Your Father Would Be Proud: Book 1

by BassClarinet2866

Summary:

Lyra Lestrange never should have been born. At least thats what Rodolphus always told her. She wasn't his real daughter and it was something he never let her forget.

All she wanted was a normal year but with Draco starting Hogwarts and Harry Potter showing up she should have known it was wishful thinking.

Notes:

Hi, I wrote this while Ao3 was down and I was bored. Had this idea for a while so here it is. I am rewriting canon in parts and will post the prologue soon. Here is book 1, tell me what you think!

Chapter 1

The bell above the shop door gave a short, shrill chime as Lyra Lestrange stepped inside, the scent of pressed linen and lavender polish wrapping around her like a shawl. She paused just past the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Her reflection stared back at her in the long wall mirror — sharp jaw, grey eyes, jacket thrown over her shoulder despite the summer heat, a curl of black hair sticking to her temple like it was glued there with sweat.

She looked, as always, like she had somewhere better to be.

“You’re late,” Draco called from his stool near the window, arms held out like he was being crucified with silk. Madam Malkin was halfway through pinning his sleeve.

Lyra arched a brow and crossed the room at an easy pace, the heels of her dragon-hide boots thudding gently against the polished floor. “I’m not late,” she said, voice smooth. “I just have no desire to sit around while you monologue at a mirror.”

Draco huffed. “It’s called conversation, Lyra. You should try it sometime.”

She grinned, the expression crooked and sharp at once. “Bit rich, coming from the boy who once tried to duel his own reflection.”

“That was a spell mishap.”

“That was you yelling Expelliarmus at the mirror because it ‘looked smug.’”

Draco muttered something about betrayal and trousers as Madam Malkin clucked and reminded him not to move. Lyra didn’t respond. Her eyes had caught on something — someone — behind Draco.

A boy stood awkwardly on the other stool. Smaller than Draco, wiry, wearing clothes two sizes too big for him. His hair was a disaster, his glasses lopsided, and his arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know whether to ask for help or make a run for it.

But it was the scar that caught her.

Right there, above the right eyebrow. Faint, jagged, unmistakable.

Draco noticed too. Of course he did.

“Getting your robes for Hogwarts?” he asked, turning slightly toward the boy with all the casual arrogance of someone who’d never been ignored in his life.

“Yes,” the boy said. His voice was quiet, unsure.

Lyra’s gaze narrowed. There was something about him — not just the scar. The way he spoke. The way he stood like he didn’t quite belong in his own skin.

“Did you know which house you’ll be in?” Draco continued, the words practiced. “I’m hoping for Slytherin — all my family’s been there.” He glanced sideways at Lyra. “Some of us just turned out… different.”

Lyra didn’t blink. She had long ago learned how to let jabs pass without comment. Especially the ones that came with a smile.

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “I think the first years get sorted once we’re there?”

Draco’s mouth actually fell open for a second. “You don’t know? Merlin’s beard — haven’t you read Hogwarts: A History?”

“Er… no.”

Lyra snorted under her breath and crossed her arms, leaning against a nearby rack of dress robes.

Draco pushed on, full of himself in the way only eleven-year-olds with too much family pride could be. Blood status, Quidditch, Hufflepuffs — the usual hits. Lyra let it wash over her, eyes still on the boy.

He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t argue. But his hand clenched slightly around the hem of his sleeve, like he was trying not to fidget.

And then Draco, ever one for the dramatic finish, dropped this: “You’ll see. Some wizarding families are better than others. You don’t want to go mixing with the wrong sort — I can help you there.”

Lyra’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“Bit early in the day for fascism, don’t you think?”

Draco turned to her, annoyed. “I was just saying—”

“You were being a snob,” she said flatly. “And a stupid one, at that.”

Draco flushed but didn’t retort. He never did when she used that tone — the one she’d picked up from Narcissa when she was tired of Lucius posturing. It didn’t help that she was older, taller, and once hexed a boy’s mouth shut for talking over her in Ancient Runes.

The boy — Potter, unless her hunch was off — was watching her now. Not suspiciously. Curiously.

“Name?” she asked, folding her arms again.

“Harry,” he said, cautious. “Harry Potter.”

The silence was instant.

Madam Malkin blinked. Draco stopped fidgeting. Even Lyra tilted her head slightly.

She looked him over again, slower this time. The glasses. The scar. The fact that his magic buzzed around him like static.

“Well,” she said at last, “you’re shorter than I thought.”

Harry blinked. “Er… sorry?”

She waved it off. “Not your fault. Prophets make everyone seem ten feet tall. You’d think Dumbledore was a literal giant with how much they harp on his robes.”

“I think I read that one,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “Something about his purple boots and defeating some dark wizard in an opera house?”

Lyra grinned. “Knew it. Witch Weekly’s ‘Wizards We Love’ column.”

Draco looked deeply unsettled by the fact that Harry Potter had just cracked a joke. Lyra, meanwhile, pushed off the rack and tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

“Word of advice, Potter,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Don’t let Draco here steer you. He’s got the moral compass of a cursed thimble.”

“Oi!”

“And Hogwarts?” she added, already turning toward the door. “It’s big. Cold. Dangerous in the corners if you don’t watch your step.”

Harry hesitated. “Thanks, I guess?”

She looked back just long enough to offer a crooked smile — not kind, not cruel. Just real.

“Everyone’s a mess their first year,” she said. “Try not to let the castle eat you.”

The bell jingled again as she slipped out, the sunlight catching the silver hoops in her ears as she vanished into the crowd.

Draco glared at the door. “She always does that. Appears, insults me, then leaves.”

Harry just stood there, still on the stool, still unsure of whether that had been a warning or a welcome.

Maybe both.

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

The platform swirled with steam and chatter, trunks bumping over uneven stone and the screech of train whistles echoing overhead. Families bustled through the crowd, careful not to draw attention from the Muggle travelers heading to other trains. Lyra adjusted her grip on her trunk handle, her jacket slung neatly over one shoulder and her curls already frizzing in the heat. Altiar's cage thumped quietly against her side, clutched in one hand.

"Draco, do stop dragging your feet," Narcissa said as she stepped elegantly onto the platform, her gloved hand wrapped lightly around Lyra's arm. "Honestly, if you slouch like that, your robes will wrinkle."

Lyra smirked. "Let him wrinkle them — he’s been dying for a tragic aesthetic."

Narcissa simply arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Lucius followed a few paces behind, scanning the crowd with thinly veiled disdain. He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve as if the very air of King's Cross offended him. "Stay close. We haven't got all morning."

Lyra leaned toward Narcissa as they walked. "He always this sunny in public or just on holidays?"

"Lyra," Narcissa said warningly, though her voice was fond.

"Lucy, try not to scowl too hard," Lyra added with a smirk. "You might crack something."

Lucius glared at her. "Do not call me that."

Draco groaned as they neared the barrier. "Can we please go through before she says something worse?"

"Lead the way, darling," Narcissa said, giving Draco a soft push. Then to Lyra, she added more quietly, "Try to keep your head down this year. Especially around Clearwater."

Lyra grinned. "You say that like it’s not my best talent."

The four of them stepped through the barrier, two at a time, into the thick clouds of steam on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express gleamed ahead like a promise and a threat.

Lucius handed over Lyra’s ticket with a perfunctory, "Mind your studies." She caught the way his eyes lingered on the Prefect badges worn by passing older students. Always calculating. Always silently comparing.

