrust upon you.”

Severus stiffened. “I was hoping you’d be polite about that and forget it.”

“I never forget a theatrical insult,” she replied cheerfully. “You sounded like someone had told you, you were marrying a sack of wet turnips.”

“I was angry.”

“You were horrible,” she corrected. “I should have stomped on your foot.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No?” she asked, her tone softening just enough to make him squirm. “Because the way it sounded was something like, ‘I don’t want anything to do with her, and also I hate sunlight and happiness.’”

Severus sighed and ran a hand through his hair, as if she’d physically pained him. “It was a year ago.”

“And yet it haunts us still,” Lyra replied in a mock-grand tone, clasping a hand to her chest. “Like some tragic prophecy.”

He side-eyed her, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘tenacious.’ And you’re stalling.”

She slowed them to a stop beside the eastern curve of the fountain. The rosebushes arched overhead like sleepy sentinels, their blooms half-open in the lazy summer sun. A bee buzzed past Severus’s ear, and he batted it away halfheartedly.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said finally, voice low. “What I said last year. About you being forced on me. I was angry. Not really at you, just at everything.”

Lyra’s expression shifted, the teasing glint in her eyes giving way to something quieter.

Severus shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his robes. “I didn’t know what to do with any of it. Our families talking about futures like we’re furniture. You were the one person I could’ve actually talked to and… I didn’t.”

“Well,” she said after a pause, “you were very unpleasant back then.”

“I still am.”

“Not very unpleasant, but at least now you apologize afterwards.”

He laughed.

She gave him a look. “I’m still allowed to bring it up twice more.”

“That feels excessive.”

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

He gave a small, sheepish smile, and Lyra’s shoulders eased a little. The moment stretched between them, sun-dappled and still.

“I don’t think I’d mind so much anymore,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

She opened her mouth, unsure what she meant to say,

The sudden slam of a heavy side door cut through the garden’s quiet.

A flash of blue silk darted across the stone steps, fast, urgent, and unmistakable.

“Helena?” Lyra blinked. “What in the world?”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Something tugged at her chest, half memory, half fear and she stepped off the path, breaking into a run toward her friend.

“Helena!”

Helena came striding across the flagstones, her dark hair wind-tossed and her gloves balled in one fist. Her face was flushed, but her steps were determined.

Lyra met her halfway and threw her arms around her before Helena could speak.

Helena jolted to a stop. “Er...hello? Did I miss something?”

Lyra held on just a second longer than necessary, then pulled back. “I just… missed you.”

Helena studied her a moment, frowning. “You never hug me that hard unless it’s my birthday or someone’s hexed.”

“I’m expanding my hug range,” Lyra said quickly, brushing her hands down her robes.

Severus had caught up by now and stood a polite distance away, watching with that cool, unreadable expression of his.

“I didn’t know you were visiting,” Lyra said, her voice steadier now.

“I wasn’t,” Helena replied. “My mother said she had something to discuss with Lady Acacia and brought me along. Said it had to do with the Summer Gala, but I’ve been to enough event meetings to know when something isn’t about menus and calligraphy.”

Lyra tilted her head. “She didn’t let you stay for the conversation?”

“No. Told me to take some air. Smiled the whole time, but not the way she usually does. More like she was trying very hard to be calm.” Helena sighed and sat on the low stone bench beside the fountain. “Everything at home’s… tense. Too quiet. She keeps kissing my forehead like I’m five again. And I know she’s trying to protect me, but it just makes me worry more.”

Severus crossed his arms. “She’s shielding you.”

“I know,” Helena said. “And I love her for it. But something’s not right. She’s been leaving the house in the middle of the night. She doesn’t know I’ve noticed, but I have. And the letters she’s been getting from Father…” Helena lowered her voice. “They’re warded with magic I don’t even recognize. One of them pulsed when I got too close. I think it would’ve cursed me if I’d opened it.”

Lyra’s brow creased. “You think something’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Helena said, dragging both hands through her hair. “But I’m suffocating in it. The tension. It’s like there’s this weight on everything. I thought last year was unbearable, but this summer… even Professor Binns would notice something’s wrong.”

“That bad?” Lyra asked, a touch faintly.

Helena nodded. “He might even sigh, and he didn't even look up when someone let a Cornish Pixie loose in his lecture."

Severus made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, short and flat. “It’s not just your house. My grandmother’s added entire sections to my summer lessons. Stealth work. Magical concealment. And poisons. Particularly potent ones.”

Lyra made a face. “That’s definitely straying from normal lessons.”

“Apparently, it’s ‘practical.’ For what, she won’t say.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe lightly through the gravel. “I asked if she was expecting someone to be assassinated at the family reunion, and she told me to review my antidotes.”

Helena gave a dry little laugh, but there was no real humor in it. “That’s what I mean. No one’s saying anything. But everything feels… loaded. Like something’s already begun and we’re just being kept in the drawing room while the grown-ups argue over maps.”

Lyra didn’t speak for a long moment. She looked down at her own arm, where the sleeve of her robe fell neatly over the place that had started to ache again since the dream. She flexed her fingers once before letting her hand fall back to her side.

Severus saw the motion. He didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he said, “Speaking of poisons and deeply suspicious adults, I wrote to Professor Slughorn.”

That caught their attention.

“You did what?” Lyra said.

“I asked if he’d consider mentoring me privately. I told him I was deeply interested in potions and wanted additional time in the lab. Theory. Technique. Advanced materials. All of it.”

Helena tilted her head. “And?”

“He replied by owl the very next morning. Said he’d be delighted to have me. Told me I’d make a wonderful ‘addition to his collection.’”

Lyra’s nose wrinkled. “You’re not a knickknack. You don’t belong in his collection."

Severus shrugged. “If playing the part gets me what I need to help you, I’ll be his paperweight.”

Lyra blinked, caught slightly off guard. “That’s not... I mean, that's more then I asked of you... I don't want to burden you.

“I know,” Severus replied simply. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

The three of them stood in silence for a breath, the breeze fluttering through the roses again.

Helena looked down. “If Hogwarts doesn’t reopen early,” she huffed, “I will go bald from the stress. You’ll see. I’ll show up to the train platform like a cursed crystal ball with legs.”

Lyra smirked. “You’d pull it off, honestly. You've got the bone structure for it.”

Helena tilted her head.

She blinked once. Then twice.

Then let out a bark of laughter.

“Oh Merlin, don’t encourage me!”

Severus chuckled openly. “If anyone could redefine witch fashion, it would be you.”

The heaviness lifted, just slightly. Helena leaned against Lyra with a theatrical sigh.

“This would be so much easier if our parents just told us a scrap of the truth.”

Lyra reached for her hand and squeezed.

“We’ll figure it out, Helena. I know it feels like too much, but maybe someday we’ll laugh about all of this.”

Helena gave her a sad smile. “If I’m laughing at this in old age, Lyra, it means I’ve gone properly mad.”

Lyra rested her head on Helena’s shoulder. “Then let’s go mad together.”

The three friends walked around the fountain for some time until Helena excused herself. Claiming she was “five minutes from collapsing dramatically on the grass” if she didn’t find food immediately. She vanished down the path with the rustle of silk and a muttered curse.

Silence returned. The kind Lyra didn’t usually trust herself to break.

But Severus was there, steady as stone.

“You seem far away,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

Lyra hesitated the thoughts of her dream and her possible past life filtered behind her eyes, “My mind’s busy today. It been horribly hard to turn it off. I’m sorry if I lose myself.”

Then he cleared his throat, “In other news, I got an interesting letter recently that I have been meaning to discuss with you.”

Lyra tilted her head. “A letter?”

“From Thaddius Nott. Apparently, he’s making the rounds, apologizing. Seeking my forgiveness for his ‘poor behavior.’”

Lyra deflated slightly, “He did come up to me while we were at school and apologized, I am sorry I didn’t say anything then there was a lot going on and I was nervous to bring up such a sore subject.”

Severus gave a slight smile, “I can understand not wanting to discuss Nott with me, I am unsure if I will give my full forgiveness. It’s hard to gauge his true intention, but it will make for an interesting part of our second year.

Lyra chuckled. “Not sure we need Hogwarts to get any more exciting.”

Chapter Text

The drawing room was soaked in golden light, filtered through tall, mullioned panes etched with the family crest. The air was perfumed with blooming orchids, undercut by something sharper, lavender, varnish, and the faint sting of candle smoke.

Acacia stood at the window, spine straight, one hand gently clasped around her forearm. Evangeline paced before her, gloves twisted tight between pale fingers an uncharacteristic lapse that betrayed the tremble in her breath.

“I do apologize for the intrusion,” Evangeline said at last, voice taut. “Again.” She hesitated. “But I overheard something. And I believe you need to hear it.”

Acacia turned slightly, not fully just enough to let her gaze flick sideways. Her expression was carved glass. “Overheard?”

“Yes,” Evangeline admitted, flushing. “Like a silly schoolgirl behind the curtain. But honestly, I’ve had more luck prying secrets out of the Department of Mysteries than out of my own husband. If our Gringotts vault depended on it, I’d still be in the dark.”

Acacia shifted minutely, the movement precise. “What did you hear?”

“Maxwell Nott,” she said, her lip curling faintly. “He was speaking with my husband. He mentioned Him. Riddle. Said he’s summoning the inner circle again. There’s some new spell he’s been developing something ancient. He spoke of it like it was sacred. Reverent. The meeting should’ve happened months ago, but something abroad delayed him. Now he’s returned. And he’s calling them.”

A twitch pulsed at Acacia’s temple. Her jaw tightened, the only visible crack in her poise. “Then our husbands will go.”

Evangeline nodded, grave. “That’s what I feared.”

Acacia’s eyes drifted beyond the window, past the blooming lilies aligned like obedient soldiers in the garden beds. “What kind of spell demands reverence?”

“Whatever it is,” Evangeline said quietly, “it’s not idle work. I heard it in Maxwell’s voice. Beneath the reverence, there was fear. Excitement too. But mostly fear.”

Silence lingered like a held breath before Acacia spoke again, her voice low. “You were right to come. If they’re being drawn into something darker something new, then we have no time. The children must be sent away. We
can’t know what shape our husbands will return in.”

“Or if they return at all,” Evangeline finished, almost a whisper.

Her hands shook now. The mask slipped. For a moment, she wasn’t the polished wife of a pureblood patriarch, she was a mother, exhausted and afraid. “I feel like I’ve failed Helena. She senses everything. I try to shield her, but she sees through me like glass.”

Acacia turned to her fully. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Lucius has cornered me three times this week, asking what’s happening behind the closed doors. And Lyra… she carries the tension in her posture, like it’s strapped to her spine. She’s still a child. She shouldn’t have to feel this.”

“She has Helena,” Evangeline said, quieter now. “And we have each other. That bond matters, Acacia. It always has.”

Acacia nodded slowly, though her gaze was miles away. “We’ll need a deliberate plan.”

“We could speak to Euphemia,” Evangeline offered. “She’d take them in without question.”

Acacia hesitated. “Sending them to the Potters could put them in danger. Euphemia and Fleamont have never aligned with Riddle. That kind of neutrality makes them conspicuous. Targets.”

“They’re well respected,” Evangeline countered. “And connected. Euphemia’s never been caught in a Ministry snare in her life. She’s clever enough to disappear if she must. Besides, the children spent the winter there. Another visit won’t raise suspicion.”

Acacia’s voice dropped further. “When’s the meeting?”

“A week.”

A ghost of a smile passed over Acacia’s lips. “Then we have a sliver of time. Just enough to make this look like a social whim. No sudden moves. Let the children think it’s a treat.”

Evangeline gave a dry, brittle laugh. “You really think we can fool them? Helena reads me like a book. I used to wonder if she was a natural Legilimens.”

Acacia’s smile turned wistful. “I just want them to have a childhood, even if only an illusion. If we can keep the worst from touching them, even a little longer, it will be enough.”

She moved to the hearth and tossed a pinch of floo powder into the flames. “Euphemia Potter.”

The fire flared green. A moment later, Euphemia’s elegant face appeared, her eyes sharp with instant concern.

“Acacia, darling. Is something wrong? Does this concern the ceremony?”

Acacia glanced back down the corridor. Silence. No footsteps.

“The ceremony went as expected,” she said. “But we won’t know if the enchantments took until they’re tested. This is another matter. A request.”

She lowered her voice. “Riddle’s returned from abroad. He’s summoning the old families. Abraxas, Evangeline’s husband likely others. We don’t know what’s coming. But we want the children away before it does. Helena. Lyra. And young Lord Prince, if his grandmother will allow it. He needs the distance. For his own sanity.”

Euphemia’s expression sobered immediately. “You don’t need to ask. They always have a place here.”

Acacia exhaled. “Thank you.”

Euphemia nodded once, then vanished.

“Come,” Acacia said, turning from the hearth. “Let’s rejoin Abraxas and Lady Prince before that woman convinces him to throw himself from the solarium.”

Evangeline snorted. “Lady Prince is a bitter draught. I only hope she’s not tormenting Severus.”

Acacia winced. “That house is cold. I’ll never understand why she fought so hard to remove him from his father, only to treat him like a duty.”

“She didn’t do it for love,” Evangeline said, her voice like flint. “She did it to preserve the name. Without Severus, the line dies. And she’d sooner eat ash than let it end with her.”

Acacia’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can persuade her. A summer among warmth might do him good.”

As they stepped into the corridor, the solarium came into view and so did the rustle behind a potted fern. Helena crouched just out of sight, a stolen pastry clenched between her teeth, mischief bright in her eyes.

Acacia arched a brow.

Before she could speak, a voice cut the air like ice.

“And what of the arrangement between your Lyra and my grandson?”

Lady Prince.

Abraxas replied with polished ease. “They’re still quite young. There’s time.”

“I recall your own betrothal was sealed before Lady Acacia’s introduction gala.”

“Yes, well,” Abraxas said smoothly, “that was a different time. Lyra and Severus are a natural match. But we’d prefer they know each other freely. Our daughter’s happiness comes first.”

A delicate sniff. “If this reluctance stems from the boy’s bloodline, I assure you, other families would overlook it. The Greengrasses, for one. Their daughter is in his year.”

Acacia swept into the room, every inch the hostess. Her smile gleamed like velvet-wrapped glass.

“I do hope we haven’t missed anything important. Miss Parkinson had a crisis over her summer gala guest list. A matter of etiquette, of course.”
She turned toward Lady Prince, smile turning cool. “We were also arranging another stay for the children at Potter Manor. Lyra’s quite fond of Severus’s company, and Euphemia has graciously included him in their summer tutoring. Best to foster bonds early.”

She added, her voice like silk over steel, “And the Malfoys are an alliance worth preserving.”

Lady Prince held her gaze a beat longer than necessary, then slowly stood. “I will consider it. If he is to attend, Euphemia will receive my answer directly. For now, we’ll take our leave.”

“Of course,” Acacia said, perfectly smooth. “I’ll have a house-elf bring Severus to the Floo.”

As Lady Prince swept out, Evangeline muttered behind her hand, “That woman really ought to be issued a broomstick.”

Abraxas coughed discreetly into his hand.

Acacia turned to the fern. “Helena, you can come out now. And for Merlin’s sake, smaller bites. You look like a badger.”

Helena emerged, brushing crumbs from her collar, her grin defiant. “Are we pretending I didn’t hear everything?”

Acacia gave her a long look. “No. But I’m asking you not to repeat it. Lyra and Severus have enough to carry. They don’t need politics and marriage plots added to the weight.”

Helena’s grin faded. She nodded. “I won’t say a word.”

“Good.” Acacia’s voice softened. “Now go find Lyra. Severus will be leaving soon. You may stay the night, if you like.”

Helena lit up and darted off.

Evangeline raised a brow. “You never even asked me.”

Acacia laughed under her breath. “We’ve had this conversation before. You always go along with my plans.”

Chapter Text

The drawing room was silent, as if the house itself had paused to listen.
Only the soft creak of firewood breaking beneath the flames disturbed the stillness.
The children had been sent off just hours before, Lyra clutching her satchel to her chest, jaw set despite the tremor in her eyes; Helena’s laughter trailing through the halls like a charm meant to ward off doom; and Severus trailing behind with Lucius.

Acacia sat by the hearth, spine rigid, hands folded in her lap like a statue carved from restraint. The firelight painted her cheekbones in amber and shadow. A half-drunk brandy glowed untouched beside her. The liquid had stopped trembling long ago.

Across the room, Abraxas sat still as death, his cane resting against the arm of his chair. His eyes were fixed on the coals, but they did not see fire.
No words passed between them. None were needed.
The air was thick with the weight of waiting.

Then.

A whoosh of emerald flame burst from the fireplace, splashing the walls with green light.

Lord Parkinson stepped out of the hearth, his long traveling cloak sodden at the hem with mist and soil. His face was ashen beneath the glow, eyes shadowed, mouth a grim line.

“It’s time,” he said simply. “We’ve been summoned.”

Abraxas rose at once, his movements clean, final.
No questions.
No hesitation.

Acacia stood with him, her silks whispering as she crossed the rug. She reached up and smoothed the folds of his collar, her touch feather-light but deliberate.

“Come back to us,” she said softly, her eyes never leaving his.

He gave a shallow nod. “Promises are made of paper,” he murmured. “But I’ll try.”

She kissed him once, brief, almost ceremonial. The kind of kiss that carried vows they could not dare speak aloud.

Then he turned.

A moment later, he and Parkinson disappeared in a twist of green fire.

The place they arrived was not fit for memory.

The estate stood like a corpse propped up by time, its walls bowed, its windows blind. The gate hung crooked. The grounds were smothered in thorns and skeletal trees, their limbs clawing at the damp air. Fog oozed between the branches, swallowing what little path remained.

The manor loomed behind them, cracked and sagging, its stone like broken bone beneath rotting ivy.

A house-elf appeared in a burst of dissonant magic, thin to the point of deformity, skin a waxy gray, a length of moldy curtain knotted around its neck like a badge of shame.

“Thisss way,” it croaked, voice frayed like fabric at the end of its thread.

They followed the creature past twisted hedgerows and through a half-collapsed orchard, until the trees fell away into a clearing.

Torches had been jammed into the frozen ground in a rough circle. Their flames hissed against the fog. In the center, the earth had been scorched into a ring of black glass.

Figures stood in the gloom.

Men in heavy cloaks and ancient family rings, faces half-hidden by shadow and firelight. Some were rigid with dread, others cloaked in detachment. But a few, too many were almost vibrating with anticipation.

Maxwell Nott stood near the edge of the circle, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his wand, he caught Abraxas eye, and the two exchanged a nod. Measured. Knowing.

There were no greetings.

Just the hush of wind and robes shifting.

Until a voice, silk over poison rang out through the gathering.

“Gentlemen.”

It slithered from the trees, soft as oil on a still pond.

Lord Riddle stepped into view.

He looked almost unchanged, yet wholly wrong. His features were untouched by time, his robes immaculate, but there was something hollow in him now—like a man wearing his own skin too tightly. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes didn’t blink.

He stopped just outside the scorched ring, surveying them as one might inspect a line of hunting dogs.

“You have each shown me loyalty,” he said, the words a velvet drawl. “Some through gold. Some through blood. Some through silence, which in these times is the most precious offering of all. And now, you will be rewarded.”

The fire crackled. Riddle’s gaze swept across the crowd.

“You are my inner circle. The architects of a future that belongs to us, not to cowards, not to half-bloods, not to Muggle filth who would leash our magic for fear of their own extinction.”

Abraxas’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

“When we began,” Riddle continued, his voice softening with false nostalgia, “my aims were political. Practical. I spoke of laws, of security, of preserving our way of life. But the time for patience has ended.”

He began to pace the circle.

“The Ministry chains us. The Statute protects the undeserving. And magic itself has been shackled by cowards who fear its true depth. They brand our traditions Dark, as though Light has ever been enough to wield power.”

He stopped again, smiling faintly.

“Tonight… we shed the pretense. We become what we were always meant to be.”

He lifted a pale, long-fingered hand.

“Follow me.”

The guest house stood like a decayed dollhouse at the end of a path. The windows were boarded from the inside. The door groaned open with a sound like teeth grinding.

Inside, the smell hit them first, damp stone, dried sweat, and iron.

The torches sputtered against the mildew. A group of figures was bound along the far wall, humans, clearly, but barely recognizable. Filthy, bloodied, bruised.

A woman clutched a silent child to her chest. A man sat slumped with a bleeding temple. A teenage boy whimpered through a gag.

In the center, a young woman knelt. Barely twenty, if that. Her curls were tangled and crusted with dirt. Her blouse had been torn and hastily retied. Her eyes, enormous and brown, stared up without blinking.

Riddle stood before them all, arms open like a maestro.

“Each of you will receive your test, your gift. One of these… contaminants has been selected for you. You will show me that your loyalty is not merely spoken.”