Narcissa bent down and fixed the fold of Lyra's collar. "Write when you arrive. And don’t let Terrence drag you into detention again."

"We’re aiming for suspension this year, actually," Lyra said.

Narcissa shook her head with a smile and kissed her on the temple. "Be safe. And don’t let Gemma boss you too much, even if she’s a prefect."

Lyra watched Draco climb aboard first, then followed him into the corridor, already thick with students and levitating luggage.

She found their usual compartment three cars down. Terrence Higgs had claimed a window seat, feet kicked up and a copy of Which Broomstick on his lap. Gemma Farley sat beside him, arms crossed, and Rhys Maybury had his head tipped back, balancing a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean on his tongue like it was a game.

"You’re late," Gemma said without looking up.

"Lucy's fault," Lyra said, tossing her trunk overhead.

"Do not call him that," Terrence groaned.

"She called him that in front of the Greengrasses once," Rhys added. "Thought he was going to combust."

Graham Montague slid the door shut behind her. "You know it’s not a party until Lyra arrives."

She gave him a quick grin, brushing her fingers against his in passing before dropping into the seat beside Gemma. The look they exchanged lingered a beat longer than necessary.

"Prefect meeting’s in ten," Gemma reminded, checking her watch.

"You two have fun with that," Lyra said. "I’ll keep the rest of the idiots in line."

"Good luck with that," Gemma muttered, already rising with Terrence.

Once the prefects had left, Lyra settled in deeper, trading barbs with Rhys and Graham and occasionally glancing out the window at the blurring countryside.

Ten minutes later, Gemma and Terrence returned.

"Well?" Lyra asked.

"Clearwater talked through half of it," Gemma said, sliding the door closed again. "As usual."

"Head Boy looks like he hasn’t slept since Easter," Terrence added. "Not sure what that says about this year."

"That I’m going to have to pull the Quidditch team together with my own two hands," Lyra said. Her captain’s badge caught the light as she leaned forward. "At least I don’t have to play nice with the prefects."

"Still pretending Percy doesn’t have a crush on you?" Rhys asked.

"He does not," Lyra said, throwing a Bertie Bott's at his head.

"Sure, Captain. Whatever helps you sleep."

The compartment door slid open just as she was preparing her next insult.

"Rounds," Percy Weasley said with manufactured authority. Clearwater trailed behind him, already glaring.

"Weasley," Gemma said politely.

"Farley. Lestrange," Percy nodded. His eyes lingered just a moment too long.

"Clearwater," Lyra said, tone dry.

"You left your owl cage open," Penelope said flatly.

"Still latched, still spelled," Lyra replied. "Care to inspect the wards?"

"We’re just making sure all rules are being followed," Percy offered quickly.

"Of course," Lyra said. "I’d hate to be a bad influence."

"Too late," Penny muttered.

Lyra stood slowly, head tilted. "Something you want to say, Clearwater?"

"Don’t need to," she said. "Everyone already knows."

"Knows what?"

"That you walk around like you own this place. Like being a Lestrange gives you the right."

The compartment went quiet.

Lyra took a step forward, but Gemma laid a hand on her arm.

"Not worth it," she murmured.

Penelope turned on her heel, brushing past Percy.

"Enjoy the feast," he offered with a strained smile before following her.

"She hates me," Lyra muttered.

"She’s jealous," Graham said.

"Of what?"

"That Percy likes you better."

Lyra rolled her eyes, but her smirk said she didn’t mind the attention.

The train rolled on, the sound of laughter, teasing, and the future rattling through the corridors.

By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station, the sun had sunk behind the hills and rain misted across the carriages waiting to carry them up to the castle. Lyra stepped down onto the platform last, her hair damp and her boots already streaked with mud. As the thestral-drawn carriages came into view through the mist, she paused. Most students couldn’t see them — they only saw empty harnesses and thought magic pulled the carts. But Lyra saw them. She always had.

The thestrals stood silent and waiting, leathery wings twitching. She walked up to one slowly, extending a hand. Its skeletal head tilted, and it leaned gently into her palm.

"Still ugly," she whispered, running her fingers along its jaw. "Still beautiful."

Graham called her name from the carriage steps. She gave the thestral one last pat before turning away, her boots squelching in the mud, and climbed up beside him without another word. She ignored the first years being herded toward the boats and made her way to the front carriage reserved for upper years, ducking inside beside Gemma and Graham without a word. The lantern swinging overhead cast flickering light across the inside of the carriage, bouncing shadows off her silver Quidditch captain badge.

Inside the castle, the Great Hall buzzed with voices. The enchanted ceiling rippled with low grey clouds, and candles hovered above the tables like flickering stars. Lyra slid into her usual seat at the Slytherin table, nodding to Professor Snape as he swept past in a swirl of robes. She was tired, but not enough to ignore the sharp glances passed between the staff. Something was off.

The Sorting Hat's song was new — smug as always — and the line of first years looked more nervous than usual. Lyra watched as names were called and houses filled: Abbott, Hannah to Hufflepuff. Bones, Susan to Hufflepuff. Lyra watched her go with a slight lift of her chin. Cousin, technically — Susan's father, Edgar’s brother, had been killed not long after Edgar himself. No one at this table would ever guess that Bellatrix Lestrange had once loved a man like Edgar Bones, or that Lyra was the result of that hidden piece of the war. Rodolphus made sure of that.

Draco, of course, went to Slytherin the moment the hat touched his head. He walked to the table like it was his birthright. Lyra gave him a slow clap as he passed.

Then came Potter.

Whispers rippled through the hall before his name was even called. When it finally was, the volume dipped into silence. Lyra leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her hand.

The hat took longer than it should have. She knew what that meant. Some sort of internal debate, likely. Slytherin or Gryffindor. It was always those two with the difficult ones.

When it finally shouted "Gryffindor," the entire table to her left erupted in cheers. Lyra just sat back and exhaled through her nose.

"Shame," she murmured to Graham beside her. "Would've been interesting."

Dumbledore’s speech followed the usual rhythm: start-of-term announcements, jokes only half the students laughed at, the Forbidden Forest being forbidden. Lyra’s attention wandered halfway through. Her gaze drifted to the Gryffindor table, to Potter now seated between the youngest Weasley boy and Granger. He didn't look like he knew what to do with himself.

By the time dessert vanished and the prefects were organizing first years, Lyra was the last to rise. She trailed behind her group, boots echoing on stone as they descended into the dungeons.

The common room was quiet and cool, shadows dancing along the green-tinged stone from the flickering firelight. The lake outside the windows made the walls ripple as if they were underwater. Draco was already recounting his encounter with Potter in Madam Malkin's, exaggerating every detail.

"He was in Muggle clothes," Draco said like it was a crime. "Didn’t even know what a broom was."

"Shocking," Lyra said from the armchair she’d claimed, legs draped over one side. "And yet, somehow, you survived."

"He was rude."

"No," Gemma said dryly, curling up in another chair with a book. "He just didn’t want to talk to you. There’s a difference."

Draco glared, but didn’t reply. Rhys threw a cushion at him, and Graham smirked, lounging in the corner with a dog-eared copy of Quidditch Weekly he'd tugged from his bag after the feast. He flipped a page absently, more interested in the familiar comfort of the routine than the actual article, and shot Lyra a knowing look before letting the magazine slump back into his lap.