Lord Black burst into laughter, wild and cracked. He all but ran forward, wand already raised.

Others hung back. Silent. Watching.

Parkinson stepped close to Abraxas. “This wasn’t what I signed up for,” he whispered. “Not like this.”

“We agreed to survive a war,” Abraxas murmured, his mouth dry. “This is what survival costs.”

One by one, men were summoned forward.

Some dragged the act out. Some relished it. Some whispered apologies before casting curses that did not miss.

Abraxas was called last.

The girl assigned to him didn’t scream was the curl with the large brown eyes. She didn’t beg. She just stared at him, defiant even through the tears that tracked filth down her face.

She looked like a girl Lyra might sit beside in class. Or pass on the street. Or read poetry with.

He saw a family. Friends who loved her. A life.

Riddle’s voice curled around his spine like ice. “You’re hesitating, Abraxas. Do you not have the grit to handle a little Muggle girl?”

He stepped forward, hand trembling.

Forgive me.

His wand flared green. She collapsed without a sound.

The silence afterward was worse than any scream.

Behind him, Riddle clapped once. Slow. Delighted.

They gathered again beneath a sky laced with frost.

“I promised a reward,” Riddle purred. “And I always keep my promises.”

He turned to Abraxas.

“You will go first.”

Abraxas stepped forward, unsteady. Each step echoed like thunder in his chest.

Riddle drew close. Too close. He took Abraxas’s arm, the flesh bare and pale in the cold.

“This mark,” he said, “is your bond to me. Your oath, made in blood and bone. Your legacy.”

He pressed the wand against Abraxas’s skin.

The incantation was guttural, ancient and foul. The pain was immediate, like molten iron poured beneath his flesh.

Abraxas screamed. He fell to his knees. The mark branded into him, a skull, its mouth agape, devouring a serpent that twisted like it lived.

He was losing consciousness. The world blurred.

Riddle bent low, whispering against his ear like a lover.

“Fitting you went first tonight. After all… your daughter was the first to receive a version of my mark.”
___
Abraxas awoke in a bed that was not his own.

The ceiling swam into focus. Silken sheets were pulled to his chest. A damp cloth rested on his forehead.

Beside him, Acacia sat slumped in a wingback chair, still in her evening gown, her head lolled to one side. Asleep. But her hand was wrapped around his.

He moved.

Pain shot through his arm like a spear. He pushed the cloth aside and peeled back the bandage.

The mark was still there. Ink black. Angry red welts surrounding it. It pulsed faintly.

He stared at it. Not as a soldier’s badge.

But a brand.

The memory of Riddle’s whisper clawed at the edge of his mind; he begged to remember his words.

But all he could feel was dread deep, endless, consuming.

The war had begun.

And now he must walk a horribly thin line.

May Lady Magic help us all.

Chapter Text

The Potters' estate shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, its tall hedgerows and ivy-covered walls cloaked in summer warmth and rare serenity. It was, at least outwardly, a place untouched by the quiet war looming in the shadows of every pureblooded household. But even here, amid birdsong and distant laughter, tension crept like ivy through stone.

Lyra sat on a velvet blanket unfurled beneath the garden’s pergola. She tilted her head slightly as Helena delicately wove enchanted daisies through her braid, the flowers glimmering with faint silver pulses. Nearby, Narcissa lounged with feline elegance, cross-legged on a low chaise and deeply immersed in the latest issue of Witch Weekly.

"I still don’t understand how you managed to pull it off," Lyra murmured, casting a sideways glance at Narcissa.

The other girl looked up, her pale blue eyes glittering with secret amusement. "I told Mother I’d be spending the summer in Lyon. With a dear friend whose mother has exquisite connections to the French Department of Magical Etiquette. A bit of fabricated charm and well-forged stationery, and voilà."

Lyra stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re an artist, Cissy.”

“Merely efficient,” Narcissa replied smoothly. “Besides, someone had to save Sirius. The boy was doomed to a summer locked in the manor, reciting bloodline histories and begging for repentance.” She flipped a page in her magazine. “The Black legacy is tragically fragile.”

Helena snorted softly. “Is that what they’re calling exam failures these days?”

“They’re calling it ‘disgracing the noble name of Black,’” Narcissa replied coolly. “He’s a Gryffindor, which is sin enough. His Transfiguration scores were just the final blow.”

“Then it's lucky for him you managed to smuggle him here,” Lyra said, brushing a flower stem from her shoulder. “Though I assume your sudden interest in French social graces has nothing to do with the fact Lucius is here too?”

Narcissa didn’t dignify that with a response. She only smiled mysteriously and turned another page.

Speak of the devil.

Lucius came around the hedge path, his robes pristine despite the summer heat. He was muttering darkly, eyeing the new pastel-painted window shutters of the Potter home as if they might personally offend him.

“These hallways,” he grumbled, “are an assault on the senses. Bright colors. Laughing portraits. I’m fairly certain our ancestors are rolling in their graves.”

Lyra grinned, not missing a beat. “Darling brother, our ancestors started rolling the moment indoor plumbing became acceptable. It’s a wonder we haven’t all been struck by spectral outrage.”

Lucius smirked, dropping to sit beside her. “Careful what you say, Lyra. People might think you’re against the old ways. Next thing you know, you'll be insisting the wizarding world needs to change.”

Something flickered behind Lyra’s eyes. She straightened slightly. “I know it needs to change. I just haven’t figured out how to do it yet.”

Lucius blinked, caught off guard by her intensity. Then he softened. “And the arm?”

Lyra poked at her forearm through her robe sleeve, her voice carefully light. “More or less the same. If Severus can tear himself away from flying with the dunderheads, we’ll start looking into potions.”

Lucius clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “If we asked Father, he might be able to contact someone. Someone discreet.”

Lyra fixed him with a look. “You know as well as I do that father and Mother are stretched beyond reason. The tension at home is suffocating. She may have stopped threatening to pull me from Hogwarts but I see the thought lingering in her eyes.” Her voice lowered. “We’ll try our way first. If it becomes unmanageable, I promise I’ll come to you."
Lucius exhaled slowly and nodded. “Fair enough. And considering we’re at the Potters; I can’t really argue about how bad things are.”

“It’s not shocking that I’m here,” Lyra said. “But Mother convincing you to come, that’s downright alarming. Something must be shifting.”

Before the conversation could dig deeper, Helena interrupted with a dramatic sigh. “Can we not dissect our parents’ unspoken war for just one hour? Even in this bright, fun-filled manor, it follows us like smoke.”

As if summoned, Euphemia’s voice floated over the hedges. “Severus! Lyra! Two owls just arrived!”

From above, a streak of black robes cut through the sky. Severus descended from his broom in a slow, practiced arc, his landing graceful as he strode toward the veranda. James and Sirius looped down behind him, crashing more than landing, windblown, grinning, and chaotic as ever.

Euphemia handed each letter with a warm smile. “Here you are, dears.”

Severus took his scroll with a murmured, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Lyra smiled as she grabbed her letter having an idea who it was from.

Remus.

The envelope was smudged at the corners, as if he’d rewritten it several times. She won't open it. Not yet.

“You three have spent more time in the air than on the ground,” Helena called over, infused with a lighter tone. “Should we start calling you the aerial division?”

James grinned wickedly. “If you missed me, Helena, all you had to do was beg.”

Helena scoffed, tossing a daisy at him. “You’d be lucky if I gave you the time of day, let alone missed you.”

Sirius threw his broom to the ground with flair. “We need the practice. Tryouts are coming. Can’t let Slytherin steal the Cup again.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “Convenient excuse to avoid your studies. How shocking.”

Sirius winked. “It pays to have clever friends. Severus over there is supposedly a prodigy in both Potions and Defense. Handy to keep around.”

James nodded. “Honestly, ever since Sev started attending our summer lessons, I’ve had to actually try. My tutor nearly hexed me for being a bad influence in front of a proper student.”

Severus raised his head his letter still in hand.

Sirius tilted his head, eyes alight. “Is that a love letter, Prince? Come on, share with the class.”

Lyra stiffened.

It was barely perceptible. A subtle stillness, a flicker of heat behind her eyes. But Narcissa noticed it immediately. So did Helena.

Severus, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait.

“It’s from Lily,” he said flatly. “Apparently, she’s displeased I’ve neglected to write. James,” he added dryly, “it seems you’ve been careless. You mentioned in a letter that I was here.”

James winced. “Sorry, Sev. Evans and Remus have gotten close. She’s been trying to worm her way into our little group since spring. I didn’t think she’d...well...I didn’t think she’d mind.”

Lucius, who had been quietly observing, turned a fraction toward James. “Perhaps refrain from mentioning our location to others, Potter. Some of us were sent here under very specific conditions.”

James blinked, caught off guard by the steel in Lucius’s voice.

Euphemia’s voice once again echoed from the kitchen garden. “James, could you come help me with the table, please?”

He glanced toward the house, grateful for the excuse. “Coming, Mum!”

As James and Sirius walked off, still laughing and nudging one another, Severus tucked the letter into his sleeve. Lyra moved beside him, holding her unopened letter.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly.

He nodded once. “It was just a letter.”

But something in his eyes, deep and unreadable, betrayed a heaviness he didn’t voice.

Lyra looked down at her own envelope. Her thumb traced the edge slowly, as if she could hear Remus’s voice through the parchment.

Narcissa leaned back, tilting her face toward the sky. “Isn’t it odd,” she murmured, “how even here, in this cheerful place, the world outside still finds its way in?”

No one answered.

Because it was true.
____
Later that day Lyra found herself alone sitting underneath a tree, separated from the group for a rare moment of peace when she decided to open up her letter.

Lyra,

Sorry for the slow reply. I was under the weather for a few days, nothing dramatic, unless you ask my mum. I swear I am better now.

I was surprised to hear from James that you're staying with them. That’s a bit of a shift from your last letter. Is everything alright?

Sirius also included in his letter a diagram of James’s new “broom strategy,” which is just a stick figure of him yelling “GO” and everyone else crashing into a tree. Maybe tell Severus to wear a helmet.

Also, is it true Narcissa Black is staying there too? In secret? Even from her own parents? That’s a bold move. Or a reckless one. Hard to tell with your lot. Can you find a way to tell her thank you for saving Sirius... He truly needed it.

Anyway. Write back when you can. I’m collecting secrets this summer, seems like everyone’s got at least one.

—Remus
___

She read it twice. Then once more, slower, letting the words settle like silt in water.

Her thumb traced the line about Narcissa, and her mouth curved faintly.

She could almost hear Remus’s voice, that dry, quiet tone he used when pretending he wasn’t being clever. “I’m collecting secrets this summer, seems like everyone’s got at least one.”

Lyra folded the letter in thirds, crisp and precise, and stared out across the orchard.

Sunlight bled through the trees in golden strands. A light wind whispered through the leaves above her, cool against her cheeks. Somewhere deeper in the garden, Helena was laughing, a sharp, surprised sound followed by Sirius’s louder cackle. They were probably sabotaging the tea tray again.

She didn't move to rejoin them.

Instead, she drew her knees up and pressed the letter against them. Her forehead rested lightly on top. Her eyes fluttered closed.

The thing about Remus was that he always knew what not to say. He hadn’t asked if she was scared. He hadn’t poked at her vagueness or demanded answers. He just noticed. Asked if she was alright. Pointed out what had changed. Let her decide the rest.

It was oddly comforting and slightly maddening.

Of course, he knew about Narcissa. Of course, he knew it wasn’t just a summer holiday. But he’d left it hanging there in ink like bait.

She exhaled through her nose, the corners of her mouth lifting a little. He was better at that than people gave him credit for.

Still, the question lodged under her skin. Was anyone keeping secrets anymore? Sirius was pretending he didn’t miss his brother. Narcissa was pretending she wasn't afraid about the lie to her mother. Her own parents were pretending she hadn’t noticed the desperation in their faces as they practically threw them all into the floo.

And she was pretending this didn’t feel like exile.

She wondered what Remus kept hidden away.

Lyra lowered the letter to her lap and stared at it.

Then she muttered, “We should have more fun secrets at this age."

Chapter Text

Cokeworth in the summer was a study in faded beauty. The row houses sat like crooked teeth under a pale sky, their bricks softened by decades of soot and rain. Garden weeds curled through rusting fences, and washing lines fluttered like ghostly banners. The magic here was buried, hidden beneath layers of normalcy, just like Lily Evans.

Upstairs in the smallest bedroom of a narrow semi-detached house, Lily sat at her desk, shoulders tense, pen moving in frantic swipes across thick parchment. The ink scratched hard against the paper as she wrote, then stopped.

She exhaled sharply, tossing the quill down. It left a black blot at the edge of the letter. Another one she would not send.

She shoved the parchment aside and leaned her elbows on the desk, chin in her palms, staring out the window. Below, the garden was wilting in the heat. Beyond it, her sister Petunia lounged on the patio with a fashion magazine, her eyes narrowing every time she glanced toward the house, as if Lily’s very existence offended her.

It probably did.

They had not spoken properly in days.

I am not the one who changed, Lily thought bitterly. She did.

The worst part was that their parents were thrilled. They beamed whenever Lily talked about magic. But when she tried to explain anything real—how it felt to hold a wand, or the strange energy that hummed through her fingers when casting a spell, they just smiled politely and nodded, as if indulging a clever child with a vivid imagination.

They did not understand.

They never would.

And she was so alone.

She glanced back at the parchment, reading over the first few sentences of the half-written letter. It was flat, too formal, full of questions Severus would ignore and niceties he would never return. She snatched it up and crumpled it.

Another draft for the bin.

Lily stood, pacing the small room in bare feet, frustration bubbling to the surface.

James Potter. Of all people. He had to be the one to write back to her.

Not Severus. Not the boy who was her first magical friend. No, it was Potter who let it slip that Severus was at the manor with him—and, even worse, that Lyra Malfoy was there too.

Lyra Malfoy.

Lily rolled her eyes, though no one was there to see it.

She knew what kind of girl Lyra was. Regal. Polished. Born into a world of silk gloves and silver spoons. And smart—undeniably, frustratingly smart. The kind of girl who always had her books annotated before anyone else had even opened theirs. And Severus liked that. Lily knew he did.

And now they were under the same roof.

Together.

Lily sat back down and grabbed another scrap of parchment, not her usual letter paper—this was thinner, ink-stained, meant for discarded thoughts. She wrote in looping, romantic script:

Lady Lily Prince
Lady Lily Prince
Lady Lily Prince
Lily Prince-Evans

She drew little hearts around the names and crossed each one out with growing venom.

“What girl does not dream of a regal boy and a happily ever after,” she muttered.

Then her eyes flicked to the pile of unfinished letters beside her.

“No more pretending.”

She reached for a fresh sheet and dipped her quill. This time, the words came fast and sharp.
_____
Severus,

I suppose it is too much to ask for a single letter. Not even one, Sev? Not in all these weeks?

I had to hear from James Potter, of all people, that you are staying with him. I thought a boy like James would be too loud for you. And then of course he mentions that Lyra Malfoy is also there. Lovely. That must be... cozy.

Meanwhile, I am here. In Cokeworth. Alone. Petunia has not said a civil word to me all summer, and I am stuck trying to explain to our parents what it feels like to hold magic in your hands without sounding mad. But you would not know anything about that, would you? You are too busy flying around with Potter and Black, I am sure.

I do not know what happened, Sev. But I miss the boy who met me on the train. The one who understood me without me having to say a word.

Maybe you are still in there.

Or maybe he is gone.

—Lily
____________
The guest room at Potter Manor was far too warm for Severus’s comfort.

It smelled faintly of cedarwood and ink, with a window cracked open to let in the summer air that refused to stir. Books were stacked haphazardly on the small writing desk in the corner, charms theory, defensive spell work, advanced potions texts, each marked with his grandmother’s tidy handwriting on parchment slips: Read. Memorize. Master.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, the late sun casting golden slats across the floor, holding the letter in his hands. Again. As if rereading it might somehow make more sense the fifth time.

The wax seal had already cracked under his nervous fingers. The parchment was slightly crumpled from where he had rolled and unrolled it throughout the day. He squinted at Lily’s words, lips twitching as he reread the part that always landed like a jab:

“Maybe you have changed too.”

He had not meant to ignore her.

He truly had not.

They had been on good terms all year. Friendly, even. She had been... bright. That was the word. Bright and steady, when he had been unraveling in places he did not yet know how to name. When he had been cold and distant to Lyra, when the weight of his name pressed down like iron, Lily had stood beside him, unafraid of shadows.

He had not written. He should have. That part was his fault.

But it was not as though he was lounging in fields and twiddling his wand all summer. The first few weeks at Prince Manor had been a blur of brutal structure. His grandmother had seen to that. His days were filled from dawn to dusk with reading, dictation, wand drills, etiquette, and ancient runes until his fingers cramped and his back ached from too much sitting in the too-straight chair in the ancestral library.

There was no softness there. No laughter. No time to even think, let alone write long letters explaining things Lily would never truly understand. She did not know what it was like to be the last heir of a legacy everyone assumed he would ruin. She did not know what it meant to be groomed into a title he had not asked for.

And now, here at the Potters’, things were... better. Quieter. Louder, yes, in a different way, filled with messy laughter, chaos, flying, jokes he did not always catch but warmer. He still had summer studies, Lady Euphemia had insisted on that, but they were tempered with food that did not taste like bitterness and the kind of gentle encouragement he had not realized he had been starving for.

His eyes drifted back to one line.

“…and then he mentions that Lyra Malfoy is also there. Lovely. That must be cozy.”

Lyra had been helping him with dueling forms and with parts of his summer work. She understood things about the wizarding world that Lily could not. She also had a way of smiling when she was about to prove him wrong, a half-smirk that made his chest feel strangely warm and tight. He did not think Lily would notice something like that, even if she had been here.

But he still did not understand why it would bother her.

He groaned softly, pressing the letter to his chest. Girls were impossible.

He sat up with a huff, pushing his hair out of his face, and stared at the desk. He should write back. Apologize. Try to explain. Maybe she would understand... maybe she would not.

Maybe she did not want to understand.

He stood slowly and walked to the desk, pulling a clean sheet of parchment from under the pile of books. He dipped the quill in ink, paused, then scribbled out the first two words three times before settling on a beginning that did not sound too stiff.
__________
Lily,

I am sorry.

I should have written. I meant to. Things have been… difficult. First at the Prince estate, and now here. I will not bore you with details, just know I was not ignoring you on purpose.

You are right to be angry. I did not think you would want to hear about summer studies or etiquette drills or how my grandmother still believes I am one wrong move away from ruining the entire family. So I said nothing.

Coming to the Potters was unexpected. Lady Acacia arranged it. And yes, Lyra is here, with Helena and Narcissa… We have all been together and it has been a relatively chaotic time.

I do not know why that part upset you. But if it did, I am sorry.

I miss talking to you. I hope I have not ruined that.

—Severus
________
He let the ink dry before folding it carefully. Then he paused, looking down at the letter, suddenly unsure again.
Last summer he had messed up his friendship with Lyra. He hoped he was not doing the same thing to Lily.

Chapter Text

The flickering candlelight in the Potter library painted restless shadows over ancient shelves and sagging stacks of parchment. Dust motes swirled like tiny spirits in the glow, stirred each time a page turned, or a quill scratched. On the rug by the hearth, Severus and Lyra sat cross-legged, hemmed in by open books and potion journals, half-scribbled notes, and blotched parchment that bore evidence of more fatigue than focus.

From the parlor came muffled chaos. Sirius’s voice split the quiet like a blade:
“Come on, James! Wipe the board with him!”

“If you don’t stop shouting,” Helena snapped, “I will hex your teeth into piano keys and play the Hogwarts anthem on them!”

A pillow struck flesh with a dull thwack. James’s laugh carried in answer.

Lyra’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes, dull from hours of reading remained fixed on the spidery script of a potion text. She sighed, her voice weary. “If I stare at one more line about powdered asphodel, I think my skull might crack open from the pressure.”

Severus did not look up. His quill scratched in quick, sharp lines as he categorized ingredients into neat columns. “It isn’t just asphodel,” he muttered, half to himself. “It’s the ratio, the binding agent, and your magical signature. If your pain stems from spell residue, then the potion could destabilize and...”

“Severus.” Her interruption was soft, but it cut through his precision.

He stilled, then glanced up, brows raised. Ink smudged his thumb.

“Walk with me,” she said. “I need air. My head feels full of smoke.”

His brows drew tighter. “A stroll? At night? Alone? Merlin, you’ve been spending too much time near Sirius.”

She rose gracefully, stretching, the firelight catching in her pale hair. “The Potters aren’t breathing down our necks. And…” Her voice dipped, quiet as a secret. “…I trust you.”

For a moment, he could only stare. Then, with a faint scrape, he set down his quill and gathered the papers into their neat order. “If a scandal starts, I’ll blame you.”

She grinned, leading toward the door. “If it does, I’ll invent a potion and name it after you. A soporific, probably.”

They slipped out into the conservatory garden. The night air was cool and damp, heavy with honeysuckle and the darker earth-scent of the lawn. Above, the stars glittered with a cold brilliance, sharp enough to wound.

Severus tilted his face upward, his expression softening despite himself. “There, Orion’s Belt. And Cassiopeia.”

Lyra followed his gaze. “You know your constellations.”

“My mother taught me,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly. “It was easier to find sense in stars than in people.”

The silence between them shifted less companionable now, more weighted. Lyra slowed, then turned so they were face-to-face, her pale hair haloed in moonlight.

“You’ve seemed… tense,” she said gently. “Since Lily’s letter came.”

He stiffened. His hands found his pockets. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything,” she teased softly, though her eyes were earnest. “You’ve been restless. Sharper. Like you’re carrying something you don’t want to name.”

His jaw tightened. Then, with a low sigh, he admitted, “She’s lonely. No one around her has magic. I should have written sooner. It’s my fault. I’ve been… a bad friend.”

Lyra shook her head. “You are not a bad friend, you have just been busy, and she should understand that. You should be easier on yourself.” She reached out, hesitant, then squeezed his hand before she could lose her nerve.
The world seemed to narrow for a moment to the warmth of her hand against his. Severus looked down, startled, heart stuttering in his chest.

“Severus,” she continued, voice unsteady but resolute, “I need to tell you something. About me.”
____________
She told him. About the visions. The sense of a life before this one. Lucius’s book. The fragments that haunted her sleep like broken glass.

Severus’s expression shifted as she spoke, anger flickering there, not at her, but at the unseen forces pulling her into this horror. “And you want to use the spell?”

“Tonight.” Her voice was steady. “Memoria Profunda. It should only force me to see past memories without having to wait on certain dreams. I trust you to be the one with me.”

His jaw tightened. “No. Go to Helena. Or Lucius.”

“No. Helena would faint the moment I even grimaced. Lucius would interfere the moment I showed distress. But you…” She gave the faintest, almost pleading smile. “You wouldn’t.”

His eyes flashed, dark as flint. “You think I’d sit still while you tore yourself apart?”

“I think you’d let me finish. Even if it hurt to watch. Knowing I need the information.”

The silence between them throbbed, heavy as thunder.

At last, he exhaled through his teeth. “You’re impossible.”

Her lips quirked. “So that’s a, yes?”

“It’s a reluctant yes,” he muttered.

Lyra gave him a blinding smile and went to work, before Severus could change his mind.

Beneath the great oak in the garden, the night thickened like oil. The stars above glimmered sharp and cold. Lyra knelt in the damp grass, drawing the circle, setting stones with trembling care.

Severus stood just inside the ring of shadows, arms folded, gaze sharp, every muscle coiled.

“Ready?” she whispered.

“No,” he said flatly. “But go on.”

Her palms pressed into the earth. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Memoria Profunda.”

The silver light rippled outward, veins of magic crawling through the soil. Her breath hitched, and then she was gone.
________
The vision seized her.

Stone walls closed in, damp and suffocating. Her body, Hermione’s body, convulsed on the floor, every nerve raw with agony.

Bellatrix’s face loomed above, black curls dripping sweat, eyes alight with rapture. Her wand carved deep into flesh, dragging fire and steel across skin.

Blood welled thick and hot. The letters burned into the arm, her arm.

Mudblood.

A scream ripped from her throat, raw and feral, Hermione’s voice yet hers too, as though their souls had fused in torment.

Lucius stood nearby, silver hair gleaming cold as a blade. His eyes were hard, detached.

Draco the presumed son of her brother, barely older than Lyra herself, stood pale, horror etched into every line of his face.

And who must be Narcissa, face like carved marble, stared deliberately at the wall, rigid, unmoving, as though she could erase what she heard if she did not see.

The screams rose higher, reverberating off the walls like banshee wails.

“Bellatrix!” someone shouted.

And another voice, low, reverent, crawling with dread, answered: “The Dark Lord is coming.”

The name itself made the air shudder, thick and suffocating.

The pain in her arm blazed white-hot, the carved word pulsing with each throb of blood. She tried to wrench free, but the connection bound her, Hermione’s agony crashing into Lyra’s chest like waves, drowning her.

Her heart screamed: This cannot be my family. Not him. Not Lucius.

The floor swam red. Bellatrix bent lower, whispering madness into Hermione’s ear as she cut deeper.

And then, out of the shadows a blur of motion. Black and red hair streaking into the room. A figure lunged forward, wild and desperate.

The vision fractured.

And Lyra came back screaming.

The night air filled with her ragged cries as her body convulsed on the grass.

“Lyra!” Severus was already there, dragging her up into his arms. His face, pale in the moonlight, was drawn with panic, but his voice was fierce, commanding, steady. “Breathe. You’re here. It’s over.”

She sobbed, broken and gasping, and without thought threw herself against him, burying her face in his chest. His robes bunched in her fists as if she might fall away without him.

He held her instantly, tightly. One arm curled around her trembling frame, the other cradled the back of her head, pressing her against him as though to shield her from the night itself.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, dark and low. His eyes burned as he stared into the shadows beyond her, as if he could tear apart the unseen specters that haunted her. “Whatever you saw, it cannot touch you now. Not while I’m here.”

Her tears soaked his robes, but he didn’t care. His grip was fierce, protective, as if the whole world would have to cut through him to reach her again.

“Let it go,” he whispered, softer now, a vow curling in the words. “I will always be here."

And under the cold, indifferent stars, she clung to him, sobbing, while Severus held her as though his arms alone could bar the gates of hell.

Chapter Text

Lyra woke to light spilling through her curtains, sharp and accusing. Morning had slipped far past its usual hour. Her head ached, her throat felt raw, and her arm throbbed with its familiar, merciless pain.

Not Hermione’s scar. Her own.

The weight of the night before clung to her like cobwebs. She pressed her palm to her arm, willing the fire under her skin to quiet, but the pressure only made her tremble harder.

Then she noticed him.

Severus sat slumped in the chair beside her bed, his robes crumpled, ink smudged across one hand, dark circles carved under his eyes. He must not have slept at all. He looked drawn, exhausted and unmovable.

Her heart squeezed. “Severus?”

He startled awake at once, black eyes flashing sharp as glass. For a moment his shoulders stiffened as if expecting attack, then softened when they fell on her.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rasping from disuse.

She pushed herself upright, head spinning. “How did I… get back here?”

“You collapsed,” he said. His gaze dipped to her arm, shadow darkening his expression. “You cried yourself into unconsciousness. I carried you back.”

She swallowed, remembering the warmth of arms wrapped around her, the safety she had clung to before darkness had claimed her. “And you stayed all night?”

His mouth quirked, half a smirk, half a confession. “Did you expect me to leave?”

Her chest tightened, but before she could answer, the door flew open.

“Lyra?” Lucius’s voice snapped into the room. He strode in, golden hair gleaming like polished steel. Behind him, James and Sirius trailed, expectant grins plastered on their faces.

The sight that met them froze Lucius in his tracks. His little sister sat pale and trembling in her bed. While Severus lingered at her side, robes wrinkled, hair untidy, eyes shadowed from a sleepless night.

Lucius’s expression curdled into rage. “What,” he said, voice dangerously low, “are you doing in here? Alone. Unchaperoned. All night?”

Severus stiffened but didn’t move away. His silence only made him look guiltier.

James snorted into his sleeve. “Well, well. This explains why they missed breakfast.”

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Didn’t think Prince had it in him.”

Lucius whirled on them. “Out.”

“Not a chance,” Sirius said, grin widening. “This is too good.”

“Lucius!” Lyra’s voice cracked, her body trembling as she sat up straighter. “He stayed because I needed help. Because, because I cast the Memoria Profunda.”

The air drained from the room.

Lucius’s face went white, then red with fury. “You did what?” His voice was a whip. “From that book? Alone? Without me?”

“I had to,” Lyra whispered, voice breaking.

“You had to?” He strode forward; fury and fear tangled in every line of his face. “Do you have any idea what you risked? That spell could have destroyed you!”

Her breath hitched. The words became blows, too loud, too sharp. In her mind, the vision surged back, stone walls, Bellatrix’s knife carving fire into flesh, and Lucius standing silent, detached, while she screamed.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her chest locked tight, breath coming in shallow bursts.

Lucius reached for her arm. “Lyra...”

She flinched violently.

The world seemed to shatter. Lucius froze, hand hovering inches away. His little sister’s eyes, wide, wild, afraid of him.

“Lyra…” His voice cracked, stripped of anger, naked with horror. “No. Not me. I would never...”

But Severus was already on his feet, stepping between them in one sharp motion, his frame rigid as iron. His voice cut the air like a curse. “Enough.”

Lucius blinked, struck still by the venom in that single word.

Behind him, James’s smirk had fallen, his expression taut. “She’s panicking, Lucius, you need to back off.”

Sirius nodded sharply. “She needs space, not your tantrum.”

Lucius’s fists curled helplessly at his sides. His face, usually carved marble was fractured now, torn between anger, guilt, and something dangerously close to despair. His gaze clung to Lyra, who was clutching her bedpost, gasping like she couldn’t draw breath.

“Lyra, please,” he begged, voice breaking. “Don’t look at me like that. I’d never...”

But she was already slipping, caught in her spiral.

Severus crouched by her bed, catching her trembling hands in his own. His voice was low, steady, uncompromising. “Look at me. Not him. Me. Breathe with me. In. Out. Again. You can do it.”

Her wide eyes fixed on his, dragged back from the shadows by sheer force of his will. Slowly, raggedly her breathing steadied.

Then she broke, collapsing forward into his chest, sobs wracking her frame. His arms went around her instantly, fiercely, one hand cradling the back of her head as if shielding her from every eye in the room.

Lucius stood frozen, devastation carving into his features. His sister sobbed in another boy’s arms, terrified of his own presence. James and Sirius exchanged a look, then stepped forward.

“Come on, Lucius,” James said quietly, with unusual seriousness. “She doesn’t need you right now.”

Sirius nodded, “Best thing you can do is give her space.”

Lucius’s lips parted like he might argue, but the raw fear in Lyra’s face silenced him. He swallowed hard, his own eyes burning, and let himself be guided out.

The door shut with a soft thud. Silence fell, broken only by Lyra’s sobs.

“I’ve ruined your robes again,” she whispered eventually, voice muffled against Severus’s chest, shame tangled in every syllable. “I’ll have to pay to have them cleaned at Madame Malkin’s.”

Severus made only a low humming sound, arms tightening around her in wordless answer. His chin rested lightly against her hair, his hold steady as a vow.

And though the world beyond still clawed at the edges of her vision, she clung to him as though he were the only thing keeping her from breaking apart entirely.
________________

The door clicked shut, muffling the sound of Lyra’s sobs but not silencing them. They carried still, faint through the heavy wood, each broken gasp stabbing straight into Lucius’s chest.

He stood frozen in the corridor, Sirius’s stood close while Jame was hovering warily nearby. Neither boy wore a smirk now.

“She was terrified of me,” Lucius said finally, voice low and strangled, as though he hardly dared breathe the words aloud. His hands shook despite his effort to still them. “My own sister. As if I were the monster in her vision.”

James shifted awkwardly. “Maybe… don’t think of it that way. She’s shaken, that’s all.”

But Lucius barely heard. His gaze was locked on the closed door, eyes burning with a helplessness he had never known. Inside, Severus held her while she cried, and she let him. Clung to him. Trusted him, when she had recoiled from her own brother’s touch.

The thought hollowed him.

He turned sharply, striding away down the corridor before either boy could see the anguish cracking through his face. His heart pounded with rage, not at Lyra, never at Lyra but at the truth twisting like a knife in his chest:

Whatever she had seen in that cursed spell, she no longer believed herself safe with him.

And Lucius did not know how to undo that.

Chapter Text

Lyra found herself perched in a window seat in the room she occupied at Potter Manor. The soft afternoon light spilled across her face as she stared down at the sprawling land, the peaceful sky mocking the chaos in her mind. She wanted the stillness to anchor her, but instead she felt hysteria clawing at the edges of her thoughts.

She had sent Severus away, something that had taken far more insistence than she wanted to admit. He had been dead on his feet, exhaustion carved into every line of his face, and guilt had crashed into her the longer she thought of how much she had burdened him.

Her mind whispered cruel truths: she was a burden to him, to her family, to everyone she dared to love. Who would want someone who saw horrors in dreams, who woke screaming from lives that weren’t hers? Lucius’s hurt eyes flashed before her, and she flinched, curling tighter into herself. How could she look at him the same way again? How could she breathe the same air as Bellatrix, knowing what could lie beneath the polished mask of the Black name?

Her thoughts spiraled faster, tighter, until her chest clenched and her breathing turned ragged, when a soft knock sounded at her door.

She managed a small squeak of approval, and the door creaked open. Sirius’s face appeared, his usual swagger gone. For once, he carried no smirk, no careless remark. His hands were clasped in front of him, his shoulders tense, as though debating what to say. The silence stretched too long in her fractured mind.

Lyra broke it with a weak attempt at humor. “I half expected Helena to break down my door.”

Sirius’s lips curved in a crooked smile. “James may have taken one for the team. He told her you were feeling under the weather, then immediately made it his life’s mission to distract her. You’re safe from her for… maybe an hour. No promises.”

Lyra gave a faint nod, her gaze drifting back to the window.

Sirius took a few steps closer. “I’m not here to pry. Severus is tighter-lipped than a Gringotts vault, and I won’t pretend I know what happened. I just thought you might want company from someone who knows what it’s like… to feel abnormal.”

Lyra turned her head sharply. Sirius always carried himself with such confidence that she had assumed he could talk himself into any place, win over any crowd. But abnormal? It didn’t fit.

“I’m not sure you could really understand,” she whispered.

For a heartbeat, Sirius almost recoiled, as if honesty tasted sour on his tongue. But then, with deliberate care, he sat beside her and gently pried open the fist she hadn’t realized she was clenching. He held her hand as if anchoring her to the present.

“What has Narcissa told you about why she brought me here this summer?” he asked quietly.

“She said you were being punished for your transfiguration grade, and she decided to rescue you.”

Sirius gave a sharp laugh that had no humor in it. “That’s one way of putting it. The Potters know the gist. Even our favorite dungeon bat... has an understanding. But I’ll show you, if you promise not to try and save me. This isn’t about pity. It’s about you not thinking you’re alone in this.”

He whispered, “Finite Incantatem.”

Lyra gasped as the glamour fell away. Bruises bloomed across his skin, ugly purple and yellow marks twisting over his arms and jaw, some still fresh and angry. The sight drove every ounce of air from her lungs. She reached out with trembling fingers to touch his cheek.

“Oh, Sirius… how could you tell me not to try and save you, and then show me this? Why do they still look so raw? Why aren’t you getting help?”

Sirius dropped his gaze, his voice hard. “Old families know old magic. Pain that lingers, that doesn’t heal with a simple charm. That’s how they make their point.” With a flick of his wand, the bruises vanished beneath glamour again. He let go of her hand and stood, turning his back to her as though ashamed.

“I was never the heir they wanted. Too many questions, too much boldness. Then Regulus was born, and I thought if I played their game, maybe I could protect him. But then I landed in Gryffindor, and that was the end. They’ve nearly disowned me. And all the while, I worry about him, what they’re doing to him when I’m not there. These bruises? They’re nothing compared to knowing I’ve failed the one person I was supposed to protect.” His shoulders sagged. “That’s the real prison. Knowing you can’t stop it. Knowing you’ll never break traditions older than wizard kind.”

Slowly, he turned back to her, his eyes strangely bright. “And I see that same anguish in you. You’re holding on by threads, just like me. And I don’t want you to drown in it alone.”

Lyra’s chest tightened as she looked at him. She saw not the swaggering boy who filled every silence with bravado, but the truth beneath: the frightened child who had built a fortress of laughter and sarcasm to hide the fear gnawing at his soul.

He could have turned cruel. He could have despised her simply for being a Malfoy. But instead, he had come to her, tearing down his walls, offering his scars as proof she wasn’t alone.

Her voice trembled when she whispered, “Sometimes I think fate gave me an assignment no one could ever succeed at. That I’ll fail, and it’ll destroy everyone I love. I feel like I’m meant to protect, but I don’t even know from what. We’re just children, Sirius. Children given lives too dark for us to carry.”

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into a tight hug, his chin resting against her hair.

“Children?” he scoffed softly. “The Sacred Twenty-Eight don’t have children. They have lords and ladies. How dare we not know how to bow at birth? Truly a defect in reproduction.”

A startled sound escaped her lips, half a chuckle, faint but real.

Sirius grinned against her hair. “There it is. I knew I could drag one out of you.”

Lyra leaned into him, the heaviness not gone but less suffocating. For the first time that day, the darkness eased, just a little.

Chapter Text

Lyra’s chuckle still lingered faintly in the air when the door to her room burst open as though a spell had hurled it wide.

“Lyra Malfoy!” Helena thundered, storming across the carpet with a storm cloud’s worth of indignation. Her hair swished like live sparks with each furious step, and her eyes blazed with righteous fire.

Trailing behind her was James, looking rumpled, guilty, and entirely unrepentant. “I tried to stop her,” he announced, as if presenting his defense to a judge. “Really, I did. But she hexed a pillow at my head. Twice.”

“You moved too slowly,” Helena snapped without even glancing at him. Her attention snapped back to Lyra, who shrank slightly against the window seat cushions under the full force of her friend’s glare. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You vanish, you shut yourself away, you look like...”

“Like death warmed over?” Sirius interrupted lazily from his place beside Lyra. He tipped his head back against the windowpane with a smirk. “Don’t worry, she’s alive. I checked.”

Helena whipped around, fire sparking in her expression. “You’re no better, Sirius. Sneaking in here, skulking about like some… brooding crow, hoarding secrets with her. You could’ve at least told me she was...”

“Enough, Helena.” Lyra’s voice was soft, but the weariness beneath it made Helena falter.

The room shifted a little. Helena’s anger dimmed, replaced by a worried crease between her brows.

James stepped forward, shoving his hands into his pockets, his crooked grin attempting to defuse the tension. “She’s right, Hel. Maybe shouting’s not the cure here. I really did my best to keep you away, though, Lyra you wouldn’t believe how many chocolate frogs it took.

Helena spun on him, aghast. “You tried to bribe me with sweets while my best friend was in here suffering?”

“You like chocolate!” James shot back.

“And you’re a menace!” Helena huffed.

“Children, children,” Sirius drawled, stretching out his legs. “If you’re going to bicker, at least provide entertainment value. Perhaps a duel... to release all of that built up tension?”

“Shut up, Black,” they chorused in perfect unison.

Despite herself, Lyra let out the tiniest puff of laughter. The sound made all three of them freeze, then beam like they’d discovered a miracle.

The moment, however, was cut short when another voice, dry and cutting as steel, entered the fray.

“Of course. I should’ve known a crowd had gathered.”

Severus stood in the doorway, hair a little neater than it had been earlier, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. His sharp gaze swept over the chaos, narrowing at Sirius lounging by Lyra’s side and Helena hovering like a mother hen.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Lyra blurted, frowning at him.

“Supposed to be, yes,” he said smoothly, stalking further into the room. “Unfortunately, I was under the impression my presence might be required, considering the zoo assembled here.”

“It’s hardly a zoo,” Helena sniffed.

“Really? Because between Potter’s noise, Black’s useless lounging, and your constant shrieking, it sounds like one.”

James clutched his chest dramatically. “Wounded! And here I thought you only saved your venom for me.”

“Consider yourself special,” Severus replied flatly.

“See, even he thinks you’re loud,” Sirius muttered to Helena.

Helena whirled on him, scandalized. “Don’t you start...”

“Everyone stop.” Lyra’s voice cracked, but the plea quieted them. “Please. Just… stop.”

The room fell into uneasy silence. Lyra’s fingers twisted together in her lap, her face pale, her arm throbbing dully beneath her sleeve. She had no strength for their antics, yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell them to leave either. For all their chaos, their bickering anchored her, reminded her that, somehow, life went on outside of the visions clawing at her mind.

Severus, however, fixed the others with a glare sharp enough to flay them alive. “If any of you had a shred of sense, you’d realize she needs peace. Not shouting. Not jokes. Peace.”

“Oh yes, because you’re the expert on peace,” Sirius shot back, but his tone lacked its usual bite.

Lyra, exhausted, pressed her palms to her eyes. “Severus, you do need to sleep. Truly.”

He snorted softly. “And miss the chance to babysit this circus?”