Lyra looked out at the black water beyond the windows. Something was starting this year. She could feel it in her bones, in the strange tilt of the air.

It hadn’t begun with Potter, but he was definitely part of it.

And Lyra Lestrange was paying attention.

Chapter 2

Lyra came awake to the sound of knuckles rapping firmly on the wooden post of her bedframe, followed by Gemma’s voice from the doorway.

“Up, Lestrange. If you make me late for breakfast, I’m hexing your boots to squeak for the rest of the week.”

Lyra groaned and rolled over, blinking at the greenish light filtering through the high, narrow windows.

“I’m up,” she muttered. “Kind of.”

“You’re the Quidditch captain. Try to look conscious before the first bell,” Gemma called back, already disappearing down the girls’ corridor.

Lyra sat up slowly, yawning. From across the quiet dorm, she could hear the faint clatter of Gemma’s wardrobe opening. Just the two of them in the whole room. Some mornings it was nice — most mornings, it was just a little too quiet.

There were only five students in their year in Slytherin. Just five out of a total of twenty-three across all four houses. The war had torn through the magical world, and the effects lingered everywhere — especially here, in the numbers. Draco’s year had nearly forty. Theirs had barely half that. Some families never recovered, some lines ended entirely. From the beginning, they’d known their year was different.

The Slytherin dorms branched off the common room into two arched halls — one leading to the boys' side, the other to the girls'. With only two girls in their year, Lyra and Gemma had the room to themselves. It should have felt like a privilege, having space and silence in a castle that rarely offered either. But more often than not, it just reminded them how few others had made it through.

Lyra eventually dragged herself out of bed and into her uniform, muttering about cold stone floors and the injustice of early mornings. Her tie was crooked. Gemma fixed it without comment.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, the tables were already buzzing with morning chatter. Owls swooped overhead, the smell of toast and porridge filling the air. First years were still wide-eyed, pointing at the floating candles and whispering about enchanted ceilings like they hadn’t been explained half a dozen times.

They slid into their usual spots at the Slytherin table between Rhys and Graham, who were already working through their second plates. Terrence Higgs sat at the end of the bench, flipping lazily through the Daily Prophet.

“You’re late,” Rhys said.

“She slept like she was cursed,” Gemma replied.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Lyra muttered, pouring herself some tea.

“How’d you all sleep?”

“Like the dead,” Graham said, without looking up.

Lyra snorted. “Considering your snoring, you’re lucky we haven’t hexed your throat shut.”

Graham glanced over at her, unimpressed. “Right, because muttering spells in your sleep is perfectly normal.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You do,” Rhys said through a mouthful of toast. “Last year you summoned your boots at three in the morning. Woke half the dorm.”

“They were freezing,” Lyra muttered, pouring tea. “And I wasn’t about to walk across the floor barefoot like some savage.”

Gemma sipped her coffee, unimpressed. “Save your wits for class. What did everyone keep after OWLs?”

“Dropped History and Astronomy,” Rhys said. “I’m not staying up half the night to look at dots.”

“Dropped Arithmancy and Charms,” Terrence added. “Never liked either.”

“Dropped Herbology, History, and Care,” Graham said, pushing his plate away. “Taking Potions, Defense, Transfiguration, Runes, and Astronomy.”

Lyra looked over at him. “Didn’t think you’d keep Astronomy.”

He shrugged. “Figured it wouldn’t kill me to stare at stars for a few hours a week.”

Her eyebrow twitched, but she didn’t comment. “I dropped History, Arithmancy, and Herbology. Keeping Transfiguration, Potions, Defense, Charms, Astronomy, and Runes.”

“That’s six,” Terrence said.

“I know.”

Graham raised a brow at her. “Trying to outdo us already?”

“Trying to stay busy,” Lyra said, tearing a croissant in half. “I don’t do well with downtime.”

“Yeah,” he said under his breath, “noticed that.”

She gave him a look, sharp and unreadable, but didn’t reply.

Snape arrived at the table a few minutes later, expression unreadable as always. He dropped folded schedules in front of each of them with minimal ceremony.

“Your timetables,” he said. “Try not to embarrass yourselves or this House.”

“Morning to you too, Professor,” Lyra muttered, not looking up.

Snape didn’t respond. He swept off just as silently as he’d arrived.

Lyra unrolled her schedule. “Double Potions to start. Shared with all four houses.”

“Joy,” Gemma said, eyeing her own.

“We get to babysit Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws,” Terrence groaned. “Class is going to be tiny. Snape only let students in with an Outstanding.”

Lyra didn’t laugh. She was too busy scanning the rest of her schedule. “Defense after break. Runes after lunch. Long day.”

“Wouldn’t be Hogwarts if it wasn’t,” Gemma said, standing up and brushing crumbs off her robes. “Come on. Let’s go make a good first impression — or at least not get cursed before noon.”

Graham lingered beside Lyra as the others stood. “You sure about six classes?”

She didn’t look at him. “You sure about taking Astronomy just for me?”

His mouth quirked. “Fair.”

They walked to the dungeons side by side, saying nothing else — but not needing to.

The Potions dungeon was even colder than Lyra remembered. The torches flickered weakly against the stone walls, and condensation clung to the narrow windows high above. Only eight students were seated when Snape entered, his robes billowing like storm clouds. Most had come from different houses — a rare mix. Four Slytherins, two Ravenclaws, a Hufflepuff, and one lone Gryffindor — all with top marks.

The benches had been rearranged, tight pairs spread out across the room. Lyra dropped her bag next to Gemma, directly across from a lone Hufflepuff girl she vaguely recognized from Runes.

Snape glided to the front. "You are here because you earned an Outstanding on your OWL. I do not care how you did it. I only care whether you can maintain that standard. If not, you will be removed from this class. Quickly. Quietly. Permanently."

He waved his wand; instructions appeared on the board.

"Begin."

They spent the next hour brewing a concentration draft. Lyra’s potion turned the exact pale blue it was supposed to. Gemma's was a shade darker. Someone behind them let theirs bubble over.

Snape circled like a hunting hawk. He paused briefly at Lyra and Gemma’s table. "Acceptable," he said, and moved on.

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

The Defense classroom had been rearranged, desks pushed to the edges for practical exercises. Professor Quirrell stood near the blackboard, his turban slightly askew and his hands wringing nervously.

“G-Good morning,” he stammered. “W-We’ll begin this term w-with a refresher on defensive spells. Yes, yes. Very important. Y-You never know what you’ll run into.”

Most of the class tried not to stare. Lyra raised an eyebrow at his jittery manner but said nothing, sliding into a desk beside Gemma.

Quirrell gave them a set of counter-hex drills and reviewed basic shield charms. His directions were vague, his confidence thinner than parchment, but they managed the lesson with only a few wand sparks flying astray.

Graham ended up across from Lyra for the drills.

“Go easy on me,” he said.

She hit him with a disarm before he finished speaking.

He laughed as his wand clattered across the floor. “I said easy.”

Graham retrieved it with a muttered charm and nudged her as he returned to position. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Lyra gave him a sideways glance, lips twitching. “That’s not luck. That’s strategy.”

Across the room, Quirrell jumped at a particularly loud burst from the Ravenclaw side and nearly dropped his wand. Gemma leaned over from her spot beside Rhys.