“Don’t tempt me to throw you out,” she murmured, and for the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Laughter, brittle, hesitant, but real rose again from Lyra’s room, spilling faintly into the manor’s polished halls.

But farther down the corridor, where the cheerful noise could only echo faintly, Lucius heard it like a blade pressed against his chest. He paused outside the door, hand hovering at the knob, listening to the muffled chaos inside. James’s boyish jokes. Helena’s sharp scolding. Sirius’s lazy quips. Even Severus’s clipped barbs. And above it all, his sister’s laugh, fragile as glass but there.

He should have been relieved. Instead, he turned away. The sound, meant to comfort, burned. It reminded him not of joy but of distance, of the wall that had sprung up overnight between himself and the girl he’d sworn to protect.

By the time he reached the gardens, his shoes ground against gravel with restless force, every stride trying and failing to outrun the memory of her fearful eyes.

The gardens of Potter Manor were lush with late-summer bloom, roses curling heavy on their stems, their scent thick in the air. Yet for Lucius, the beauty of the place was a mockery. He stalked along the gravel path, his polished shoes grinding against the stones, each turn sharper than the last.

Narcissa sat waiting on a marble bench beneath the shade of a sculpted yew. She was stillness itself, serene, unflinching, her pale hair a curtain of silver-gold in the sunlight. Her posture was perfect, but her eyes followed him with quiet concern.

“You should sit,” she said softly after his fourth turn.

“I cannot,” Lucius snapped before catching himself. He stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that betrayed his usual composure. “I cannot still myself when her eyes… when Lyra looks at me as though I am a monster.”

Narcissa’s expression softened, but she did not rise yet. “You are not a monster, Lucius.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “A Malfoy? Not a monster? You and I both know what that name carries.” His voice lowered, raw. “She saw something. Something in that spell. And it broke her trust in me. My own sister.”

Finally, Narcissa stood and crossed to him, the soft click of her shoes on gravel grounding the moment. She touched his arm lightly, as though he were glass in danger of shattering.

“Lucius,” she murmured, “whatever she saw, it is not you. It is not this moment, or this life. You love her. That is truth. You protect her. That is truth. Do not let a vision, magic you cannot control, convince you otherwise.”

He turned to face her, and for once the polish was gone. His face was pale, his grey eyes tight with despair. “But what if it was? What if she saw me? Some twisted reflection of myself in a future I cannot escape? What if she is right to fear me?”

Narcissa’s lips parted, but for a moment she had no ready reply. She studied him, this boy who wore his pride like armor, who rarely allowed anyone to see the fractures beneath. Slowly, she shook her head.

“Then you prove it false,” she said quietly. “Every day. With every choice. You are not bound to become what your blood expects of you.”

His jaw worked, stubbornness warring with fear. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t,” she admitted. “I live in the same cage you do. My family would see me married off to strengthen alliances, trained like a hound to heel at the first command. I am expected to smile, to bow, to obey,” She lifted her chin, her voice steady despite the bitterness in it. “But I know who I am. And I choose to be more than their mask.”

Lucius studied her, his stormy expression easing just slightly, as if her calm defiance anchored him. “You are braver than you ought to be.”

“And you,” Narcissa replied, “are gentler than you let yourself believe.”

For a heartbeat, silence settled between them, broken only by the hum of bees in the roses.

At last, Lucius’s shoulders slumped. “She recoiled from me, Narcissa. If her eyes never soften again…” His throat caught, a rare fracture in his smooth voice. “I do not know how to bear it.”

Narcissa’s grip on his arm firmed, delicate fingers grounding him. “Then give her time. Fear is not the same as truth. If she will not let you in now, let me speak to her. Sometimes another girl, a friend, a confidant, can reach where a brother cannot.”

He hesitated, then gave the smallest nod, though it cost him. “If she listens to anyone… it will be you.”

“And if she does not,” Narcissa said firmly, “then we wait. And we remind her, every day, that love does not break so easily.”

Lucius looked at her then, truly looked, and for the first time since the vision his sister had suffered, something like hope flickered behind his haunted eyes.

Chapter Text

The next morning dawned soft and pale, light filtering through the tall windows of Lyra’s room in Potter Manor. She moved slowly, her limbs still heavy from the weight of the previous day, as she sat before her vanity while Posie carefully combed through her hair. Each tug was grounding, though her mind remained clouded and restless.

A gentle knock at the door startled her. It wasn’t Helena’s impatient rhythm or James’s loud pounding, this was softer, careful.

“Lyra?” Narcissa’s voice floated through the wood, calm and melodic.

Lyra hesitated, fingers curling in her lap. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Narcissa slipped inside, every bit as graceful as Lyra had expected. She seemed to carry the scent of roses with her, her pale hair shining in the morning light, her posture effortlessly composed. Lyra’s stomach twisted at the sight. Narcissa had always been kind to her, protective even, yet the memory of the vision lingered, Hermione’s screams, Bellatrix’s wand, and Narcissa’s desolate face in the shadows. For an instant, her chest constricted.

Narcissa, perceptive as ever, paused as though sensing the resistance in the air. She crossed the room slowly, her tone gentle. “I thought I might sit with you for a while. May I?”

Lyra gave the faintest nod.

“Thank you, Posie,” Narcissa murmured, and with a respectful bow, the elf vanished. Narcissa picked up the comb with delicate fingers and began to work through Lyra’s hair, movements confident yet soothing.

For a while, silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft pull of the comb and the rustle of fabric. At last, Narcissa spoke, her voice low but steady. “Lucius is troubled. He worries he’s lost your trust.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “I… I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just...” She faltered, unable to explain the weight of her vision. The fear. The recoil that came unbidden.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Narcissa said smoothly, sparing her. “Not if you’re not ready. I only wanted you to know that your brother loves you more than anything. He may not know how to show it well, but it is the truth.”

Lyra’s gaze dropped to her lap. The comb moved through her hair, gentle and unhurried, and she found herself studying Narcissa’s reflection in the mirror. It was difficult to reconcile this girl, serene, sharp, protective, with the broken woman Lyra had glimpsed in her vision.

Finally, Lyra whispered, “It feels like fate has dealt us the cruelest hands…” She trailed off, unwilling to say more.

Narcissa’s eyes softened in the mirror. She bent slightly, gathering the last strand into place before smoothing it with her palm. Then she placed her hands lightly on Lyra’s shoulders. “Whatever it is you carry, you don’t carry it alone. If you ever need me, at school, or anywhere, you only have to ask.”

Lyra turned, just enough to meet her eyes. A small, fragile smile curved her lips. “Thank you.”

With rare affection, Narcissa leaned down and wrapped her arms around Lyra in a brief, gentle hug. When she pulled back, her composure was intact again, though her tone was softer than usual. “Now hurry. The group is waiting, and you know your parents, they’ll already be expecting us in Diagon Alley.”

She glided toward the door, her perfume lingering as she slipped out.

Posie popped back into existence with a cheerful squeak, holding out a set of new robes. The fabric shimmered navy blue, the hems and sleeves embroidered with delicate silver designs. Lyra allowed herself to be dressed, smoothing the sleeves as though the fine fabric could steady her nerves.

When she finally descended to the parlor, the scene awaiting her was typical chaos. Sirius and Severus were squared off in a heated debate, each claiming the other had the worse stance for a duel. Helena sat between them, hair potion in hand, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her latest concoction that neither boy seemed to be listening to.

It should have been overwhelming, but Lyra found herself oddly comforted. Until her gaze caught her brother’s.

Lucius was seated near the window, posture impeccable, but the shadows beneath his eyes betrayed a sleepless night. His grey eyes fixed on her, unreadable yet heavy with unspoken words. Lyra’s chest tightened, guilt flickering sharp and raw, though the memory of the vision burned at the edges of her mind.

Before she could retreat inward, James appeared at her side. He squeezed her shoulder, leaning close with a grin. “Don’t look so grim. Think of Diagon Alley, books, cauldrons, and more importantly, Sugarplum’s chocolate. I’ll even buy you some truffles...if Sirius doesn't try and steal them all.”

Lyra blinked, and the corners of her mouth lifted faintly. His distraction was clumsy but welcome. “That sounds… nice.”

“Good,” James said brightly. “Then it’s settled. l will buy us enough chocolate to survive at least half of term.”

Before Lyra could respond, Lady Euphemia’s voice cut across the room, calm but commanding. “Children. Time to go.”

One by one, they gathered near the hearth. Severus stepped forward first, sweeping past Sirius with a disdainful flick of his robes. He paused only once, locking eyes with Lyra as she stood beside James. His brow arched, unreadable but pointed, before he vanished into the emerald flames.

Lyra then stepped into the emerald flames and called clearly, “Diagon Alley!”

The world spun in a dizzying rush of ash and color before she stumbled out of the fireplace, coughing as soot clung to her robes. A pale hand appeared instantly to steady her.

Severus. He stood with his usual air of restraint, dark hair falling neatly despite the travel, he had grown over the summer. His gaze scanned her quickly, sharply, before resting with pointed disapproval.

“You might try stepping with both feet next time,” he said, tone dry as parchment.

Lyra smirked, brushing ash from her robes. “And you might try smiling once in a while. It’s exhausting, carrying a frown that deep.”

His brow twitched, but instead of retorting he asked abruptly, “What were you and James whispering about before the floo?”

Lyra tilted her head, lips curving with mischief. “Are you jealous that you’re not my sole confidant?”

Color rose at the tips of his ears, betraying him. “Of course not,” he said too quickly, his words precise but strained. “You’re free to confide in whomever you wish. I only asked.”

She tapped his shoulder lightly, letting the moment linger just long enough to catch his blush. “I wish I could say green isn’t your color. But alas, you’re a Slytherin. It suits you far too well.”

His composure faltered again, the faintest flush creeping into his pale cheeks. He looked away, as though the soot on the stone floor were suddenly very compelling.

Before Lyra could press her advantage, a voice cut across the noise of the floo chamber.

“Lyra.”

Her mother, Acacia, swept toward her with effortless grace, robes of pale silver trailing like water behind her. Her smile was warm, her perfume floral and grounding, but her eyes scanned Lyra quickly, searching for any sign of harm. She drew her daughter into an embrace, kissing her cheek with all the pent-up affection of weeks apart.

“My darling girl, you’ve grown even in this short time. How you’ve changed on me.”

Abraxas followed at a measured pace, posture as impeccable as always, though Lyra caught the subtle tightening in his jaw as he moved. His smile was faint, polite, but she swore his shoulders stiffened, as though bracing himself against something unseen.

“I’ve hardly changed at all,” Lyra murmured, her cheeks heating at her mother’s fussing. “Truly, Mother, I’m the same as yesterday.”

“Nonsense.” Acacia smoothed her daughter’s hair as though she were still a child. “You’ll make me weep if you insist on diminishing yourself so. I swear, you and Lucius have both grown up on me overnight.”

Lyra tried not to wilt beneath her mother’s attention, especially as Helena was simultaneously enduring the same fussing from her own mother, Lady Evangeline. Across the Alley, she caught her friend’s exasperated look, and nearly laughed.

“Mama,” Lyra said gently, forcing brightness into her voice, “shouldn’t we begin our shopping? Hogwarts waits for no one.”

Acacia sighed, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “You’re just like your father, always redirecting.” Still, she allowed herself to be steered toward the shops, conversation flowing from robes to cauldrons to books.

The large party divided neatly: Lucius and Severus trailing Abraxas and Narcissa; Sirius and James swept off by Euphemia; Lyra left in the company of her mother, Helena, and Lady Evangeline.

They made their way through the bustle of Diagon Alley until the glimmering sign of Madam Malkin’s swung overhead. Just as Acacia guided her toward the door, Lyra hesitated.

“Mother,” she began carefully, “might I… slip into Flourish and Blotts first? Just for a moment?”

Acacia’s eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “I would much rather keep you near me, Lyra. Especially after so much time apart. And for your safety...”

“She won’t be alone,” Helena cut in quickly. “I’ll go with her.”

Acacia glanced toward Evangeline, who after a moment gave the smallest nod. The tension in her mother’s shoulders eased, just barely.

“Very well,” Acacia said at last, though her voice carried steel. “But do not wander far.”

As they slipped away, Lyra caught the faintest murmur from Evangeline’s lips: “The children have each other, and our protection. We must hold hope it will be enough until we can do more.”

Lyra and Helena exchanged glances, brows knitting. “What do you think that means?” Helena whispered as they made their way down the cobbled lane.

“Nothing good,” Lyra muttered.

“Maybe they’re planning secret dueling lessons,” Helena suggested, trying for levity. “Or recruiting dragons.”

Lyra huffed a quiet laugh. “Let’s hope for the dragons.”

By the time they reached the warm glow of Flourish and Blotts, their speculations had only grown more tangled. Helena then nudged her playfully. “I half-expect you to vanish forever in here. Shall I send up sparks if you get lost in the back?”

Lyra blushed faintly. “I’ll manage.”

“Mm-hm,” Helena said, peeling off toward the magazine racks. “I’ll be in a chair when you come crawling back, book-drunk and wide-eyed. Do hurry though princess, before our mothers believe us kidnapped, they will send a search party.”

Lyra smirked at the jab, though her chest ached faintly. She drifted deeper into the labyrinth of shelves, fingers tracing over the cracked spines of ancient potion texts. Her arm throbbed, sharp, insistent as though sensing her purpose. She flipped pages, eyes scanning for remedies, for anything that might explain the fire beneath her skin.

She gripped the text tighter as molten fire coiled beneath her skin, her veins began burning. The more she turned the pages, the worse it became, until it stopped so suddenly, she nearly staggered from the force of it.

The silence rang in her ears.

Then, someone cleared their throat.

Lyra’s head snapped up.

A boy stood much too close. He was older, near Lucius’s age, dressed immaculately, his posture radiating self-importance. But it was his eyes, glittering, serpentine, filled with a strange, knowing hunger, that made her skin crawl.

“Hello,” he said smoothly, his voice a low purr.

Lyra forced composure, every lesson in etiquette rising like armor. She inclined her head. “Good afternoon.”

“My name is Warren.” He stepped closer, his smile sharp. “And yours?”

“Lyra.”

His gaze flicked to the book in her hands. “Potions, hm? Ambitious. Not every girl your age would waste time with such dense reading.”

“I wouldn’t call it wasting time,” Lyra replied evenly, clutching the book tighter. “I find it interesting.”

A chuckle slid from him, low and dark. “Intelligence in one so young. Useful. Very useful.”

The words dripped with something foul. The fine hairs on Lyra’s arms stood on end, dread prickling across her skin. Instinct screamed at her to flee, to call Helena, to do something..

But he moved faster.

His hand shot out, seizing her arm and wrenching it behind her back with cruel precision. A spell struck before she could cry out, silencing her utterly.

Her sleeve was then torn up, her pale skin bared. Warren pressed his thumb hard into her forearm, and the pain erupted at once, liquid fire, searing agony that licked up her veins. Lyra’s body arched, her scream trapped behind invisible walls, as Warren’s smile grew with grotesque satisfaction.

He bent low, whispering against her ear. “You can thrash all you like. You can study your little books. But know this, no matter where you hide, I will find you. No potion will save you. No charm will undo what binds you to me. You will be my guide to greatness."

Lyra’s vision blurred as she struggled, panic clawing at her chest. But then something shifted.

A hiss tore from Warren’s throat as angry red welts began to rise across his pale skin. His perfect face rippled, blistering, his features twisting grotesquely.

He staggered back, releasing her with a curse. “What did you do?”

Lyra shook her head frantically, chest heaving. She had no voice, no answer, only terror.

His skin split further, blistering and searing, his handsome mask collapsing and shifting into something else. The fury in his eyes burned hotter than the flames in her veins.

“You’ll pay for this insolence,” he spat, voice ragged and venomous. “Remember, you are never truly alone.”

And then, with a snap of air and shadow, he vanished.

Lyra collapsed against the shelves, trembling, her breath rasping silent in her throat.

Her terror curdled into anger. Anger at herself, for being cornered, for her naïve complacency, for her weakness.

Tears stung, but she shoved them back, curling her hands into fists so tight her nails cut her palms.

“Lyra!”

Helena’s voice, sharp and frantic, cut through the silence. Footsteps pounded, then she appeared, magazines forgotten, her face paling at the sight of Lyra trembling in the shadows.

Her wand flicked without hesitation. “Finite.” The weight of the silencing charm lifted, air rushing back into Lyra’s lungs.

She lunged forward, clutching Helena’s arms. Her voice broke, low and urgent. “I know you will want to tell them. You can’t. Not yet. Please. If Mother knows… you know how she will be. I need Hogwarts, Helena. I need to grow strong enough to stop this, whatever this is. Please.”

Helena’s eyes burned with protest, her lips trembling with unsaid fury. But when she saw the desperation etched into her friend’s face, her shoulders dropped.

“Fine,” she whispered hoarsely. “But fix your sleeve. Clean your face. And we will be having a full-blown conversation about this later." Helena then squeezed Lyras's arm, "At this point I can never leave your side, you are a danger magnet,”

Lyra nodded, her hands shaking as she pulled her robes together, whispering small mending charms. Helena stayed close, a shield of sharp edges and stubborn fire.

Neither spoke as they straightened themselves in the dim aisle.

But in those shadows of Flourish and Blotts, both girls whispered vows to themselves, silent oaths that would one day drag them through ruin, despair, and unrelenting fire. Long before their seventh year closed, those vows would carve war into their bones. Fate, merciless and patient, was already sharpening its blade and was ready to win this war the first time no matter the cost.

The Wizarding World depended on it.

Chapter Text

Severus sat cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom in Prince Manor, dark eyes scanning the row of potion texts spread before him. His trunk stood half-packed, robes folded with obsessive precision. He tried to focus on the methodical work of preparing for another year at Hogwarts, but his thoughts wandered, as they had too often this summer.

He couldn’t stop replaying the last time he’d seen Lyra. At Diagon Alley she had smiled when spoken to, nodded when pressed, but something in her had been unreachable. She and Helena had seemed... altered. Aloof, unsettled. Severus had tried, quietly, to draw Lyra out, but she had met every attempt with polite deflection, like a wall she refused to let him past.

Had she confided everything to Helena? Did Helena know the truth of her vision? The thought hollowed him. He wanted to help, wanted to be her shield against the world, but what use was he when every path of research into the pain in her arm led only to dead ends? How could he help her when it came to a possible past life?

Severus shook his head and reached for another armful of potion texts, intent on packing them all, when a sharp thump echoed across the room. He turned sharply.

A pair of wide blue eyes blinked back at him from atop his desk.

Severus narrowed his gaze. “Aconite. What are you doing?”

The half-kneazle cocked its head, paw already stretched toward the ink bottle. With deliberate insolence, it swiped. Crash. Ink splattered across the floorboards.

Despite himself, Severus gave a quiet huff of laughter. “I thought half-kneazles were meant to be more refined than ordinary cats. You’re a disgrace.”

The creature flicked its plume of a tail, utterly unrepentant.

A lazy flick of Severus’s wand cleaned the spill, though not his fraying patience. What had possessed him to bring home this beast only days ago? He approached, scratching the animal behind the ears. Aconite leaned into the touch, purring loudly, then settled smugly across the books Severus had been attempting to pack.

“You will curse me for what I am about to do."

Severus eyed the carrier with grim determination. Aconite seeming to sense the direction of the interaction leapt several feet away to be on the bed, tail flicking, watching Severus with a predator’s patience.

“This will go better for both of us if you cooperate,” Severus muttered.

The half-kneazle blinked slowly, unimpressed.

With the precision of a duelist, Severus moved forward, hands ready to scoop the creature up. For a brief moment, it seemed success was at hand, until Aconite twisted like smoke, claws hooking into the coverlet as if staking a battlefield.

“Unbelievable,” Severus hissed, prying tiny paws free. The half-kneazle wriggled, twisted, and launched itself toward his bookshelf. Severus lunged after it, nearly colliding with it.

By the time he wrestled the animal into the carrier, Severus’s robe was askew, a lock of hair plastered to his forehead, and his dignity in tatters. Aconite sat inside the cage with all the smugness of victory, licking one paw as though he had graciously allowed himself to be captured.

Severus glared. “You are insufferable.”

The feline only flicked its tail.

By the time he entered the parlor, his grandmother took one look at his hair and wrinkled robes and sighed in disdain. “Disorderly. A disgrace. And dragging that beast with you as well.”

He muttered a tight “Yes, Grandmother,” before she took his arm and Apparated them both to King’s Cross.

The scarlet engine gleamed on the tracks, the air buzzing with steam, owls, and voices. His grandmother gave him a clipped farewell, "Be an accolade to Slytherin, boy. I will be watching.” before disappearing into the crowd.

Severus shouldered his way through the platform, scanning for familiar faces. He spotted the pale shine of Malfoy hair, a familial cluster already embracing one another, they seemed occupied, so Severus pushed onward to the train in hopes of finding the others.

A few compartments down, he found Sirius seated without his usual shadows of James and Remus. Instead, a smaller boy with a striking resemblance sat beside him, darker-eyed, thinner, but clearly a Black.

Sirius looked up, exhaustion hidden under a veneer of arrogance. “Prince,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect you to seek my charming company so soon.”

The younger boy gave Severus a shy glance.

“This is Regulus,” Sirius said, waving a hand at him. “Don't let the meek act fool you, he is stronger than he comes off.”

Regulus gave a hesitant smile. “Are you in Slytherin? I want to be in Slytherin.”

Severus inclined his head. “I am.”

Regulus lit up, eager. Sirius immediately coughed. “Slytherin? Please. Gryffindor is where the real magic is. Isn’t that right, Severus?”

Regulus looked faintly ill at the suggestion.

Before Severus could retort, James and Remus tumbled into the compartment. James’s grin was wide as ever. “You’ll never believe it, Pettigrew’s missing.”

Sirius frowned. “Missing? Already?”

“Not missing missing,” James corrected. “Just… gone off. Someone saw him talking with Thaddius Nott.”

Sirius raised a brow. “That’s odd. Nott spent most of last year tormenting him, and us. I know he apologized but since when are they friends?”

“Exactly,” James said. “No clue when that started. Doesn’t make sense.”

Severus filed that away, unease prickling the back of his neck.

Before he could press the matter further, the door slid open again.

Lyra stepped inside, Helena at her side. The moment Lyra’s eyes landed on the carrier, her face brightened, composure forgotten. “Severus, you didn’t! You actually got one?”

He opened the latch. Aconite slinked out, shot him a disdainful glance, then immediately curled around Lyra’s ankles, rumbling a thunderous purr.

Lyra laughed, gathering the kneazle into her arms, Aconite seeming entirely proud of himself. Sirius waggled his eyebrows at Severus.

“Show-off,” Severus muttered.

Then another knock at the compartment and Lily appeared.

Her greeting was polite, warm for James and Sirius and Remus, but cooled when her gaze landed on Lyra. Then her attention fell to the half-kneazle in Lyra’s arms.

“Oh, what a beautiful cat.” She stepped closer, hand extended.

Aconite hissed, spine arched, fur bristling like a storm.

“Enough!” Severus snapped at Aconite. “Apologies, Lily. He’s new, he isn’t used to people yet.”

Lily’s expression faltered, lips trembling. “He doesn’t like me,” she whispered, wounded. Then her green eyes lifted to him her lashes fluttering. “And if he doesn’t… maybe you don’t, either.”

Severus froze, throat tightening. That wasn’t true, of course it wasn’t true. He opened his mouth to say so, but the words tangled.

“You’ve spent all summer with everyone else,” Lily pressed, voice soft, almost breaking. “Potter, Black, even her.” Her gaze darted to Lyra. “But not with me. Don’t you think I miss you, Severus? Don’t you think I want time with my best friend?”

Severus’s chest clenched. She was a dear friend. She had stood by him when he tried to push everyone away in first year. He owed her something, didn’t he? Especially after her letter over the summer.

Yet when he looked back, Lyra was seated, Aconite draped across her lap like he belonged there. Her eyes met his, calm and steady, even as she gently scratched the kneazle’s chin.

“You should go,” she said softly. “I’ll look after him.”

It was a kindness, freely given. And it cut deeper than any of Lily’s pleading.

But Lily’s hand was already slipping into his, warm and insistent. “Please, Sev. Just this once. Sit with me. It would mean so much.”

The guilt sank its teeth in. Severus let himself be pulled, his thoughts a knot of shame and longing. He cast one last glance at Lyra.

She smiled faintly at him. Not accusing. Not cold. Just… understanding.

That somehow made it worse.

Lily squealed her thanks, tugging him out of the compartment. As she passed, she cast Lyra a look, sharp, victorious.

Neither of them noticed Remus lean back with a sigh, murmuring under his breath:

“Animals always know before we do.”

Chapter Text

The train gave a long, shrill whistle, and with a jerk, the scarlet engine lurched forward. Steam curled past the windows as the world outside began to slide away.

Lyra sat in the corner of the compartment, her fingers buried in the soft fur of Aconite, who had claimed her lap as his throne. The half-kneazle purred contently, utterly ignoring everyone else in the compartment.

Helena arched an eyebrow the moment the whistle faded.
“Well, there goes Severus,” she said dryly. “Dragged off like a sack of potatoes. By Lily Evans, of all people.”

Sirius smirked, already fluttering his lashes in exaggerated imitation.
“Oh, Severus, you simply must sit with me,” he crooned, his voice pitched high, a mocking echo of Lily’s plea. “After all, everyone else had you all summer, and poor little me was left all alone...”

James burst out laughing, though Helena rolled her eyes.
“Why he lets her boss him about like that is beyond me. Doesn’t he have any spine?”

“Maybe he thinks he owes her something,” Remus said quietly, his gaze thoughtful.

The words hung heavy for a moment. Sirius, for once, dropped his grin. His eyes flickered to the corner of the compartment where his younger brother sat stiffly, trying to blend into the shadows. Sirius’s voice came quieter than usual when he spoke again.
“I get it. When you grow up in a house like mine... you start to think you owe everything to the ones who hand you the smallest scrap of affection. Even when it’s poisoned.”

The compartment stilled. James and Remus exchanged a look before both clapped Sirius on the shoulder, a rare moment of unspoken solidarity.

Lyra lifted her head from Aconite’s soothing rhythm, her gaze steady and sharp.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to remind half my friends every day that they are worthwhile,” she said firmly. “That they don’t owe anybody their freedom, or their loyalty, just because someone dangles a little kindness in front of them.”

Helena broke the gravity with a scoff, flipping her hair over one shoulder.
“If you want, Lyra, I’ll happily take Little Red down a peg. Teach her how pureblooded girls handle their business.”

Lyra let out a dry laugh.
“Tempting. But no. Lily may be a thorn in my side, but she’s not my battle to fight. If Severus can’t find the backbone to see through a girl like her, then he’ll struggle against the real vipers in our world. Our society isn’t kind to those it deems weak.”

Her voice dropped at the last words, almost to herself. Sirius shuddered faintly, his hand ghosting toward his shoulder as though to ward off an old memory. The tension sharpened, a knife’s edge threatening to cut through the air...

James cleared his throat.
“Exploding Snap, anyone?”

Remus groaned softly, though there was a hint of relief in his tone.
“You just don’t want to sit in the silence.”

“Too right,” James replied with a grin, already shuffling the deck.

Regulus, who had been quiet until now, perked up, his dark eyes brightening. The boy leaned forward with unguarded eagerness, and for the first time since he’d entered the compartment, he looked younger than his name and house expected him to be.

Lyra’s lips curved faintly, the smallest smile, as she watched him. A boy who wanted only to play a game, yet shadows already circled him. She stroked Aconite once more, grounding herself, and pushed away the image of another boy with obsidian eyes that haunted her thoughts.

The train carried them on, laughter mingling with the occasional snap and hiss of magical cards. But far from the rumbling train, in the quiet heart of Hogwarts, a very different conversation unfolded.
___________
The firelight in Dumbledore’s office flickered across shelves of books and strange instruments, but the warmth did not touch the two men in the room.

Abraxas stood near the window, posture impeccable, hands folded behind his back as though he were addressing an equal at court. His voice, however, carried a rare strain, discomfort threaded with ice.
“You will forgive me if I offer you fragments, Headmaster. Riddle sees betrayal in shadows. Give him too much, and he will trace it back to me. To my family. My house burns for one misplaced word.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, calm as stone.
“Fragments are often more useful than wholes, Lord Malfoy. A skilled mind can make patterns where others see only cracks.”

Abraxas’s jaw twitched. His gray eyes sharpened, and he turned fully from the window.
“He has returned. Not unchanged, never unchanged. His charm remains, but now it cloaks a mind slipping further into madness. Calculated madness. He inspires terror as easily as devotion.”

He pulled back his sleeve. The black serpent gleamed faintly on pale skin, its pulse unsettlingly alive.

Dumbledore leaned forward, his expression unreadable, but his eyes glittered.
“He cast this himself?”

“Yes,” Abraxas said flatly. “His masterwork. A spell of binding, not merely loyalty. He calls it devotion, ownership, more like. He claims no follower will ever break free of him again.”

“How very Tom,” Dumbledore murmured. His voice was quiet, but cutting. “Loyalty reduced to chains. Freedom disguised as faith.”

Abraxas let the sleeve fall, his mask of composure faltering for a moment. His hand flexed at his side.
“You know why I am here. I play the loyal servant in his ranks. But I am also a father. Two children, Lucius, my heir, and Lyra, my daughter, both already marked by what lies ahead. You will tell me how you intend to protect them. What you will make of them in your game.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him, soft in appearance but as cold as iron beneath.
“You speak as though I would use them as pieces on a board.”

Abraxas gave a sharp laugh, bitter as wine left to sour.
“Would you not? Riddle would. You are no different. He binds through fear, you bind through ideals. Either way, the children carry the weight of the game.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then Dumbledore inclined his head, as if acknowledging the charge without shame.
“Perhaps. But even pawns can cross the board and become something more. What I offer them is not servitude, but the means to survive. To choose. To fight, should they wish it.”

He withdrew a sealed envelope from his desk.
“Aurélien Mercier. Your children will know him soon as their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. A former Auror, trained in mental magics, projection, shielding, persuasion. He will watch over them, teach them what must be learned, but quietly. They will not feel marked or cornered. Lyras friends will be brought into the fray, so she won't be isolated. Not yet.”

Abraxas studied him closely, suspicion coiling in every line of his face.
“And you trust him?”

“As much as one can trust anyone in times such as these,” Dumbledore replied smoothly. Then, with the faintest of smiles, he added, “Certainly more than I trust a Malfoy.”

The barb landed. Abraxas stiffened, his control cracking just enough for a flicker of fury to pass through his eyes. Yet beneath the anger lay something darker, fear.

“I will play both sides, if I must,” he said, voice hardening. “I will bend my knee to one master, then the other. I will soil my own name. But I will not see Lucius broken, nor Lyra consumed. If I must damn myself to save them, I will.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The firelight caught the glint in his eyes, sharp and calculating.
“Then we are aligned, for now. You want your children preserved. I want them prepared. But understand this: no fortress can shield a flame forever. They will burn their own paths, Abraxas. The question is not if, but when, and whose ashes you will stand among when they do.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Abraxas smoothed his cuffs, his mask snapping back into place.

“I will contact you when it is safe,” he said coldly.

“Be careful, Abraxas.”

Abraxas gave no reply. He stepped into the fire, vanished in a rush of green flame, and silence fell once more.

Dumbledore turned back to his desk, drawing forth a scroll inked with runes and a crystal orb swirling with smoke. His eyes glinted as he studied them, his voice barely above a whisper.

“How very interesting.”

The fire cracked, shadows lengthened, and the board of war shifted silently onward.

Chapter Text

The hum of the train and the chatter in the corridor blurred into nothing for Severus. He sat stiffly in the corner of the compartment, eyes fixed on nothing, thoughts spiraling.

He shouldn’t have left Lyra. The image of her bent over Aconite, soft laughter in her throat, tugged at him. Guilt gnawed at his chest, guilt for walking away, guilt for sitting here now, across from Lily. And yet another guilt: the creeping shame that he was never enough for either of them. Pulled apart like parchment tearing down the middle.

Marlene cleared her throat pointedly. “Ye look like ye’ve got yer head stuffed in the clouds, Severus,” she said, smirking, though her sharp eyes missed nothing.

Severus startled faintly, blinking back to the present. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” Marlene teased, though her gaze lingered on him a little too knowingly. “Tell me, are ye still thinkin’ of tryin’ for Quidditch this year?”

“Yes,” Severus said, grateful for the lifeline. “I’ve been practicing with James and Sirius this summer.”

Marlene’s brows shot up. “That’ll be a sight. Ye do ken ye’ll be knockin’ each other off your brooms before long? Not the friendliest competition.”

Severus allowed the smallest smirk. “If anyone falls, they’ll deserve the lecture for not hanging on better. Or at least for not charming themselves to their broom.”

Marlene laughed, but the sound was cut off by Lily’s voice.

“Well,” Lily said sweetly, leaning forward, “even though I’m Gryffindor, during the Slytherin-Gryffindor match, I’ll be your biggest supporter.”

And then, without hesitation, she slipped her hand into his.

Severus froze. Her palm was warm, too warm, and his own hand began to sweat almost immediately. The sensation made his skin crawl, though he schooled his features as best he could. It felt wrong. Possessive. But Lily only smiled brighter, fluttering her lashes in a way that made Severus nearly ask if she had dust in her eyes.

Marlene snorted. “Openly supportin’ Slytherin in a Gryffindor match? That’ll be social suicide, Evans.”

Lily’s grin sharpened. “I don’t care. Severus is my most important friend. I want everyone to know he’s my number one.”

The words struck Severus like a stone. Important. Number one. He tried to summon a smile, but the muscles in his face only managed something closer to a grimace.

Marlene’s eyes narrowed. She looked at him, at their entwined hands, and her mouth pressed thin. Then, in a movement sharp as a blade, she rose, wedged herself neatly between them, and plopped back down.

“Severus,” she said, voice cheerful, “why don’t ye be the first to change into yer robes? Give Lily and me some girl time.” Her accent thickened, but when she turned her head slightly, where Lily couldn’t see, her eyebrow arched high, a silent warning.

Severus needed no second invitation. He mumbled his thanks, nearly bolted from the compartment, and shut the door behind him.
__________________
The air left behind was heavy, the hum of the train suddenly louder. Lily sat stiffly, her green eyes narrowing, while Marlene stretched out like she owned the seat.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lily said sharply.

“Aye, I did.” Marlene folded her arms. “I like ye, Lily. Ye’re my friend. But I won’t sit and watch ye make a cage out of him.”

Lily blinked, eyes widening as though wounded. “A cage? Honestly, Marlene. He’s my best friend. I just want him to know it.”

“Ye grabbed him like ye were claimin’ him in front of me,” Marlene said bluntly. “And don’t pretend otherwise. I saw his face, he looked like he was swallowin’ glass.”

Lily’s lip trembled, though the glint in her eyes was far too sharp for tears. “You don’t understand. Severus needs me. Everyone else pulls at him, tears him apart, but I’ve always been here. He owes me that much.”

Marlene leaned in, her voice low and firm. “Listen tae me. Possession, It rots folk from the inside. If ye care for him, really care for him, ye’ll stop tryin’ to chain him.”

For a heartbeat, Lily’s mask cracked. Her voice dropped, fierce and possessive. “He is mine. He always will be.”

Marlene’s chest ached at the words, not from fear, but from the knowledge of what twisted affection could do, she thought of her mother who dearly suffered. She sighed, softer now. “Oh, Lily. I know ye’ve had a lonely summer. I know you’re afraid of losin’ him. But mark me: if ye keep pullin’ like this, ye’ll drive him away faster than anyone else.”

The train rocked. Outside, the whistle screamed through the fields, echoing into silence.

Lily’s expression smoothed again into something sweet, almost serene. “You’re wrong. One day, Severus will see I’m the only one who truly cares.”

Marlene shook her head slowly, pity in her eyes even as her voice cut like ice. “No, Lily. One day he’ll learn the difference between bein’ cared for… and bein’ caged. And I’d hate for ye to be the one who teaches him that lesson.”

The words hung, heavy as lead, as the train roared on toward Hogwarts.
__________________________________________________________

The corridor was warm, packed with students pushing past, the air carrying the smell of soot and sweets. Severus moved quickly, but his mind was still a tangle of guilt and unease. He barely noticed the figure until he collided with a shoulder broad and firm.

Of course, he would run into Lucius of all people in this train.

Severus braced himself for a rebuke for being careless, Lucius’s stern look softened at once when he saw him. “Careful, Severus. First-day jitters have some of the older years wand-happy. You don’t want to start a duel before the feast.”

Severus inclined his head, muttering an apology.

Lucius tilted his head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “Not coming from my sister's compartment then?”

Severus hesitated. “No, another friend pulled me in.”

Lucius’s mouth curved, almost pitying. “Would that friend happen to have flaming red hair and eyes sharp enough to hex me from across the corridor?”

Severus blinked. “I… suppose. But why do you say that?”

“Because” Lucius murmured smoothly, not turning his head, “she’s watching us even now. Looks like she’d murder me for daring to speak to you. A little much for such a young friendship.

“She isn’t too much,” Severus said quickly. “She’s Muggleborn. I was her first wizarding friend. After a summer away, she clings harder. That’s all.”

Lucius grimaced, his voice dipping lower, colder. “Desperation doesn’t breed loyalty, Severus. It breeds imbalance. You’d do well to remember that. And don’t dismiss the fact that you and she come from very different worlds. That divide doesn’t vanish; it grows.”

Severus’s temper sparked. “We aren’t so different. I was...”

But Lucius cut him off sharply, his tone a blade. “You are Lord Prince. Your past is better left buried. Don’t speak of it, not to anyone.”

The rebuke stung, dragging Severus’s gaze to the floor.

But Lucius softened, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “I’m harsh because I care. Stop dwelling on what can be used against you. Build strength. Build a future no one can touch. Choose your loyalties carefully.”

Severus nodded slowly. “I understand. But Lily is no threat.”

Lucius chuckled low. “Perhaps not to you. But I’ve still got holes being stared into my head.” His eyes glinted faintly with amusement. Then, with a more serious note, he added, “When you see my sister, let her know I’m willing to talk when she’s ready.”

“I will,” Severus said.

“Good.” Lucius’s tone returned to command. “Now go. Change into your robes. We’ll be at Hogwarts soon.”

Severus inclined his head and moved down the corridor, the words ringing in his ears like chains dragging across stone. He pushed into the narrow changing carriage, the air heavy with the faint smell of wool and polish.
Students’ robes hung in tidy rows, but he was alone, the slam of the door muffling the world outside.

For a long moment, he just stood there, hands braced on the edge of a bench, breathing shallow. Lily’s warm grip still clung to his palm like a brand, Marlene’s raised brow haunted him like judgment, and Lucius’s voice echoed like scripture: You are Lord Prince. Leave the past buried.

Three voices. Three demands. Three chains, each pulling him in a different direction.

He shut his eyes, but it only worsened the cacophony. Lyra’s quiet laugh ghosted through his memory, the weight of her trust pressing heavier than any of them. He should have stayed with her. He should have done more. He should be stronger, cleverer, sharper.

Instead, he felt hollow, carved out, stretched thin between worlds that would never meet.

The train roared beneath his feet, carrying him toward Hogwarts, and Severus, caught between guilt and duty, between friendship and expectation, wondered bleakly how long before he tore apart completely.

Chapter Text

Everyone had already switched into Hogwarts robes. James, Sirius, Remus, and Regulus had abandoned Exploding Snap and were now in an animated debate about Quidditch. Regulus looked far pluckier than when Lyra had first met him, his voice rising with excitement as he spoke about Chaser formations. Still, there was no sign of Pettigrew. His absence gnawed at her. She could not explain why it mattered, only that something about it was… off. Perhaps she was letting her suspicion of Thaddius bleed into this. Perhaps Thaddius really had turned a corner. If Pettigrew was his friend, it should be a good sign.

Lyra stroked Aconite, curled heavily across her lap. The warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breath anchored her restless mind. Across from her, Helena was completely absorbed in Witch Weekly, the glossy article on “ghoulish nail polish that would snag you a new boo” holding all her attention.

The knock on the compartment door startled them all.

Severus stood there. His eyes looked darker than usual, the shadows beneath them deepened by fatigue.

“Hello,” he murmured.

Lyra gave a small nod. “You are here for Aconite, I suppose.”

At the sound of his name, the half-kneazle stretched, blinked at Severus, and immediately hissed.

Severus glared. “Aconite, it is only the carrier for a short while. You will be free again in the dormitory.”

The cat crouched to bolt. Before he could, Remus rose and stepped calmly in his path. To everyone’s astonishment, Aconite froze, tail flicking once, then sat neatly on his haunches.

Remus bent, scooping him up with practiced ease. He ruffled the creature’s head as though they had been companions for years. “Pass me the crate,” he said.

Severus, caught off guard, handed it over. Aconite padded inside without a sound.

“Remarkable,” Sirius muttered, eyebrows raised. “Lupin, the cat-whisperer.”

Remus gave a faint, awkward smile. “I have… experience with beasts. Perhaps he recognized it.”

Regulus leaned forward eagerly to ask more, but the train began to slow, brakes screeching as they pulled into Hogsmeade Station.

Helena snapped her magazine shut. “Here is to another year of studying and surviving.”

“Surviving?” Regulus repeated nervously.