"Bet he doesn’t last the term," she whispered.

"Two weeks," Rhys whispered back.

"Five galleons?"

"You're on."

Quirrell turned, startled. “E-Eyes front, please! W-Wands at the ready!”

Lyra rolled hers between her fingers, already bored.

“You think he’s faking it?” Graham murmured.

Lyra raised a brow. “The stammer or the incompetence?”

Graham shrugged. “Either. Both.”

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

By lunch, Lyra’s stomach was growling. They returned to their usual end of the Slytherin table, joined by the younger years already swapping class horror stories.

Draco was holding court with a knot of fellow first-year Slytherins, retelling their morning Transfiguration lesson with dramatic flair. He was exaggerating the way Professor McGonagall's eyes had narrowed when one of the Gryffindors turned their matchstick into a broken toothpick, then launching into a speech about how his needle had shone like real silver. His audience—two other boys and a quiet girl with a bob—seemed both amused and impressed.

Lyra passed behind them without a word, quietly taking her seat across from her friends. She shot a glance at Draco, mostly to confirm he hadn’t managed to set anything on fire. Satisfied, she turned back to her plate.

Gemma slid onto the bench next to Lyra, nudging a bowl of fruit toward her. "You’re not going to critique the first years, are you? Let the kid have his moment."

Lyra picked up an apple, eyeing Draco’s theatrics. "Just making sure he survived the morning without starting a duel."

"He's fine," Terrence said. "Full of himself already."

"First years usually are," Rhys added. "Especially Malfoys."

Lyra didn't disagree. "Tryouts are next week," she said, changing the subject. "First years can’t play, but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to sneak on a broom."

"You sound like you're expecting it," Gemma said.

"I’d be disappointed if they didn’t," Lyra replied with a smirk.

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

Professor Babbling’s classroom smelled like old parchment and sandalwood. The class was even smaller than Potions. Mostly Ravenclaws.

They began with a decoding exercise. Graham, seated beside Lyra again, kept frowning at his page.

"This is worse than Arithmancy," he muttered.

Lyra didn’t look up. "That’s because you have to think."

"You wound me."

"Good."

She didn’t smile, but she bumped his elbow once, lightly, under the desk.

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

By the time classes ended and they made it back to the dungeons, Lyra was exhausted. The walk down the moving staircases and through the chill of the lower halls had felt longer than usual, but the warm green glow of the Slytherin common room was a welcome sight. She dropped her bag just inside the door and made straight for one of the velvet couches near the fire.

"Today was eternal," Rhys said, collapsing beside her like a puppet with cut strings.

Terrence groaned from an armchair. "We’ve got it all again tomorrow, don’t we? Brilliant."

Gemma had already claimed a low table in the corner and was spreading out her notes like a general planning a siege. "If you lot don’t copy my notes this year, you might actually survive N.E.W.T.s."

Lyra had just closed her eyes when the common room door swung open. Draco entered with a group of first-years, chin high, robes pristine. He gave the older students a quick glance, then dismissed them just as quickly.

"Someone had a good day," Gemma muttered.

Draco walked past, then doubled back. "My Transfiguration needle was the only one she kept. She even showed it to the next class."

Lyra didn’t even open her eyes. "Gold star for you, little cousin."

Draco huffed, but couldn’t quite hide his smirk. "Professor Snape said he was impressed."

"He’s also impressed when someone turns in a foot of parchment without smudges," Graham said from the back of the couch. He was flipping through his Ancient Runes packet, lips pressed together in concentration.

Draco gave him a look and settled into the armchair nearest the fire. He glanced at Lyra, then turned his attention to the first years who’d followed him in.

Rhys tossed a chocolate frog at Lyra. "Survival snack. You earned it."

She cracked it open, popped the frog in her mouth, and leaned her head back against the cushions. The lake beyond the window rippled with soft blue-green light, and for the first time all day, she let herself relax.

The fire popped in the grate. Somewhere behind her, someone laughed. And for a moment, the Slytherin common room was just that — a common room, not a battleground or a proving ground. Just home.

Chapter 3

Thursday morning, September 12th, started like most others that week — with Gemma pulling open the drapes around Lyra’s bed and chucking a pillow at her head. Lyra groaned and rolled onto her back, blinking at the ceiling while mentally calculating how many hours of sleep she could still function on. Her limbs ached faintly from practice, and her brain was still fogged with runes and potion ingredients from the night before.

There was something oddly comforting in the routine of it — being jostled awake by Gemma, dragging herself into cold boots, feeling the ache of training before dawn. It kept her grounded. Predictable. Safe.

Before she even sat up, Lyra ran a hand through her short, curling hair — more habit than necessity, given the length. She kept her wand tucked just under her pillow and slipped it into the inner pocket of her robe before she even put on her boots. If nothing else, her morning rituals were armor. And armor was necessary.

“Up, Captain. The pitch isn’t going to book itself.”

Lyra groaned into her pillow. “You know it’s not your job to be this insufferably cheerful.”

“You say that,” Gemma replied, “but I still do it.”

Lyra dragged herself out of bed and got dressed, tugging on her dragon-hide boots and lacing up her gloves before pulling her broom from under the bed. They met the rest of the team at the pitch for an early morning practice.

The team this year was solid — one of the strongest they'd had in a while. Lyra was Keeper and Captain. Graham Montague and Miles Bletchley flew as Beaters. Marcus Flint, Cassius Warrington, and Adrian Pucey made up the Chaser lineup, and Terrence Higgs, calm and razor-focused, flew Seeker. It was a seasoned, no-nonsense group — just how Lyra liked it.

Practice was efficient. They opened with formation laps and targeting drills, then rotated through Keeper-to-Chaser passing circuits while Bletchley and Graham ran interference. Lyra called for a three-beater defensive strategy they'd been testing since last spring — she knew it wouldn’t be legal in a match, but it forced the Chasers to tighten their handling under pressure. When Flint actually managed to pass to Pucey without shouting over him, Lyra allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.

Graham flew tighter lines than the week before, and even Flint wasn’t bullying the Quaffle for once. Lyra barked corrections, issued drills, and tried not to snap when the wind caught her hair and flung it into her eyes for the fourth time that morning.

“New gloves wouldn’t kill you,” Graham commented after one particularly aggressive block.

“They still work,” she replied, flexing her fingers. “Mostly.”

By the time they made it back to the castle, Lyra’s mood had marginally improved. Her arms ached in that satisfying, post-practice way, and her mind was already shifting to the day ahead — Ancient Runes after breakfast, and a double block of Potions after lunch. The looming essay for Babbling’s class tugged at the back of her thoughts, and she hadn’t yet reviewed the chart Snape handed out last week. She made a mental note to set aside time in the library later, knowing full well that if she didn’t, she’d be forced to pull another late night. It was always a delicate balance — Quidditch captain, top marks, and somehow keeping Draco from self-destruction. — until she caught sight of Draco holding court over a gaggle of first years at the Slytherin table.

“He’s glowing,” Gemma muttered. “That can’t be good.”

Lyra dropped into her seat and helped herself to toast. “What now?”

“Something about Potter,” Rhys said. “Word is they got into it after Flying. Draco challenged him to a duel.”

“A duel?” Lyra repeated. “What is he, seventy?”

Graham snorted into his juice. “Told Potter to meet him in the trophy room at midnight. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Lyra narrowed her eyes. “Please tell me he’s not actually going.”

“He’s not,” Graham replied. “It’s a setup. He’s hoping Potter gets caught out of bed.”

Lyra hummed, unimpressed. “Of course he is.”

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

That night, as Lyra passed through the common room heading toward her dorm corridor, she spotted Draco lounging near the fireplace, clearly pleased with himself.

She slowed just enough to murmur as she passed, “That thing with Potter better not make the House look ridiculous.”

Draco blinked, then gave a shrug. “He’ll sneak out, get caught, and lose points. Classic Gryffindor idiocy.”

Lyra stopped walking and turned her head slightly. “If this stunt reflects badly on Slytherin, I’ll make sure Snape knows who orchestrated it.”

Draco’s expression faltered. “You wouldn’t.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I care more about this House’s reputation than your ego. Try not to forget that.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

Instead, she made her way down the corridor toward her dorm, boots echoing softly on the stone floor. Once behind the privacy of her curtains, she changed into sleep clothes, but the idea of rest felt far away. Her mind was still chewing on Draco’s smug expression and the whispers floating around about Potter.

It wasn’t that she cared what happened to the boy — not really. But attention like his had a way of dominating the school corridors, especially when it clashed with Slytherin. The last thing they needed was more fuel added to the ever-burning rivalry between houses, especially with Draco right in the center of it.

Friday passed with more whispers about the failed duel. Potter and his friend Weasley hadn’t been caught, to Lyra’s mild surprise. Granger had apparently been with them, though no one seemed clear on why. Rumors swirled, but none mentioned what they might have been doing near the third-floor corridor — the one Dumbledore had explicitly warned students to avoid at the start-of-term feast. Lyra had no intention of finding out. Whatever trouble Potter had wandered into, it wasn’t her problem — not unless Draco somehow got himself tangled in it. As long as he kept his head down and didn’t drag Slytherin into more chaos, she could happily pretend that corridor didn’t exist. Still, she made a note to keep an eye on Quirrell, who had started avoiding eye contact entirely.

The next week settled into a rhythm. Morning practices. Afternoon classes. Endless homework. Snape was in rare form, deducting points for so much as looking vaguely distracted during lectures. He was less cutting with Lyra, though he held her to high standards. Ancient Runes remained her favorite — Professor Babbling was a rare blend of brilliance and blunt honesty.

Quidditch practice kept her grounded. She barked orders at Flint and Warrington and made note of the way Pucey had started working better with Miles. Graham, as usual, hovered nearby with that half-smirk he always wore around her. He didn’t say anything about the gloves again, but she caught him glancing at her hands more than once.

By the time their first Hogsmeade weekend arrived, Lyra was itching for a break. She met Gemma and Rhys at the gates and the three wandered into the village, stopping by the apothecary and Tomes & Scrolls before settling at the back of Madam Puddifoot’s, where they were least likely to be interrupted.

They spent an hour griping about Arithmancy and speculating on who’d be insane enough to try out for Beater once Bletchley graduated this year. With Lyra, Graham, and Terrence Higgs all in their sixth year, next season would see the loss of their Keeper, a Beater, and their Seeker — not to mention the need for a new captain. Lyra kept most of her comments to herself but couldn’t help snorting when Gemma suggested Flint might try to bribe his way into naming himself captain if no one better stepped up.

Later that afternoon, Lyra split off from the group and met Graham outside Honeydukes. He’d been flipping through a book he'd picked up from Tomes & Scrolls and only looked up when she nudged him with her elbow.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Something wildly practical?”

“Something about cursed artifacts,” he replied without missing a beat, sliding the book into his cloak. “Figured I should be prepared if you keep dragging me into chaos.”

“I’m the source of chaos now?” she asked, arching a brow.

“You’ve always been,” he said, too casually.

They walked together down the cobbled path toward the edge of the village, where the last of the autumn leaves danced in the breeze and students passed in quiet pairs and laughing clusters. It felt normal. Calmer. Lyra appreciated it more than she’d admit.

They parted near the gates with a simple nod. No need for anything elaborate. Just—normal.

That night, she sat curled into the corner of one of the green velvet armchairs by the fire, parchment balanced on her knee and an inkwell resting on the table beside her. Most of the younger students had already retreated to their dorms, leaving the common room quiet save for the occasional pop from the hearth. Graham passed through a few minutes later, a book under one arm and that familiar, unreadable look on his face. Their eyes met briefly, and he gave her a small nod as he walked by. She returned it with the barest tilt of her head before turning back to her essay, quill scratching softly against parchment.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” Lyra muttered, twirling her quill.

“Try not to drown in ink. We’ve got practice at dawn.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Practice helped. It always helped.

And if she noticed that Quirrell had stopped making eye contact altogether in Defense class, well — she wasn’t the only one.

Something was off at Hogwarts this year. Lyra could feel it — like tension in the air before a storm.

But for now, she had a team to lead, homework to finish, and a House to protect.

Everything else would have to wait.

Chapter 4

October crept over Hogwarts with a sharp chill in the mornings and the promise of frost in the shadows. Leaves gathered in gold and rust-colored piles in the courtyards, and the distant mountains had begun to show signs of early snow. For Lyra, it meant earlier practices in colder air, and a castle full of students becoming steadily more distracted by thoughts of Halloween sweets and floating pumpkins.

The Slytherin Quidditch team had settled into a steady rhythm. Lyra kept the team focused, working to tighten their plays and sharpen formation drills, while occasionally barking at Flint to stop using Pucey as a moving target.

Classes, for the most part, blurred together. Defense Against the Dark Arts with Quirrell remained uncomfortable. The man stammered through lessons and seemed even more jumpy around Lyra than he was with the rest of the class. It didn't go unnoticed. She’d caught Graham watching Quirrell more than once with a look that said he wasn’t buying the act.

Ancient Runes continued to be the highlight of her week. Babbling had started a unit on Nordic inscriptions, and Lyra found herself actually enjoying the translation work. She sat with Gemma and Terrence during most classes, occasionally glancing over at the Ravenclaws who always seemed to be three steps ahead.

The days slipped by with homework, team meetings, and half-hearted attempts at sleep. Draco, thankfully, had settled down slightly since the failed duel stunt, though he was still prone to showing off in front of the other first years. Lyra made it a point to check in on him occasionally but let him manage himself unless it looked like he was going to bring embarrassment to the House. She’d scolded him once under her breath in the Great Hall, and that had been enough for a week of good behavior.

By the time Halloween morning arrived, the entire castle was buzzing. The Great Hall was decorated with fluttering live bats, enchanted cobwebs, and floating jack-o'-lanterns that glowed gently above the tables. The smell of cinnamon and cloves drifted in from the kitchens, and even the most miserable first-year had managed a smile.

Lyra spent the morning scribbling out a rushed Potions chart while Rhys kept knocking over her inkpot with the edge of his textbook. Gemma had Transfiguration notes spread across half the table, and Graham sat across from Lyra, flipping through an old Charms text with a half-eaten apple in hand.

“If Rhys tips that inkpot one more time, I’m going to hex his elbows backwards,” Lyra muttered, blotting a spreading ink blotch off the edge of her Potions chart.

“Honestly, this chart looks more like an inkblot test,” Gemma muttered, peering over Lyra’s shoulder. “You know, you could always redo it on fresh parchment,” she added with a smirk.