Sirius slung an arm around him. “Do not worry your pretty little head. Hogwarts is perfectly safe.” His sharp look at Helena said otherwise.

That was when Theresa arrived with Darla in tow, her voice cool and cutting. “Safe? Do I have to remind you that a girl was killed at Hogwarts? And what happened to Lyra?”

Sirius groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “So delightful to see you again, Greengrass. Truly, a ray of sunshine.”

Theresa only smiled, while Darla waved warmly to the girls.

Helena brightened. “Rosier! Good summer?”

“It was,” Darla said with a rare softness. “I will tell you both in the dorms. We are going to get ahead of the crush.”

James stretched, grinning. “But the crush is the fun part. Gives me an excuse to lean too heavily on Slytherin Quidditch players. Come here, Severus, let us practice. I will crush you into the wall...”

Helena rolled her eyes. “Like the manor all over again. They never stop touching each other.”

All three boys barked at once. “Do not say it like that.”

Lyra snorted despite herself. Helena only smirked wickedly. “What a perfect rumor. An entanglement of lords, a clandestine affair. Ladies, I declare we already have our first scandal of the year.”

She swept off with Theresa and Darla, leaving James and Sirius glowering at her retreating back.

Soon trunks were dragged down the narrow corridor, the group spilling into the cool night. The air was thick with pine, stone, and the indefinable hum of Hogwarts magic. Instead of boats, dark carriages stood waiting, their lamps glowing faintly as if lit from within.

It was then that Severus faltered.

His steps slowed, his eyes locking on the creatures harnessed to the carriages. They were skeletal, with wings stretched taut like blackened parchment. Eyes pale and white, glinting like orbs of glass. They pawed at the earth restlessly, bones shifting beneath thin skin.

Lyra followed his gaze but saw nothing at all. Only the carriages.

Severus’s face had gone rigid, pale as candle wax. His fingers twitched at his sides as though he wanted to reach for his wand.

James bumped his shoulder, grinning. “What is it? Afraid to climb in with us? Might prove Helena’s rumor true.”

Severus shook his head quickly, but his eyes never left the creatures. His breath had gone shallow.

Sirius tilted his head. “Strange magic, really. Carriages driving themselves. Imagine if one rolled into the lake.”

Helena scowled as she rejoined the group. “With Lyra’s luck, that might actually happen.”

Remus frowned at her. “She is not cursed. You are being dramatic.” He turned to Lyra and offered a small, steady smile. “This year has to be better than the last.”

She tried to return it, though she noticed Severus was still staring, transfixed, horrified, and yet unable to look away.

Just as she thought to ask, Lily appeared.

“There is not enough room in that carriage,” she said quickly. Her eyes were already on Severus. “Come with me.”

Still pale, still rattled, Severus nodded without resistance. “I will see you at the feast.”

Lyra said nothing as she climbed into the carriage with Helena, James, Sirius, Remus, and Regulus. James gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, Sirius kept a wary eye on the lake, but Lyra’s thoughts remained on Severus.

Why had he looked at the carriages as though they bore ghosts?

By the time the Great Hall doors swung wide, Hogwarts’s rhythm was already seeping into her bones again. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with a blanket of stars, soft candlelight floating above the long tables. Platters gleamed, empty but waiting. At the high table, the staff sat in their accustomed places, though one unfamiliar face stood out among the old.

Professor Dumbledore rose from his gilded chair, arms outstretched. His voice carried warm and commanding over the eager silence.

“Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I trust your journeys were pleasant, and your trunks survived the chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.”

Laughter broke out, easy and scattered.

“Before we begin our feast, a few announcements. First, a warm welcome to our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Aurélien Mercier.”

Polite applause followed as a tall, wiry wizard stood and inclined his head. His pale, angular face was framed by dark, shoulder-length hair, and when he spoke, a faint French accent clung to his words. “Merci.”

“Auror Mercier,” Dumbledore continued, “comes to us from the French Ministry. He brings with him considerable field experience in defensive counter-curses and advanced shielding. I trust you will extend him both respect and restraint.” His eyes twinkled faintly. “And perhaps not too many headaches.”

Sirius muttered something that made James snort into his goblet.

The Sorting followed, nervous first years shuffling forward beneath the Sorting Hat’s scrutiny. Lyra spotted Regulus who was placed into Slytherin he sat stiffly at the table, eyes darting around. Lyra caught his gaze and gave a small, deliberate smile. The boys' shoulders eased. She glanced over to the Gryffindor table to catch Sirius eyes; he gave her a small nod of thanks.

When the feast began, golden platters filled themselves, and conversation swelled across the hall. Thaddius Nott slipped into a seat near Lyra, Helena, and Severus.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked evenly.

Helena’s eyes narrowed, but she gestured. “There is room.”

Thaddius inclined his head. “Thank you. Did you have a good summer?”

“Fine,” Lyra answered cautiously. “Yours?”

“Quiet. Spent time on the continent. Runic protections.”

Severus gave a slight tilt of his head, acknowledgement without warmth. Lyra stored the answer away in silence.

The food glittered across golden plates, but Lyra found herself only pushing food about. Severus noticed.

“You have gone quiet,” he murmured, low enough for her ears alone. “Everything all right?”

Lyra startled, then forced her expression smooth. “Oh, you've noticed, I wasn't sure if I was particularly interesting to you after today."

He searched her face, frowning slightly, but dessert appeared, and the noise of the feast swept the moment away.

When the last plates vanished, Dumbledore rose once more. His beard shimmered like silver flame in the candlelight. The hall hushed.

“Before we part for the evening,” he said, his tone softer but no less commanding, “allow me a word of guidance as we begin anew. In times of peace, we forget to listen. In times of uncertainty, we forget to speak. And in times of transition, we must remember both.”

The words rippled through the room, vague and yet heavy. Lyra looked up and froze.

Dumbledore’s eyes were already on her. Blue, bright, and unreadable. They did not feel kind, nor cruel, but weighted, as though he were measuring a thread already loose, watching to see where it would unravel.

She blinked, and the gaze was gone. She really needed to stop looking up at the man during his speeches.

“Now,” Dumbledore said more lightly, “with bellies full and beds waiting, off you go. First-years, follow your prefects. The rest of you, let us begin again.”

The benches scraped as students rose, voices climbing toward the enchanted ceiling. Lyra lingered only a moment, Helena nudging her.

“You all right?” she whispered.

Lyra forced a small nod. “Just… tired.”

But as she followed her House out of the hall, she felt the weight of Dumbledore’s gaze like a shadow stitched into her bones. Whatever had begun, it was already in motion. She had a feeling this year would not be better. It would be worse.

Chapter Text

The green flames in the Slytherin common room flickered high, shadows twisting like restless serpents across the carved stone walls. Lyra sat stiff in her seat, fingers worrying at the hem of her robe, trying not to squirm under the weight of the prefects’ introduction.

Lucius’s voice carried, calm and commanding, as though the vaulted chamber belonged to him and him alone.

“Slytherin protects its own,” he said, his pale eyes sweeping the gathered first- and second-years. But when his gaze slid toward Lyra, lingering just a second too long, her stomach knotted. It was a look meant to reassure, yet it left her cold.

Her brother’s words echoed inside her skull like a curse. Protects its own. How could she explain to him that she had seen a vision, his past life, her past life, where she was tortured and he stood by, unmoving? How could you possibly tell your brother he had already failed you in another lifetime? Is it wrong to hold him accountable?

Her nails pressed into her sleeve. She hadn’t noticed she was rubbing at her left arm until Helena’s elbow nudged her.

“You okay?” Helena whispered, her dark curls half hiding her worried expression.

Lyra forced her lips into a small smile. “Just… lost in thought.”

Helena raised a brow but let it be.

When Lucius finally dismissed them, the tension in the room broke, students spilling toward the stairs in a tangle of chatter and footsteps. Lyra felt Helena tug her toward the girls’ dormitory, where Darla and Theresa no doubt waited, eager to exchange summer tales. The thought of laughing about mundane things, sunburns and foreign sweets, was exactly the distraction she craved.

She had only climbed two steps before a hand closed around her arm.

Lyra turned. Severus stood below, looking up at her with dark eyes clouded by exhaustion and something else, worry.

“Can we talk?” His voice cracked the way parchment did when folded too sharply.

Helena gave Lyra a questioning look. Lyra nodded. “Go on. I’ll be there shortly.”

Helena lingered, reluctant, then disappeared up the stairwell.

Severus led her wordlessly down the quieter corridor until they reached one of Lyra’s secret haunts, an alcove tucked behind an archway. A slim window cut through the stone, giving view to the lake. Even now, she could just make out the ripple of water disturbed by a lazy tentacle of the giant squid. She smiled faintly, already imagining sneaking down tomorrow morning to reread her coursework in this very nook.

Severus cleared his throat. When she looked at him, he wore a smile, soft, almost boyish, that quickly buckled under the weight of what pressed on his chest.

“I can’t do this again,” he blurted. “I don’t want this year to be like last year, all silence and… tension. I’m sorry.”

Lyra studied him. He looked older somehow, as though the burdens of the world had chosen him as their favored mule. She reached out and took his hand. His breath hitched, but unlike before with Lily, her touch didn’t unravel him.

“I’m not angry with you, Severus,” she said softly. “Just disappointed.”

His eyes flickered.

“I watched you today, running after Lily like her personal servant,” she went on. “That isn’t the you I know. And it isn’t okay.”

His shoulders stiffened, and he took his hand back. “She just had a rough summer. She was lonely. Maybe she leaned on me more than some would call proper, but isn’t that what friends do?”

Lyra tilted her head. “Friends lean on each other. But it has to be equal, Severus. Otherwise one of you ends up crushed.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes darting to the lake. “She’ll calm down after a few days back here. She’s been there for me, Lyra, she listened when no one else did.”

Lyra gave him a small, sad smile. “I don’t want to fight with you. Merlin knows I have enough on my plate. But if you keep vanishing every time Lily bats her eyelashes, Severus Prince…” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a playful threat. “I swear you’ll find James and Sirius aren’t the only ones capable of devilish pranks. And I have far easier access to where you sleep.”

He grimaced, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I’ll talk to her. And I think, if the two of you tried, you could be friends.

Lyra laughed, too loudly, then pressed a hand to her mouth to rein it in. “Oh, Severus…”

He only arched a brow, but the corner of his lips twitched. Lyra gave him a quick hug before stepping back. “Goodnight. Just think about what I said.”

As she walked away, the air shifted. A figure stood near the stairwell, her pale hair gleaming in the dim torchlight. Narcissa. She was smiling warmly, and the sight slightly unsettled Lyra.

“Does my brother have you stationed to spy on me?” Lyra asked dryly.

“Of course not,” Narcissa said, looping her arm through Lyra’s with surprising ease. “I’m nosy all on my own.”

They climbed the stairs together.

“Do you know,” Narcissa said quietly, “I was about your age when I learned I was to marry your brother. And when I found out, I cried all night long.”

Lyra gave Narcissa a puzzled look. “What? But you two… it’s sickening how in love you are.”

Narcissa’s laugh was wistful. “Now, yes. We are lucky. But in the beginning? I despised him. He was a pompous little peacock who spent too much time on his hair and always wore that smug little smirk.”

Lyra snorted. “He’s still a bit of a peacock.”

“That he is.” Narcissa’s lips curved. “But having you as a sister has changed him. You may not want to hear it, but he loves you dearly. He would never harm you.”

Lyra’s gaze dropped. “I know… I just have things I need to work out on my own.”

To steer the conversation away, she asked, “So what changed between you two?”

“We gave each other space to grow. Built a friendship, eventually. It wasn’t easy, discovering your life is already decided before you’ve had a chance to live it. There were distractions, rough spots, even other people. But somehow, we always came back to each other. One day… it simply clicked.”

Lyra shifted uneasily. “Doesn’t it worry you? That because of the contract, your feelings were muddled? That you only love him because it was easier to fall in line?”

Narcissa stopped walking. Her eyes, cool but steady, fixed on Lyra. “Is that what troubles you? That your feelings for young Severus are nothing more than the shadow of a contract being discussed?”

Heat rushed to Lyra’s cheeks. “I don’t have feelings. The whole practice is barbaric. But… what if two people are smashed together, and they only think it’s love because they don’t know any better?”

“There are plenty of pureblood matches that prove otherwise,” Narcissa said. “If two people aren’t compatible, the truth bleeds through no matter how tightly you bind them. My parents were such a match, bitter to the bone. But you…” Her voice softened. “You’ve nothing to fear with Severus. You have time. And if the worst should come to pass, Lucius would move mountains to keep you free. And if he somehow lost all sense…” A shadow crossed her expression. “I would hide you myself.”

Lyra blinked at her, startled. For a moment, she wondered how this kind-hearted young woman could ever become the shell in her vision, how she could be related to Bellatrix.

Narcissa cleared her throat. “Your dormitory awaits.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “Goodnight, Cissa.”

Inside, Helena sat with arms crossed, already in her nightgown. Darla and Theresa lounged on their beds.

“Finally!” Helena exclaimed. “I was about to send out a search party. Thought you’d gone missing again.”

“Insensitive joke,” Theresa chided.

Helena scoffed. “Coming from the girl who keeps reminding us that someone died at Hogwarts.”

Darla smirked. “She’s got you there, Theresa.”

Lyra laughed, shaking her head. “Well, now that I’m back, tell me about your summers, you two.”

But Helena cut in, eyes gleaming. “Not until you tell us what happened with your prince charming.”

Lyra groaned. “Nothing happened. We talked.”

“Hopefully you reminded him he has a spine,” Helena said, “and that he needs to ditch the little red.”

At the mention of Lily, Darla sniffed. “She’s reaching far above her station.”

“Can’t help what the heart wants,” Theresa murmured, ever the peacemaker.

Lyra’s heart skipped oddly at that. Helena tossed a pillow at Theresa. “We really need to get you lessons in the art of girl talk.”

The room filled with laughter. Stories flowed, Theresa describing Italian summers, Darla recounting her uncle’s Romanian dragons. Lyra sank into the comfort of it all, warmth cocooning her in a rare sense of belonging.

Sleep took them slowly.

Lyra stood in a graveyard that stretched on without end. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth and decay. A whisper rose from nowhere, soft at first, then growing, a chant.

Change fate. Change fate. Change fate.

It filled her skull until she clenched her hands over her ears.

The scene twisted, moonlight slicing through dark clouds. The air turned cold. Somewhere close, a howl ripped the night, guttural, bone-deep, the sound of something not entirely human. She had heard it before, in another dream.

Voices called through the shadows:

“Padfoot!”
“Prongs!”
“Wormtail!”

Lyra stumbled toward the names, praying she moved toward friends and not the beast that howled. The mist parted, and she froze.

On the ground lay a stag, majestic, antlers shattered, its body crumpled in death. Beside it, a great black dog lay still, lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

The chant surged again, louder, overwhelming. Change fate. Change fate.

She fell to her knees, clutching her ears, when the world lurched again.

The Whomping Willow towered above her, larger than it had ever been, branches thrashing like giants’ arms. The bark was scarred, gouged as if from past battles. A man in billowing robes sprinted across the grass, leaping between branches before vanishing into a hidden passage at the tree’s roots.

Lyra stepped forward, and the ground collapsed. She plummeted, air tearing at her throat.

A voice roared in her skull, so loud it cracked through her bones: Kill the rat.

She jolted awake, heart hammering, drenched in sweat. The dormitory was still, her friends asleep.

She pressed a hand over her chest, willing her pulse to steady.

Silently, she slipped from her bed, opened her trunk, and pulled free her journal. By the dim light of the common room, she scribbled furiously: the graveyard. The chant. The stag. The dog. The names. The man at the Willow. The rat.

None of it fit. Yet all of it mattered.

Lyra glanced toward the faint paling sky through the lake’s window. Dawn crept near. Sleep was useless now. She packed her things, telling herself her favorite alcove would keep her company until class.

But one thought gnawed at her, sharp and unrelenting:

What in Merlin’s name is a Wormtail?

Chapter Text

The Great Hall shimmered with morning light, the enchanted ceiling pale with dawn clouds drifting lazily across. Lyra slipped into her usual spot at the Slytherin table, her journal still tucked in her satchel, the words of her nightmare lingering at the edges of her thoughts. She toyed with her toast, Helena chattering beside her about some article she had read on the train on how to eradicate pests.

It wasn’t until a clatter from the Gryffindor table broke through the hum of breakfast that Lyra looked up.

A small first-year sat with his head in his hands, face blotchy with tears. Before any prefect could intervene, James leapt onto the bench, brandishing a soup ladle like a broadsword.

“I am Godric Gryffindor!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din. “Champion of the brave! Protector of the helpless! Slayer of… soup!”

Sirius, not to be outdone, seized a pot lid and held it up as a shield. “And I,” he declared in mock gravity, “am his dashing knight, here to defend his lordship’s honor!”

The two launched into an absurd duel, ladle clanging against lid, their shouts echoing dramatically. “Take that, you villain!” James cried.

“Never, you fiend!” Sirius retorted, staggering backward with theatrical flair.

The first-year’s sobs dissolved into giggles, then full laughter. Gryffindor students pounded the table in cheers, some chanting “Godric! Godric!” Even McGonagall, halfway through her tea, pressed her lips together so tightly it was obvious she was fighting a smile.

Lyra found herself laughing too, the ridiculous display chasing away the residue of her dream. Helena was nearly choking on her pumpkin juice from laughing, and even Darla looked amused despite herself. For a fleeting moment, Hogwarts felt simple again.

By the time breakfast ended, chatter about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was buzzing through every corridor. Students surged toward the classroom in clumps, their voices overlapping.

“They say he worked with curse-breakers in Egypt...”
“No, he was an Unspeakable in Frances Department of Mysteries...”
“I heard he dueled Grindelwald himself...”

Lyra walked with Helena, Darla, and Theresa, their robes swishing around their ankles as the crowd pressed forward. Severus was already waiting outside the classroom, pale face unreadable, until Lyra caught his eye. He gave her the smallest smile, one meant only for her, before falling in step beside her.

Ahead, James and Sirius swaggered in like they owned the classroom, Remus trailing at their heels, expression pinched. Peter hovered beside him, eyes darting at every shadow.

Lily brushed past, red hair gleaming. She smiled tightly at Severus, touching his arm as she asked something too quietly for Lyra to catch. Severus answered politely, but his eyes slid back to Lyra’s almost at once.

Helena smirked. “Looks like someone’s fishing for your best friend again.”

Lyra rolled her eyes but said nothing.

The Defense classroom was darker than she remembered, its high windows narrowing the morning light into slanted beams across the desks. Shelves sagged under the weight of grim tomes and unfamiliar instruments: jars of cloudy liquid, silver instruments that ticked and clicked with no rhythm. A faint metallic scent lingered in the air, sharp as lightning.

Students filled the seats in uneasy chatter until the door creaked open. Silence fell.

Professor Mercier entered without announcement. He was tall, his frame lean beneath dark robes that seemed to ripple as he moved. His hair, black threaded with silver, was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, and his eyes, dark, keen, unsettling, swept the room in a single, piercing glance.

When he spoke, his voice was low and clipped, an accent threading through each word. “Wands out. Books away. Defense is not learned in parchment but in the reflex of your hand and the speed of your thought.”

No introduction. No name offered. Only command.

“Instinct,” he said, pacing the front of the class. “Your instinct is what will keep you alive. Theory will not. Rules will not. Instinct will.” His gaze flicked to Lyra, just for a heartbeat, before moving on.

A ripple of unease passed through the room.

They were divided into groups. Lyra ended up side by side with Severus, Helena, Darla, and Theresa, their group opposite James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter. Lily had maneuvered herself into the back row where she could watch Severus without interruption, her eyes fixed on him.

Mercier raised his wand. “Defend yourselves.”

The first spell came without warning, a streak of light aimed straight at Sirius, who met it head-on with a counter curse, grinning wildly. James followed suit, bold and brash, spells fired with flourish. Their attacks were strong, but each move was predictable, telegraphed in advance by their eagerness.

Severus, shoulder brushing Lyra’s, fought differently. His counters were clever, layered, but hesitation left gaps in his defense. Twice, Lyra stepped in with a sharp shield charm, filling the holes before Mercier could strike. His grateful glance told her he noticed.

Helena cast more often toward Lyra than toward their opponent, her shield charms angled protectively in Lyra’s direction. It slowed her, made her clumsy, and Mercier punished her for it, knocking her spell aside with a flick.

Remus faltered at every turn, wand hand twitching, uncertainty rooting him in place. He cast, then second-guessed, and lost his timing.

Peter lurked on the edges, creeping into blind spots. His spells were underhanded, nasty little jabs, but his slowness gave them away before they could land.

Darla and Theresa did as they were told, their reflexes sluggish, spells too late to be useful.

Lyra, caught between protecting her friends and pressing forward, fought steadily but split her focus. She and Severus covered for one another instinctively, their rhythm natural, but she knew her attention was divided.

Mercier’s wand cut through the air, disarming three at once. With a final flick, the mock duel ended.

He lowered his wand. “Too aggressive,” he said, eyes on Sirius and James. “Too predictable. Boldness without thought gets you killed.”

His gaze shifted to Severus. “Too clever. You think in strategies, boy, while your opponent thinks in seconds. Delay is defeat.”

To Helena: “Worry for your friend, and you invite her death.”
To Remus: “Hesitation is surrender.”
To Pettigrew: “Deception can be useful. But deception can lead to your downfall.”
To Darla and Theresa: “Following is not fighting.”

At last, his eyes settled on Lyra. “You are torn. Instinct does not allow division. Decide whether you will fight, or whether you will shield. Choose, and you may yet survive.”

The silence after his words was suffocating.

When class finally dismissed, the corridor erupted in chatter. Gryffindors bragged about their spells, Slytherins muttered about the unfairness of it all. Sirius boasted loudly that he could take Mercier in a real duel, James egging him on.

Lyra walked with Severus, Helena close on her heels. Severus’s expression was tight, but when she brushed his sleeve with her hand, some of the tension eased.

“You were brilliant with that shield charm,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome for saving your neck,” she teased.

Before he could answer, Lily appeared at his other side, slipping her hand lightly against his arm. “Sev, you hesitated in there, I told you, you need to cast faster.”

Severus stiffened, caught between them. His eyes flicked to Lyra, who only gave a wry smile, stepping slightly ahead with Helena.

Behind her, she heard Lily’s voice again, soft and coaxing. But Severus’s gaze lingered on her retreating back until they turned the corner.

Lyra didn’t need to look to know what his decision would be this morning, because she heard the telltale echo of footsteps against stone. And when she did look up, Severus was once again by her side.

Chapter Text

The first week of term slipped past in a blur of lessons, laughter, and long shadows. The castle, still bright with summer light, hummed with its familiar magic, portraits gossiping in the corridors, owls swooping through the Great Hall with morning post, and the lake glittering in late-September sun. For most, it felt like the gentle settling-in of another school year. For Lyra, it felt like a fragile reprieve.

She stood before her dormitory window, watching a handful of students already wandering the grounds. The weekend had finally come, and she had promised Helena and the others that they’d reclaim their favorite spot by the Black Lake, the one shaded by a willow whose roots curled like sleeping serpents into the water.

Lyra had just begun to work on her hair when a soft whoosh broke the quiet. A folded note sailed through the open window, landing on her desk with a flutter of pale parchment. She didn’t need to open it to know who it was from, the ink, the precise strokes, the formality of her name written across the front.

Lucius.

Her stomach tightened. She’d known this conversation would come sooner or later, but she’d been hoping for later. The visions had made sleep uneasy, her waking thoughts worse. Hermione’s memory, of the Manor, of pain and screaming and Lucius standing frozen in the background, still lived like fire behind her ribs.

With a small sigh, Lyra pulled on her robes and brushed out her hair. Darla was yawning as she tied her sash; Theresa was fussing with a curling charm, her wand sparking faintly. Helena, as usual, was a lump under her duvet, muttering something about “five more minutes before existing.”

“I’ll meet you by the lake,” Lyra told them softly.

“Tell your terrifyingly handsome brother we said good morning,” Darla mumbled sleepily, earning a giggle from Theresa.

Lyra rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. “I’ll try.”

The corridors were quieter than usual as she descended the stairs to the Slytherin common room, green light filtering through the lake’s depths beyond the windows, dappling the floor like moving glass. Severus was waiting near the exit, a satchel slung over his shoulder.

When their eyes met, his brow creased. “You all right?”

She nodded, though her throat felt tight. “Just… family things.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “If you need me later..."

“I know,” she said, and her smile, brief, grateful seemed to ease something in him.

Lucius was waiting by the entrance hall, polished as ever in tailored robes. He greeted her with a gentle, “Good morning, Lyra,” before turning toward the grand doors.

They walked in near silence through the cool marble corridors and out into the early light. When she asked softly, “Where are we going?” Lucius only said, “Somewhere private.”

The air outside carried the smell of damp grass and lake water. The castle loomed behind them, golden against the rising sun. They passed the rose garden and the shadow of the greenhouses before Lucius stopped beneath an old oak tree, its leaves whispering overhead.

He turned to her, his expression carefully composed. “You can’t keep avoiding me.”

Lyra folded her arms, her wand hand instinctively brushing against her sleeve. “I wasn’t...”

He cut her off with a sigh. “You were. And I can’t keep pretending that giving you space will somehow make you ready to talk.” His tone softened. “You were attacked last year, Lyra. I need to know what’s happening to you. Protecting you from the outside is difficult enough. But if you shut me out...”

Her voice trembled. “I don't know how to compartmentalize what I have seen, the version of you I know versus the version of you I see in these visions.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

“I dreamed of the Manor again,” Lyra whispered. “Only it wasn’t ours. It was ruined. Hermione, screaming on the floor being tortured by Bellatrix while you just stood there, doing nothing. Watching. Your son was there too, forced to...” Her voice broke. “How am I supposed to look at you after that?”

Lucius stepped closer, his hand hesitating before resting gently on her shoulder. “Lyra, whatever you dreamed, whatever you saw, that wasn’t me. That was someone else. Another life, but not me. I would never.”

“How do you know?” she asked, her words sharp with fear. "What if they’re visions of what’s coming? What if I’m doomed to become her, and live through everything she did, what seems to be a war, the torture, all of it? What if this is some kind of cosmic punishment for being born a Malfoy?”

Lucius’s mask of composure cracked. “If you were Hermione Granger,” he said quietly, “then maybe you were sent back for a reason. Maybe these memories are meant to help you prevent that future, to change it. There must be a reason you’re seeing what you’re seeing. Lyra, I am not a monster.”

She stared at him, tears pricking behind her eyes. “Maybe not. But your beliefs, our family’s beliefs they’re the start of it. The us-and-them thinking. That’s what makes monsters, Lucius.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “We were raised this way for a reason.”

Lyra shook her head. “We were raised on pride. Pride for something that seems so silly. You just spent a summer with the Potters, and you survived their kindness, didn’t you? You liked them, even if you won’t admit it. Mother truly enjoys Lady Euphemia, and the Potters are known for not caring about pureblooded ideologies. And you know I struggle with all of this, the pureblood talk, the arrogance. I don’t fit in that mold, Lucius. I never will.”

His mouth twitched, something between frustration and guilt.

“If you really love me,” she whispered, “then you’ll try. You’ll see our prejudice for what it is, an old story we’ve been told so many times that we stopped questioning it.” Her voice softened. “I don’t want to fight a battle on the wrong side of you.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of leaves.

Lucius finally exhaled. “You have our mother’s stubbornness.”

“And you have Father’s pride,” Lyra replied gently. “Let’s both try to change.”

She turned before the moment could break, her chest aching but lighter somehow.

By the time she reached the Black Lake, the morning had grown warm. Sunlight shimmered across the water, and a group of Gryffindors were throwing a battered quaffle back and forth, their laughter echoing over the grass.

“Lyra!” James Potter jogged over, hair sticking out in every direction. “Helena said you skipped breakfast for a brotherly stroll, so I heroically rescued you this.”

He handed her a slightly squashed chocolate croissant.

Lyra’s stomach rumbled audibly, betraying her gratitude. “You are my savior,” she said with mock solemnity.

James grinned. “I’ll leave you to devour your spoils, Lady Malfoy.”

As he turned away, she called, “Where’s Remus?”

“Library,” he said over his shoulder. “He’s already panicking about exams. It’s September, mind you.”

Lyra laughed softly and made her way to the familiar patch beneath the willow. Helena, Darla, and Theresa sat on a blanket nearby, giggling as Theresa tried to charm Darla’s hair into a braid that kept changing colors from chestnut to bubblegum pink.

“I’m staying far away from that,” Lyra said, dropping cross-legged onto the grass.

“You wound me,” Helena replied, wand poised dramatically. “I was only going to give you lavender streaks!”

Lyra snorted. “Exactly my point.”

Their laughter drifted around her, bright and easy. For a few moments, Lyra let herself sink into it, the warmth, the friendship, until movement at the edge of her vision drew her gaze upward.

Two figures were making their way down from the castle, Severus and Marlene McKinnon. They walked close, their heads bent toward each other in conversation. Marlene’s laughter carried faintly on the breeze, light and musical.

Something small and sharp twisted in Lyra’s stomach. She wasn’t even sure why. Marlene had always been kind, sweet, even considering who her best friend was, but seeing her beside Severus felt suddenly… complicated.

It wasn’t just that he was smiling, or that he looked comfortable. It was that he looked different altogether.

The summer had changed him. He’d filled out, no longer all elbows and angles, his face a little less pale, his posture steadier. The time spent at the Potters had clearly done him good; he even moved differently now, surer of himself.

Lyra found herself watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the quiet focus in his expression as he listened to Marlene, and then immediately felt foolish for noticing.

When he reached the group, Marlene gave Lyra a warm smile and a wave before veering off toward her own friends. Lyra managed a polite wave back, but her pulse was behaving ridiculously fast for someone who’d done nothing more scandalous than stare.

Severus dropped down beside her, tugging at his sleeve with a faint cough. “You look thoughtful,” he said, amusement flickering in his voice.

Her cheeks warmed instantly. “Just… thinking,” she said quickly, hoping he hadn’t realized she’d been looking at him.

His brow lifted slightly, but he let her have her deflection. “How did it go with your brother?”

Lyra exhaled, twisting a blade of grass between her fingers. “Better than I expected. He’s worried, but he’s trying. I think it helps him if he feels like he's doing something or at least involved.”

Severus’s expression softened. "The vision you had Lyra, would shake anyone. But these visions, they don’t define you, or him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But they feel so real. I keep wondering if the point of them is to warn me, or to punish me.”

“Maybe neither,” he said softly. “Maybe they’re showing you what can be avoided.”

She looked at him, surprised by the thought. “That sounds… hopeful...and oddly similar to what Lucius said.”

“I try,” he said with a faint smirk.

Lyra smiled despite herself. “You’ve changed, Severus.”

He blinked. “For better or worse?”

“Better,” she said honestly. “You seem… lighter.”

He gave a small shrug. “James and Sirius are impossible to ignore. I suppose some of their nonsense rubs off.”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be dueling with ladles,” she teased.

“Don’t push your luck.”

Their laughter mingled for a moment, soft and familiar.

Lyra’s tone grew quieter. “I don't know what I am doing Severus, I don't know where Hermione ends and where I begin...and that terrifies me, what If I am already making all of the wrong choices.”

He reached out and tapped her lightly on the forehead. “Stop spiraling. One step at a time. Including your arm.”

Lyra groaned softly. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But you’ll manage.”

Before she could answer, Helena’s voice rang out behind them. “Don’t you dare move, Severus Prince!”

Severus froze, eyes widening. “Oh no.”

Lyra burst into laughter as Helena advanced, wand raised like a weapon. “You promised you’d let me test the color-charm on you next!”

“I did no such thing!” Severus scrambled to his feet, darting across the grass as Helena gave chase, laughing wickedly.

Meanwhile, Theresa and Darla were already in pursuit of Sirius and James, both boys yelling as streaks of pink and turquoise spells shot through the air.

Within moments, chaos erupted: Sirius’s hair flared bright orange, James’s turned a shocking blue, and Severus had streaks of lavender, Theresa, Darla and Helena stood triumphantly with their wands smoking faintly.

Lyra collapsed back into the grass, laughter spilling out of her until her sides hurt. The tension that had clung to her finally broke apart under the sunlight and the sound of her friends’ joy.

But not far off, on the slope above the lake, another figure stood watching.

Professor Mercier leaned against the low stone wall near the path to the greenhouses, his dark robes stirring faintly in the breeze. From that distance, he was little more than a shadow, but his gaze was steady, fixed on the laughing group by the willow tree.

When Sirius’s hair caught the sun and Lyra’s laughter carried across the water, Mercier’s expression didn’t change. Only the faintest flicker of something, recognition, perhaps, or calculation, crossed his face before he turned away.

He disappeared into the shade of the castle walls without a sound, leaving only the whisper of wind in his wake.

Chapter Text

The library was nearly silent, only the occasional creak of wood or the faint flutter of turning pages disturbed the stillness. Lyra sat tucked into a corner beneath the tall windows, parchment and books scattered across the table before her. It had taken an impressive amount of stealth to sneak away from her friends for a moment of peace, but she had managed it. Barely.

For once, Helena wasn’t dragging her into gossip, Darla wasn’t trying out hair charms, and James wasn’t insisting on another round of wizard chess. Lyra intended to make the most of it.

Her eyes scanned the chapter on advanced shielding spells for the third time, though the words blurred into nonsense. Defense Against the Dark Arts had become her most frustrating class this year, not because of the content, but because of Professor Mercier.

Even with a summer that included private tutoring, she felt constantly behind. Mercier didn’t just teach; he tested. Every mistake was an opening for critique. Every weakness, an opportunity for him to press harder. He treated second years like Auror recruits, not children. Lyra left each lesson sweating, sore, and questioning everything she thought she knew about magic.

Tomorrow’s lesson would be another dueling session, and Lyra had hoped the library would offer her a bit of a leg up. Judging by her notes, a chaotic mess of half-translated incantations and scribbled diagrams, it had not.

She sighed, closing her books and rubbing her eyes.

The corridors outside were quiet as she made her way back toward the dungeons. Torches flickered dimly against stone walls, and her footsteps echoed softly. She had just turned the corner by the Charms corridor when a pair of arms wrapped suddenly around her.

Lyra gasped, instinctively twisting free and yanking out her wand.

“Whoa, easy there, Malfoy!”

Sirius grinned back at her from the shadows; hands raised in mock surrender.

Lyra’s heart still raced. “Merlin’s beard, Sirius! Where did you even come from?”

He smirked. “I was exploring. Saw you creeping about alone and thought I’d see what mischief you were up to.”

She lowered her wand with a glare. “You shouldn’t just go around manhandling people in dark corridors, or ever, really.”

Sirius shrugged, leaning lazily against the wall. "I promise I will only manhandle James in corridors from now on."

Lyra folded her arms. “What were you exploring, exactly?”

“Hogwarts,” he said simply. “Mysterious place, Malfoy.”

His grin faltered slightly as he added, “How’s Regulus settling in?”

The question softened her expression. “I saw him earlier. He’s fitting in well, already has a group of first-years following him around. Seems… happy.”

Sirius’s lips twitched into a smile, though his eyes remained distant. “Good. I knew he’d be fine.”

Lyra hesitated, then placed a hand gently on his arm. “Sirius, we should talk about what you told me.”

He stiffened immediately. “I’m fine, Lyra. Don’t go all mushy on me just because I had a moment of honesty.”

“That ‘moment’ isn’t fine,” she said firmly. “I’ve been thinking about it. Between my family and the Potters, we could help you. You deserve help.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “And what about Regulus? Who would protect him then? Right now, I take all the attention, the Black family screw-up. It keeps him safe.”

Lyra frowned. “That’s not a solution, Sirius.”

He let out a breath, his voice lowering. “You really think anyone would take both of us? Our parents losing two heirs? The community would pity them; say they did what they had to. I’m the disappointment, Lyra. The bad heir who got sorted into Gryffindor and can’t keep his mouth shut. I don’t fit their mold.”

“I don’t fit their mold either,” she said quietly. “And I don’t get beaten for it.”

His eyes softened, though his smile was sad. “You’re the first female Malfoy in generations. A miracle child. You could probably curse a chandelier down in the ballroom and your parents would still call it elegant.”

Lyra huffed, but he wasn’t wrong.

“You can fake it,” Sirius continued. “You wear your mask well. You play the game, the teas, the galas, the smiles. I don’t have that patience. So, if it means Regulus gets to live free of it, I’ll take the heat.”

Lyra’s throat ached. “It’s not fair.”

Sirius stepped forward and pulled her into a quick hug. “You’ve got enough on your plate, Ly. Worry about yourself first. I’ll be fine, and if I’m not, I’ll tell you.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as she hugged him back. “You’re an enigma, Sirius Black.”

He grinned, mischief returning. “And to think you once looked down your nose at me.”

“I did not!”

“Oh, you did,” he teased. “At your grand introduction gala. I distinctly remember the Malfoy glare.”

Lyra swatted his arm, and their laughter echoed through the corridor. Sirius walked her all the way to the dungeons, bantering the whole way.

When they reached the entrance, she glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly curfew. You’d better get back to your tower.”

“I could do that…” Sirius said, smirking. “Or I won’t.”

“Don’t get caught,” she warned, shaking her head.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he said, disappearing into the shadows.
________________________________________

The Slytherin common room was dim, lit by the soft green glow of the lake beyond its windows. Severus sat curled in the alcove, nose buried in a book.

Lyra smiled as she approached. “The library did not help my mission,” she groaned, sinking into the chair beside him. “I’m doomed to fail Defense and disgrace the family name.”

Severus glanced up, smirking. “Let me know your new address. I’ve never written to a disgraced heiress before.”

Lyra gave him a pointed look. “What are you reading?”

He turned the cover toward her, Advanced Runes in Potion Theory.

“Slughorn’s letting me use the private lab now that the term’s settled,” he said, voice casual but eyes bright. “I’ve a few mixtures I want to experiment with. Though, admittedly, I don’t agree with all the formulas. Might take some fine-tuning.”

“And how will we test them, I suppose I will just have to drink it?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Severus blinked, horrified. “You don’t drink untested brews, Lyra. Good grief. You can’t just...”

She laughed softly. “All right, all right! It was a question, not a challenge.”

He scowled in mock severity. “You worry me sometimes. Please, for my sanity, promise you won’t volunteer yourself as a test subject.”

“Fine,” she said lightly. “Though, given my… unique problem...” her hand brushed unconsciously against her aching arm “I’d hardly say normal solutions apply.”

He frowned, gentling. “We’ll cross that bridge when we have to. I’ve a long way to go before I’d trust myself with anything that could affect you.”

Lyra smiled faintly. “Whatever you say, Prince.”

“I swear, our friendship has aged me ten years,” he muttered.

She laughed, then looked at him sincerely. “Thank you, though. For helping me.”

He raised a hand in dismissal. “Stop thanking me. I’m learning, too, and I get access to the lab. That’s reward enough.”

“Still,” she said softly, “it means a lot.”

He shook his head, but the faintest blush crept up his neck.

Lyra yawned and rose. “Goodnight, Severus.”

“Goodnight, Lyra.”

As she walked away, Severus watched her go, cheeks still faintly colored in the low green light.
________________________________________

Morning came too soon.

Lyra joined Helena, Theresa, and Darla on their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Severus had gone ahead, walking with Lily as part of his self-imposed truce between the two girls. Lyra found the arrangement odd but noticed a change in him lately, he seemed more confident, less easily swayed by Lily’s fluttering eyelashes. She decided to count that as progress.

As they entered the classroom, Marlene again waved at Lyra from across the room. Lyra smiled and waved back, ignoring Helena’s muttered, “Another Gryffindor, Lyra? Really? We’ve collected enough.”

Lyra stifled a laugh.

Moments later, James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter entered together. Peter looked noticeably more at ease this year, less of a shadow, more solid somehow. Lyra wondered if his friendship with Thaddius had something to do with it. Odd pairing, but then again, her own circle wasn’t exactly traditional so who was she to judge.

The lights dimmed suddenly.

“Wands out,” said Professor Mercier, stepping out from the shadows so smoothly several students jumped. “Dueling pairs. Now.”

Lyra’s pulse quickened as names were called. She was paired with Lily.

At first, the duel was evenly matched. Then Lily began weaving quick, clever charms that caught Lyra off guard. Defense became her only focus, until desperation struck brilliance. She countered Lily’s final disarming spell with a ricochet charm that landed a perfectly placed tickling hex.

Lily collapsed in laughter, tears streaming, and even Mercier’s lips twitched before he dispelled it.

“Effective,” he said, voice cool. “But slow on recovery. Evans, you drop your wand too easily. Malfoy, your defensive stance is weak. Fix it.”

He swept away to critique the next pair.

Lyra exhaled shakily, cheeks burning.

Severus and Peter were next. Severus won, but even Lyra was impressed by Peter’s creativity, his spell work was unusual, unpredictable. There was more to him than met the eye.

When class ended, Lyra packed her books quickly, only to hear Mercier’s voice.

“Miss Malfoy. Stay a moment.”

Helena mouthed good luck as she slipped out.

Lyra approached the desk. Mercier’s gaze was sharp but not unkind.

“Your form is inconsistent,” he said. “You’ve had extra training, I can tell. But even with that, you’re not where you should be.”