Lyra gave her a flat look. “And waste another hour just so you can criticize my penmanship again? Pass.”

Graham chuckled under his breath, flipping a page. “It’s almost artistic, in a chaotic sort of way.”

Rhys leaned in, dramatically inspecting the blot. “I see a doxy. Or maybe a Grindylow. Hard to tell with your handwriting.”

Lyra jabbed her quill toward his elbow. “You’ll see your own spleen if you keep hovering.”

Before anyone could retort, the bell echoed through the dungeon corridors, and the clatter of chairs followed as students packed up their things. They made their way up through the castle, the scent of roasting pumpkin and baked apples growing stronger the closer they got to the Great Hall.

When the doors opened, the sight was nothing short of magical. Dozens of jack-o'-lanterns floated above, each carved with a different expression—some cheerful, some wicked. The ceiling had been bewitched to reflect a cloudy twilight sky lit by a pale, glowing moon. Plates shimmered into view on the tables, filled with roasted meats, mashed potatoes, treacle tarts, and candy apples wrapped in golden sugar.

Lyra slid into her usual seat beside Gemma, with Graham and Rhys across from them. Terrence was already there, mid-conversation with Flint about some new Cleansweep model.

“Honestly,” Gemma muttered as she filled her goblet with pumpkin juice, “it should be illegal to smell this good in a place where we still have essays to write.”

“You say that like you’ve started yours,” Lyra said.

Gemma huffed and bit into a roll.

Further down the table, Draco was surrounded by a cluster of first years, bragging animatedly about something that involved Filch and Peeves. Lyra glanced at him, raised an eyebrow when he looked her way, and gave a subtle nod that was equal parts ‘I’m watching you’ and ‘behave.’ He nodded back, a bit too quickly.

“Terrence, pass the gravy before Rhys drinks it straight,” Lyra said without looking.

The feast carried on in good spirits, with laughter and the occasional enchanted bat swooping low overhead. For a brief while, everything felt light and easy—until the doors to the Great Hall banged open with a loud CRASH.

Professor Quirrell stood in the doorway, his turban askew and his face pale as parchment. "T-Troll—in the dungeons!" he gasped, clutching the doorframe for support. "Thought you ought to know!"

He swayed dramatically, then collapsed in a heap at the foot of the staff table.

The Hall erupted into chaos. Students shrieked, some leapt to their feet, others looked wildly to the staff table for instruction.

Lyra’s brow furrowed as she stood slowly, gaze flicking from the twitching form of Quirrell to the confused cluster of professors. She didn’t buy the dramatics for a second. The man had been acting suspicious all term.

"Silence!" Dumbledore’s voice boomed across the hall, quieting the students instantly. He rose from his seat, expression grim. "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately."

Gemma and Terrence were already on their feet, herding the Slytherins. Lyra fell in beside them, eyes scanning the hall for Draco, who was already pushing toward the rest of the first years, wide-eyed but unharmed. She caught his gaze and nodded firmly—get moving.

The feast was forgotten. The jack-o’-lanterns still floated cheerfully overhead, oblivious to the sudden fear threading through the students below. As the Slytherins were ushered out, Lyra noted grimly that their dormitories were in the dungeons—exactly where the troll had reportedly been seen. Of course it was. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, instinctively placing herself near the younger students.

By the time they reached the common room, the tension had thickened like fog. Gemma and Terrence directed the younger years to sit along the far wall, their voices calm despite the nervous chattering around them. Lyra stayed near the entrance, listening for any sound in the corridors beyond.

"What if it comes down here?" one of the second-years asked in a trembling voice.

"It won’t," Lyra said firmly. "The professors are handling it. You’re safe."

Still, her eyes never left the door.

Rhys slouched into a chair, arms crossed. "Would be just our luck, though, wouldn’t it? Trolls in the dungeons when we live in them."

Graham had taken up a spot by the fireplace, flipping through the pages of an old Defense text like he wasn’t watching Lyra’s every movement. "If it shows up, we’ve got half a dozen upper-years who know how to duel."

Lyra didn’t answer, but she stood straighter.

They waited in uneasy silence, the fire crackling loud in the otherwise quiet room. Even the portraits seemed to sense the tension—none of them stirred.

The common room door opened and Snape stepped through, his usual scowl in place and a pronounced limp in his stride. The room fell silent immediately.

"The troll has been dealt with," he said curtly, eyes sweeping over the students. "All students are accounted for. Remain in your dormitories until morning. Prefects, ensure order is maintained."

He turned and exited as quickly as he'd come, leaving a wake of relieved murmurs.

Lyra finally let herself breathe, tension sliding off her like water. She crossed the room and dropped into the seat beside Graham. He didn’t say anything—just wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a quiet, reassuring gesture. She leaned into him without a word, eyes still fixed on the door, just in case.

Chapter 5

The castle shifted with the season. November brought colder mornings, with bitter winds howling through the high towers and frost clinging to the edges of stone windows. The chill was bone-deep by the time the first Quidditch match loomed on the calendar.

For Lyra, it meant earlier mornings, layered clothes under her school robes, and an almost obsessive focus on finalizing strategy. As Keeper and captain, every formation ran through her. Her diagrams littered the Slytherin common room tables, and she could often be found muttering about new flight patterns between sips of too-strong tea. Flint and Pucey often bickered during drills, and Warrington still had a tendency to drift off-task mid-flight, but the team had found its rhythm.

The match against Gryffindor was set for the second weekend of November. Snape had warned Lyra earlier in the week, tight-lipped and clearly furious, that McGonagall had bent the rules to place Potter—an untested first year—on the team as Seeker. The news had spread fast, sparking disbelief and frustration among the Slytherin players. First years hadn’t been allowed on House teams in over a century. That McGonagall had made an exception for Potter of all people only stoked Lyra's suspicions. She kept it quiet, but the injustice burned under her skin.

By the time the day of the match arrived, the stadium was packed. Scarves and banners waved through the stands, enchanted with color-changing charms and spark spells. Lyra led her team out onto the pitch with a practiced calm. The crowd roared. Above it all, she spotted familiar heads in the Slytherin section: Gemma, Rhys, and even Draco, bundled in green and silver, cheering animatedly.

The game was intense.

Potter, it turned out, really was a natural—and flying a Nimbus Two Thousand. Lyra’s eyes narrowed the moment she saw it gleaming under him, sleek and absurdly fast. Higgs chased the Snitch with determination, but Potter outmaneuvered him again and again, flying like he’d been born on a broomstick. Even from her post at the goal hoops, Lyra felt the pressure.

She blocked shot after shot from the Gryffindor Chasers, throwing herself into the path of Quaffles like her life depended on it. Flint and Pucey had good coordination, finally managing to run a proper triangle formation, and Montague sent a Bludger whistling past Angelina Johnson’s ear so closely it knocked her out of alignment mid-pass. The score was tight—just thirty points separating them—but the energy on the pitch had shifted.

Then Potter’s broom jerked. Hard.

Lyra noticed it before anyone else. One moment he was climbing after the Snitch, and the next he was spiraling, arms flailing, barely clinging to the handle. For a second, she thought it was a miscalculation—nerves maybe—but then it happened again. The broom bucked violently. Potter was barely hanging on.

People in the stands were shouting. Higgs halted mid-flight to stare. Flint flew off course.