Lyra looked down, heat rising in her cheeks. “I’m trying, sir.”

He nodded once. “I know. Which is why I’m offering you additional sessions. Voluntary, of course. You’ve got potential, but you need precision.”

She blinked up at him, surprised.

Mercier’s tone softened slightly. “I’m hard on all of you because Defense isn’t a game. Beyond these walls, mistakes cost lives. I’d rather you hate me now than regret not listening later.”

Lyra nodded slowly. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Bring your friends,” he added, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Especially that Sirius Black. He could use something to keep him out of trouble.”

Lyra smiled faintly, gathered her things, and slipped out.

As expected, a small crowd was waiting in the hall, Helena, Severus, Sirius, and the others, all looking curious.

“Well?” Helena asked. “What’d he want?”

Lyra grinned. “He offered extra sessions, said we could all come. I think I misjudged him. He just wants us to be prepared.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Extra help isn’t a bad thing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Helena muttered. “That’s more schoolwork.”

James and Sirius, on the other hand, looked thrilled. “Extra dueling practice?” James said. “Count us in.”

But Remus’s expression was quiet, thoughtful. When Lyra caught his eye, he smiled faintly. “I’ll come,” he said. “Defense has always been… interesting.”

Something in his tone made Lyra pause. There’s something he’s not saying, she thought.

She added it to her growing mental list, talk to Remus. He seemed even quieter this year, more withdrawn. Out of all of them, she suspected he carried the heaviest secrets.

When she looked back, Severus was watching her, one brow arched as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and disapproved entirely.

Lyra gave him a dazzlingly innocent smile.

He just sighed.

Together, they all turned toward their next classes, the echo of Mercier’s words still lingering in Lyra’s mind.

Defense isn’t a game.

Chapter Text

Hello dears!

I have some new readers, and I just wanted to touch base with everyone about where I’m at and where Dalliance is going.

Thank you to everyone who has been with me while I’ve built this fic. We’re already 56 chapters in, and poor Lyra has really been through it. Here’s a quick recap of where things stand:

She still has her arm pain, which Severus is working on, but that’s going to take some time. Even Severus isn’t that good.

Albus and Riddle both seem to know more about Lyra than Lyra knows about herself, and there’s a hint of a prophecy… because of course there is.

Abraxas and Acacia are struggling. They don’t have solid proof, but they suspect Riddle was behind Lyra’s attack in first year. The Malfoys are now officially working against Riddle in their own ways, which we can all agree is bound to go so well for them.

Our lovely Marauders have major arcs coming up, and soon… someone will get hurt.

Poor Lyra is trying to come to grips with her visions and struggling with what she’s seen of her brother. Unfortunately for our girl, Lucius isn’t the only person in her life who made questionable decisions when it came to Hermione. Some of them were downright cruel.

Meanwhile, Riddle is becoming increasingly unhinged as he makes Horcruxes in the background and builds an army for war.

On top of that, none of our characters truly feel like they belong. Lily keeps causing problems, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is suspicious, and rat boy has managed to befriend someone directly connected to Riddle… which puts him right in Riddle’s sights.

And I don’t even think I’ve mentioned everything. It’s a lot for our little ragtag group, and honestly, I’m exhausted for them.

I’m also just… exhausted myself. Which brings me to the main part of this update. We need to talk about a hiatus for Dalliance.

This story is like a baby to me, and I love all of these characters deeply, so please don’t panic, I will be coming back. But I’m officially running out of my chapter bank. It’s just me writing this story, and it’s a big project to manage alongside school and my personal life. I’ve been holding myself to a hectic upload schedule, usually posting twice a week, and it’s catching up to me. I have taken small breaks before, but this one would be more substantial.

I’m not going on hiatus immediately. There are still a few chapters I plan to post. But with the holidays coming up, I think it’ll be a good time for me to take a short break after Halloween, to rest, wrap up year two on my end, and start planning year three. Once my semester ends in December, I’ll see where I’m at and hopefully post again around Christmas or New Year’s.

You might still see the occasional fluff piece or one-shot from me; I haven’t decided if I’ll take a full break from posting or still have occasional uploads of small projects. Either way, a hiatus is coming. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

My plan is to leave Dalliance on a mid-season-style cliffhanger (sorry in advance!), setting things up perfectly for my return.

Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this journey. You’ve made this story feel alive and have driven me to keep writing!

❤️

Chapter Text

Remus could feel Lyra’s eyes on him, heavy and searching.

He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll come,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.

Lyra didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway. Remus turned away quickly before she could say anything else, silently cursing himself. Too slow to respond. Too quiet. Too strange again.

He needed to be more careful.

Lyra wasn’t the only one watching, she was just the most perceptive. James and Sirius already noticed when he drifted, when his hands shook in class, when he disappeared every few weeks under paper-thin excuses. They were loyal, too loyal. They worried. They wanted to help.

But they couldn’t.

And if they ever learned the truth, they’d see him not as their friend, but as the monster that had nearly killed them a dozen times in his nightmares.

It would be so much easier if they weren’t his friends.

After class, the group split, the Slytherins heading toward Transfiguration, the Gryffindors toward Charms. Remus trailed behind, exhaustion already threading through his limbs like lead. His skin felt too tight, his head too heavy.

He made it through Charms, barely. His wand trembled in his grasp, and Flitwick eyed him once or twice with concern, but didn’t comment.

By lunch, he knew he couldn’t fake it any longer.

James caught sight of him in the Great Hall and frowned. “You all right, mate? You look...”

“Fine,” Remus interrupted, too fast. He forced a smile. “Didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You sure you’re not coming down with something?”

The guilt hit hard, sharp in his chest. They were so close to demanding real answers now, he could see it in the way Sirius’s eyes narrowed, in the way James kept glancing at him even as he pretended to joke with Peter.
“I’ll go to the Hospital Wing,” he said finally, forcing a crooked grin. “Madam Pomfrey will have a potion for it. You know me, fragile constitution.”

James didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. Sirius hesitated a moment longer, eyes searching Remus’s face for something unspoken.

Remus looked away first and then quickly walked away.

The corridors were quieter than usual, the noise from lunch fading behind him as he made his way to the Hospital Wing. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have. The light filtering through the high windows was still bright, golden, late afternoon. It wasn’t yet time, but it would be soon. Too soon.

Madam Pomfrey looked up as he entered, her face softening with immediate recognition. “Ah, Mr. Lupin. I was wondering when you’d arrive.”

He managed a wan smile. “A bit early, I suppose.”

She shook her head. “No, no, better early than cutting it close. You know that.”

He nodded, though his throat was too dry to speak. She fetched a small vial from her desk, faintly blue, its contents swirling like mist.

“For tomorrow morning,” she said gently, pressing it into his hand. “You’ll need it after. It should ease the worst of the pain and help you rest.”

He closed his fingers around the glass. “Thank you.”

Madam Pomfrey’s gaze softened further. “You’re a brave boy, Remus. You’ve handled this with more grace than most grown men could.”

Remus looked down quickly, fighting the twist in his stomach. He didn’t feel brave. He felt tainted. Every full moon was a reminder of what Greyback had made of him, what he became when the sky turned silver and the world lost its mercy.

If she saw what he was, what he did she wouldn’t say that.

They left before sunset. The air outside was crisp, heavy with the scent of autumn leaves and distant woodsmoke. The castle loomed behind them, windows catching the dying light like watchful eyes.

Remus followed Pomfrey wordlessly down the sloping lawns, across the shadowed grounds toward the Whomping Willow. The giant tree swished its limbs, until Pomfrey touched her wand to the knot at its base. The branches froze, motionless as stone.

Together they descended into the tunnel beneath its roots, the passage narrow and damp. The walls closed in around them, the air colder with each step.

Pomfrey glanced back now and then, her lamp casting long, flickering shadows across the rough stone. “How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.

“Like I’m about to be ripped apart,” Remus said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been a grim attempt at humor.

She sighed, but didn’t reprimand him. “It won’t always be like this. Someday, someone will find a way to make it easier.”

Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t believe that.

When they reached the Shrieking Shack, the last light of day had nearly faded. The windows glowed faintly, catching the reflection of the moon just beginning to rise. Inside, the place smelled of dust, wood rot, and old fear.

Pomfrey set down the lamp. “You’ll be safe here,” she said softly. “I’ll come back for you at dawn.”

He nodded, unable to look at her. She hesitated for a moment, a fleeting instinct to comfort him but she didn’t reach out. She’d learned better. Touching him this close to moonrise was dangerous.

Then she was gone, the sound of the trapdoor closing echoing through the still house.

Remus sank to the floor, pressing his forehead against his knees. His chest heaved, the fever boiling under his skin. The pain came slowly at first, then all at once.

He bit back a scream as the bones in his hands snapped and reformed, claws tearing through his fingertips. His back arched, spine bending in ways it shouldn’t. The air filled with the sound of cracking, of ripping, of a low, strangled growl forcing its way out of his throat.

He wanted to beg for it to stop, but words were gone, language itself burned away.

The last thought that crossed his mind before the wolf took over was of James’s laughter, Sirius’s grin, Lyra’s kind eyes.

And the crushing, unshakable certainty that if they ever saw him like this…

They’d never look at him the same again.
___
High on the slope beyond the willow, a figure watched.

Professor Mercier stood half-shrouded in the shadows of a birch tree, his dark robes blending with the deepening night. His expression was unreadable, his posture perfectly still. Only his eyes, sharp, reflective, and too alert, betrayed that he had been standing there long enough to see everything.

He had followed Pomfrey at a distance. Not close enough to be noticed, but close enough to witness.

His hand was tucked into the folds of his robes, fingers brushing the edge of a small notebook. He did not open it yet; he only waited until the rustle of the willow quieted again and the wind carried no human sound.

When he finally turned back toward the castle, his pace was unhurried. Deliberate. Measured. A man too careful to leave traces of curiosity behind.

His quarters were lit by only a single lamp when he entered, the faint golden glow catching on shelves of weathered books and maps covered in notes. The scent of parchment and steel hung in the air.

He set his wand aside, removed his cloak, and finally opened the notebook. Its pages were densely filled with tight, neat handwriting, observations, names, sketches of spell work and behavioral patterns.

He flipped through until he reached a page marked by a folded scrap of parchment.

Lyra Malfoy —
Shows potential. Quick defensive instincts. Emotional hesitations persist. Curious attachment patterns — notably across House lines. Power signature inconsistent. Must observe further.

James Potter / Sirius Black —
High aptitude, low restraint. Reckless. Shared leadership dynamic in flux. Possible catalysts.

Helena Parkinson/ Theresa Greengrass / Darla Rosier —
Protective toward Malfoy. Variable skill sets. Not central but orbiting.

Remus Lupin —
Withdrawn. Physically frail. Checked past attendance, regular absences in a normal pattern, Confirm correlation with lunar cycle.
Potential risk.

Mercier tapped the page lightly with his quill but didn’t write more. His brow furrowed, the faintest crease forming between his eyes.

He shut the journal and then turned his eyes to a single envelope, cream-colored, the seal pressed deep into the wax. A serpent coiled around itself, elegant and cruel. The edges of the letter were worn, as though it had been opened and refolded too many times.

Mercier’s gaze lingered on it, the flicker of the lamp catching on the green wax. His hand hovered over it once, fingers curling slightly, then retreated. He did not open it again.

Instead, he sat back in his chair, eyes lifting to the window where the moonlight had begun to silver the glass. Somewhere beyond that light, the howling had started, faint, distant, but unmistakable.

He closed his eyes.

For a heartbeat, his face looked older, the lines around his mouth carved deeper by exhaustion, or guilt.

Then the expression vanished. He opened his journal again, turned to a fresh page, and began to write. The quill scratched softly, methodically, the words private and unreadable from any distance. The only sound in the room was the quiet rhythm of ink against paper.

Outside, the night deepened, and Hogwarts slept on, unaware that one of its watchmen was keeping two sets of promises:

one to the school that trusted him,
and one to the darkness that owned him.

Chapter Text

The night before Mercier’s first private training session, the castle slept under a restless sky. Wind pressed against the old stones, carrying with it the scent of rain and the distant crackle of thunder. Inside the Slytherin dormitories, the flicker of the torches had long since burned out, leaving only the soft rhythm of steady breathing and the occasional turn of a blanket.

Lyra was dreaming again.

She stood barefoot in a space without walls. The floor beneath her shimmered white, the air around her hum softly like the breath of something ancient. For once, the vision didn’t burn or twist or bleed. It was still, so still that she almost didn’t trust it.

Lyra took a tentative step. The echo of it was soft, almost nonexistent. “Hello?” she called, her voice small in the endless light.

Then, movement. A silhouette emerged, slow and graceful. A woman, older, with soft brown ringlets falling against her shoulders and warm hazel eyes that glowed like candlelight. Her clothes were simple, jeans and a cream jumper and that, more than anything, felt surreal in this place.

Lyra’s breath caught. “Are you...Hermione?”

The woman smiled, laughter touching her expression like sunlight. “You’re used to seeing me younger. Or filthy from the war, I suppose. I did look rather different at the time of my death.”

Lyra froze. At the time of my death. The words rang like a chime through her skull. She took a half step back, her throat tightening. “You… you really are her.”

Hermione nodded softly. “Hello, Lyra. It’s nice to finally talk to you properly.”

Lyra’s heart thudded in her chest. “Why now? I have had the nightmares longer than I can remember, and the visons they’ve been awful. Why suddenly appear like this? Why make yourself… real?”

Hermione tilted her head slightly; eyes filled with that maddening patience only adults seemed to have. “Because it wasn’t time. It technically isn’t even time now. But I remember what it felt like to be your age, facing things far bigger than myself, terrified of shadows I didn’t understand. I had friends, but they were in over their heads too. I wished...” her voice caught slightly... “I wished someone had helped me before it was too late, and unfortunately things are changing faster than they should, and...” she hesitated, “you’re about to stand in front of some very difficult times."

Lyra folded her arms tightly across her chest. “So what now? You just show up in my dreams to make small talk?”

Hermione gave a small, knowing smile. “No. To help you start thinking of me differently. You’ve seen the worst of my memories, Lyra, the war, the torture, the fear. I needed you to see me as something else. We’re in a strange situation, you and I.”

Lyra let out a shaky laugh. “You think? I don’t even know where I end, and you begin. Am I you? Or am I really Lyra Malfoy? Because lately it feels like I’m neither.”

“Breathe, Lyra.” Hermione’s tone was firm but gentle. “You are Lyra Malfoy. Pureblood heiress, clever, brave, stubborn as hell a touch for the dramatics. But you also carry pieces of me, my memories, my instincts, my knowledge. You needed me, and I needed you.”

Lyra frowned. “Needed you? For what?”

“For balance,” Hermione said softly. “You were born into a family with influence and power. Your name opens doors I never could, you will be able to command rooms full of powerful wizards and witches. Which will matter immensely. You’ve had access to knowledge from childhood that I only discovered in war. But I...” she smiled faintly, “I have experience. You have the world at your feet. I have the scars to guide you through it.”

Lyra’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to be guided through it. I want to be normal. I’m twelve, Hermione! I want to worry about exams, boys, tackling barbaric pureblooded nonsense.”

“I asked the same thing once,” Hermione whispered. “And fate didn’t listen.”

Lyra’s throat felt tight. “Can’t you just tell me what’s coming?”

“I can’t,” Hermione said, pain flickering across her features. “Not yet. Certain things are bound, anchored to the fabric of what’s meant to happen. Some events must unfold as they always have. Others… we can change. But not before the pieces are ready to move. The only thing I can tell you, when I died, and you were born, the balance shifted. Prophecies that were sealed long ago unraveled. Fate began to write new lines. People felt that disturbance... powerful people, and they will try to use you to correct or to exploit it.”

Lyra stepped closer, her stomach twisting. “Why did you have to die for me to live?”

Hermione smiled faintly, though her gaze was distant, almost sad. “Someone’s calling you back.”

The light trembled, flickering like a dying candle. Lyra tried to reach for her, but her hands closed on empty air.

“Wait!” she cried. “Please, just tell me what to do!”

Hermione’s voice came faint and far away: “Survive, Lyra. And remember, you are not alone.”

“Lyra!”

The world tilted. She blinked awake to find Helena standing over her bed, hair wild, arms crossed.

“For once, I’m not the sleepyhead,” Helena said, grinning. “You were thrashing about like you were wrestling a grindylow.”

Lyra rubbed her face, trying to shake the lingering dream from her mind. “Just, bad dreams.”

Helena raised a brow but didn’t press. “Right. Well, if you don’t hurry, you’ll be having bad dreams about being late to Mercier’s first training session. Come on, Saturdays in the Great Hall are chaos incarnate.”

With a groan, Lyra pulled herself from bed, dressing mechanically. The dream’s warmth had turned to unease sitting heavy in her chest. Hermione’s words, prophecies, people wanting to use her refused to fade.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the morning was in full swing. James and Sirius were loudly arguing over the ethics of hexing each other’s shampoo. Severus sat in the corner with a cup of tea, pretending not to eavesdrop. Remus looked pale, his eyes shadowed with fatigue.

Lyra picked at a pastry but barely ate. The taste of the dream lingered stronger than sugar or spice.
________
Professor Mercier’s classroom smelled faintly of parchment and singed oak when they arrived. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows, catching dust motes that danced like silent sparks.

Mercier stood near the dueling platform, hands clasped behind his back. “Punctual,” he said, his tone measured. “Good. I expect nothing less.”

He surveyed them, James, Sirius, Remus, Severus, Helena, Theresa, Darla, Peter, and Lyra, with the calm detachment of a predator deciding which part of the herd to test first.

“Defensive magic,” he began, “is not a list of spells. It is instinct honed by fear. Today, we begin to make that instinct serve you.”

With a flick of his wand, the desks slid aside, and the air shimmered with wards.

“Pairs since we are odd, one will work with a dummy and rotate,” he ordered. “Basic dueling form. When you can disarm without hesitation, you may call yourself prepared.”

They scattered. James faced Sirius, grinning like a devil. Helena complained but squared off with Darla. Lyra found herself opposite Severus, who looked quietly uneased about it.

Spells began to fly, bright threads of magic cutting through the air. The room filled with the hum of deflections, the sharp crack of impacts, the sting of near misses.

Mercier moved among them silently, his cloak whispering over the floor. He corrected stances with a word, broke hexes mid-flight with an elegant counter-gesture.

“Focus your intent, Mr. Potter. You’re trying to show off, not defend.”
“Miss Rosier, you hesitate before every spell, hesitation is a death sentence.”

When he reached Lyra, she was locked in a battle of patience with Severus, shield against curse, rhythm against rhythm. Sweat trickled down her spine.

Mercier’s voice cut through the sound. “You’re holding back, Miss Malfoy.”

Lyra didn’t look at him. “Just being cautious.”

“Caution is admirable,” he said, stepping closer, “until it becomes your death.”

Her next shield faltered. Severus’ disarm hit her wand aside.

Mercier’s eyes caught hers, and something cold flickered there, interest, maybe, or intrusion.

“Your eyes,” he said quietly. “They give too much away.”

Lyra frowned, unnerved. “Sir?”

He tilted his head slightly, gaze unreadable. “You should learn to guard your mind, Miss Malfoy. There are those who could step inside and never leave.”

Lyra’s breath hitched. For a moment, it felt as though he could see through her, into the chaos Hermione had left behind. Then, just as suddenly, he looked away.

“Again,” he said sharply. “From the top.”

The session dragged on until their arms ached and the torches dimmed. When at last he dismissed them, his tone was calm, almost gentle.

“Remember what you learned today. Not all battles are won with strength. Some are won by what you refuse to show.”

They filed out quietly, the air buzzing with exhaustion. Lyra glanced back once, Mercier stood still as a statue, eyes distant, as if listening to something only he could hear.

When the door closed, silence reclaimed the room, and Mercier muttered a locking charm.

Mercier walked slowly to his desk, the faint echo of spells still humming in his ears. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a leather-bound journal. The handwriting inside was precise but restrained, more thought than confession.

The Malfoy girl’s mind is… chaotic. Fractured in ways that defy Legilimency. Flashes of memory not her own. I cannot glean Riddle’s name from her thoughts, only static. Someone has shielded her, and not with any magic I recognize.

He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the quill.

If she doesn’t know why he cannot touch her, then the protection is not her doing. Which means someone else intervened. Dumbledore, perhaps. Or something older.

Mercier leaned back, exhaling slowly, placing the quill down, the sound thin in the stillness around him. His hand drifted to the pendant at his neck, its familiar weight cool against his skin. He opened it with care, and the tiny moving image of his wife and daughter flickered to life, smiling, waving, forever caught in that moment. He let the sight anchor him, even as it hollowed him out. After a long breath, he lowered his head into his hands, the pendant pressing against his chest, and at last allowed himself to break.