“What’s wrong with his broom?” Lyra barked to no one in particular, eyes scanning the stands.

It wasn’t just bad flying—someone was tampering with it.

Snape had risen to his feet in the staff box, and beside him, Quirrell looked faint. A ripple of tension passed through the crowd.

Then suddenly—Potter leveled out.

The broom stopped jerking. He straightened up, shot off after the Snitch again, and this time, made the dive. Lyra barely had time to curse before he was streaking past Higgs and hurtling toward the ground like a missile. For a heartbeat, she thought he’d lost control—then he pulled up sharply, tumbling forward in midair with his hand clutched to his mouth. The Snitch was stuck between his lips.

Cheers erupted from the Gryffindor stands. The whistle blew.

"He didn’t catch it," Montague spat as they flew back toward the ground. "He nearly swallowed it."

"Still counts," Lyra muttered, dismounting with her jaw tight. Her gloves creaked as she pulled them off, fingers trembling with the adrenaline of a lost match.

It stung. But worse than losing was the look on Snape’s face from the staff box—disappointed but unsurprised.

Back in the common room, the mood was sour.

Flint paced. Montague brooded. Lyra sat with a towel draped around her shoulders, hair still damp from a quick shower, and watched the fire crackle. Graham dropped beside her on the couch and passed her a chocolate frog without a word.

"He had a damn Nimbus," Lyra muttered.

"He also had guts," Graham said, his tone even.

She glanced at him, a little surprised. "You’re defending him now?"

"I’m not saying I like him. Just saying... he played well."

Lyra exhaled through her nose and let herself lean into his side, the exhaustion finally creeping in. "We’ll win the next one."

"Course we will," he murmured, arm settling across the back of the couch, his fingers just brushing her shoulder.

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

The weeks that followed passed in a haze of cold weather, heavier coursework, and mounting holiday chatter. Hogwarts grew cozier with the approach of December. Wreaths began to appear along the corridors, and the fireplaces were never without flame.

Lyra managed to balance Quidditch training and academics, though Ancient Runes was the only subject that felt remotely rewarding. Snape continued to stalk the corridors like an over-caffeinated bat, and Quirrell remained as useless as ever.

In between classes, Lyra and Graham grew closer. He walked her back from practice, sometimes offering quiet critiques on her defensive strategies or teasing her when she overanalyzed drills. They studied together in tucked-away corners of the library, exchanging quips between notes, and Graham had a habit of slipping her extra ink when her quills ran dry. Whenever Penelope Clearwater passed by, Graham never missed a chance to mutter a sly remark under his breath, earning a barely-hidden smirk from Lyra.

Penny had taken to glaring at Lyra for reasons no one dared speak aloud—though it was hardly subtle. The rivalry had started years ago, but lately, it had sharpened. Penny, a proud Muggle-born and Ravenclaw prefect, despised how Lyra always seemed to get away with bending the rules. She saw Lyra's Lestrange surname as a ticking time bomb, convinced she'd eventually go mad just like her mother. Lyra didn't hate Muggle-borns—she hated Penelope Clearwater, specifically. The girl was insufferably self-righteous, constantly on patrol, and far too smug about her place beside Percy Weasley.

Percy, for his part, had a hopeless crush on Lyra. Everyone saw it. He always lingered too long, asked too many questions, and turned pink when she was nearby. Lyra remained politely cold, never encouraging him, but Penny's jealousy simmered all the same. Gemma found it all hilarious, often egging Penny on with casual digs that Lyra never acknowledged.

By mid-December, the castle was dusted in snow, and the holiday break approached. Most of the school prepared to head home. Lyra planned to leave with Draco, both of them returning to Malfoy Manor for Christmas. They stood in the Entrance Hall on the final morning, trunks packed and scarves wrapped tight.

Draco was still talking about the next term’s Potions lessons, trying to guess what Snape might cover. Lyra let him ramble, offering the occasional nod as they waited for the carriages to take them to Hogsmeade Station. Graham caught her eye from across the hall, his expression unreadable.

She lifted a hand in a quiet wave. He gave a short nod.

The doors opened to a world of white. Snow coated the ground in a thick, clean sheet, and the air was sharp with winter bite. As the carriages rolled up, pulled by thestrals only Lyra could see, she reached for Draco's arm.

The train ride back was far less hectic than the journey to Hogwarts months earlier. The students bundled in layers, laughing and shoving trunks up into the overhead racks as the train whistled and pulled away from the station. Lyra and Draco sat in a quieter compartment near the back, away from the younger years. He dozed off halfway through, head against the window, while Lyra leaned into the corner, flipping through a worn copy of Advanced Defensive Magic: Volume III.

Halfway through the trip, Graham passed their compartment and paused. He tapped on the glass, and Lyra slid the door open just enough.

“See you after break?” he asked, voice casual.

She nodded. “Try not to die of boredom.”

He smirked and moved on, the door clicking shut.

Across from her, Draco stirred. “You and Montague are getting serious.”

Lyra didn’t look up. “What’s it to you?”

Draco leaned back with a satisfied little smirk. “Just noticing, is all. He’s been hovering like a shadow since October.”

“He’s on the team,” she said, eyes still on the book in her lap. “We see a lot of each other.”

Draco hummed. “Still. Doesn’t mean he needs to loiter around every time you breathe.”

Lyra snapped the book shut and finally met his eyes. “You’re just mad he calls you 'Drake' to annoy you.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “It’s an idiotic nickname.”

“Then stop reacting like a child every time he uses it.”

“I am a child,” he said smugly, “and proud of it.”

Lyra rolled her eyes but her mouth twitched at the corners. “You’re insufferable.”

“Takes one to know one,” Draco shot back, smug as ever.

She didn’t argue that.

Chapter 6

Snow still clung to the rooftops when the train finally pulled into King’s Cross. The walk through the barrier was quieter than usual—no chatter from first years, no excitement humming in the air. Lyra stepped onto the Muggle side of the station and pulled her coat tighter, the wool gloves Narcissa had sent her last winter already tugged snug around her fingers.

Lucius and Narcissa waited by the edge of the crowd, both dressed impeccably and standing apart from the bustle of the platform. Narcissa offered a rare, soft smile as Lyra approached.

“You look cold,” she said, smoothing Lyra’s scarf.

“Because I am,” Lyra replied dryly. “Your son spent half the ride home snoring against the window.”

Draco, dragging his trunk behind him, gave her a withering look. “I was resting.”

“Like the dead,” Lyra muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Lucius gave her a long, appraising look. “Trouble on the train?”

“No more than usual,” she said sweetly. “Though if anyone else calls me Lestrange’s heir in the corridors again, I may start hexing on principle.”

Lucius didn’t smile, but his approval was clear. “Only if they deserve it.”

“Lucy,” she said with mock sweetness.

He flinched. “Do not call me that.”

“Then don’t act like a Lucy.”

Narcissa looked between the two of them and sighed. “You’ll both be the death of me.”

Back at the manor, the wards shimmered around them as they stepped through the gates. The Malfoy house-elves had lit the fireplaces and set the tree up in the drawing room. There was spiced tea waiting and the scent of pine and cinnamon in the air. Lyra dropped her trunk at the base of the stairs and wandered the familiar halls, her fingers brushing the edge of a tapestry.

Christmas at Malfoy Manor was always cold in a way the fire couldn’t touch. Still, the house had a rhythm, and Narcissa made it livable. There would be formal dinners, long afternoons with nothing but books and a chessboard, and perhaps a visit to Diagon Alley if Lyra asked nicely.

It wasn’t warm—but it was predictable. And right now, that was enough.

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

Two days into the break, Narcissa took Lyra into Diagon Alley.

They bundled up before stepping through the Floo, emerging at the Leaky Cauldron with a small puff of ash and a flick of Narcissa’s wand to smooth Lyra’s coat. The alley was bustling, shoppers crisscrossing between the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies and Madam Malkin’s, light snow drifting lazily from the enchanted sky.

“You’ve got a list?” Narcissa asked, tugging her gloves tighter.

“Something like that,” Lyra said, adjusting her scarf. She had gifts to find. She wanted something useful but personal, and she wasn’t going to settle for standard Sugarplum's fare.

They started with Flourish and Blotts. Lyra found an annotated Runes text for Gemma and a slim enchanted atlas for Rhys that could shift its maps to display magical hotspots across the world. She hesitated longer for Terrence before settling on a custom-polished broom servicing kit—functional and elegant.

“Are you going to tell me which boy gets the soft velvet bag you’ve hidden behind your back?” Narcissa asked idly as they stepped out of the shop.

Lyra shot her a look. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re obvious.”

The bag in question contained a hand-stitched leather Quidditch gear pouch—custom ordered weeks ago from a small artisan shop in Diagon Alley. Lyra had chosen the leather herself, deep charcoal with subtle green threading, and requested interior compartments tailored to Graham’s usual mess of gear. It was enchanted with a featherweight charm and lined with a soft protective fabric to keep everything from smashing together mid-travel. She even had a discreet serpent crest embossed inside the flap—not a bold Slytherin sigil, but something only someone really looking would notice. It had taken thought, time, and more effort than she cared to admit. But he’d use it, and he’d like it. That was enough.

They turned onto the main thoroughfare, weaving past carolers and enchanted snowflakes. That’s when Lyra saw them—Tonks, unmistakable with her pink hair, walking arm-in-arm with a woman Lyra recognized from photographs.

Andromeda.

Narcissa stiffened instantly.

Tonks spotted them too and paused, her expression unreadable. Andromeda’s lips thinned, and she guided Tonks gently past.

No words were exchanged.

Lyra’s hand curled slightly into a fist—not in anger, but restraint. She had no quarrel with Tonks or Andromeda; if anything, she understood the urge to break free from the pure-blood pretense. But they all played their roles. Andromeda had been disowned, Tonks walked a line too thin to acknowledge anything openly, and Lyra, daughter of a name whispered like a curse, could not risk acknowledging kin that technically no longer existed. Narcissa didn’t speak, didn’t flinch—but Lyra caught the soft sadness that flickered and was gone just as fast.

Narcissa exhaled slowly. “Let’s finish up. You’ll want time to wrap.”

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

Christmas Eve passed in relative calm. Dinner was formal, held in the grand dining hall under the flickering light of enchanted candles that floated above the table. Lucius sat at the head, his expression cool and unreadable as ever, while Narcissa, poised and serene in a green velvet gown, gently steered conversation away from politics and tension. Draco sat straight-backed and alert, clearly trying to project his best impression of their father, though he fidgeted with his cufflinks between bites.

Lyra wore black trimmed with silver, her posture perfect, every inch the composed pure-blood heiress she was expected to be. The menu was elaborate—roast duck with spiced glaze, truffle-laced potatoes, enchanted winter vegetables that shimmered faintly with frost charms, and dessert tarts that melted to sugared mist on the tongue.

They spoke of school, Quidditch, and holiday reading lists. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but there were moments when Lyra caught the faintest thread of something close to comfort—Narcissa’s soft correction of Draco’s table posture, the flicker of amusement in Lucius’s eyes when Lyra recounted Rhys’s latest spell mishap. It was distant, but familiar. A ritual of civility dressed up as holiday tradition.

Later in the evening, the family retreated to the drawing room, where a second fire had been lit and a silver tea service laid out on the low table. Lucius read the Prophet in his favorite armchair, occasionally making dry remarks about Ministry ineptitude. Narcissa sipped a sherry while discussing the latest art acquisitions with Lyra. Draco eventually slipped away to examine the enchanted miniature of the Montrose Magpies Narcissa had gifted him.

Lyra settled on the couch with a book she hadn’t read since third year, half-listening to the quiet domestic rhythm of it all. There was comfort in the predictability it was the same measured, polite, rehearsed feel that it always was. But beneath it was something that felt almost fragile, as though no one dared speak too loudly for fear the peace might crack.

She stayed up later than intended, watching the fire flicker low.

 

The next morning dawned quieter than usual. A dusting of snow coated the windowpanes, and the manor’s corridors seemed hushed, expectant. Lyra woke to the scent of cinnamon and clove drifting in from the kitchen hearths. She pulled on her robe and padded down the marble hallway, the chill seeping through the soles of her slippers.

Gifts were already arranged beneath the tree—neat piles with gold foil name tags penned in Narcissa’s elegant hand. Draco, already up, tore through his packages with poorly contained glee, exclaiming over a new set of enchanted Gobstones and a pair of Italian leather boots polished to a mirror sheen. Narcissa looked on, smiling faintly over her tea.

Lucius handed Lyra her first gift with a nod. “From the estate vault.”

Inside was a silver-embossed book of ancient defensive hexes, its pages lined with protective charms. Old magic, steeped in traditions passed through generations. She inclined her head with practiced gratitude.

Narcissa’s gifts were more personal: a bottle of enchanted ink that changed hue based on the spellwork written with it, and a set of bath oils from a niche apothecary in Bruges. Thoughtful, elegant, and exactly what Lyra had expected.

When it came time for her to hand out her gifts, she hesitated only slightly. She gave Draco a sleek, magically locking potion kit, it was useful, and something he’d been eyeing in the catalogue. Her gifts for her friends had already been sent by owl last night.

Gemma had sent her a green silk bookmark stitched with the Slytherin crest—handmade, with the slightly uneven threading that proved it wasn’t charmed into perfection. Rhys had sent a charmed quill that never ran out of ink but had the annoying habit of doodling rude sketches if left idle too long. Terrence’s gift had come with no note: a tiny enchanted hourglass that flipped itself when she needed to take a break from studying. It was strangely thoughtful.

Graham’s package had arrived last, the brown paper wrapping precise, almost military. Inside had been a new pair of Keeper’s gloves—deep green leather with reinforced padding and subtle runes sewn into the seams for better grip. But it wasn’t just the gloves. Tucked inside the left one was a note, folded tight: 'You won’t be able to block anything with worn-out palms. Consider it self-preservation. —G.'

Lyra had smiled before she could stop herself.

"New gloves?" Lucius asked from behind his copy of the Prophet, tone mild but pointed.

Lyra didn’t flinch. "Yes. Quidditch ones. My old pair was falling apart."

"And from whom?" Narcissa asked, folding her hands in her lap with an air of polite curiosity.

"A friend," Lyra said smoothly, but her ears burned. She refused to look up.

Draco, lounging too casually nearby, didn’t miss a beat. "It was Montague. He sent them with a note and everything. Looked like he'd measured her hands himself."

Lyra shot him a sharp look. "Thank you, Draco, for your insightful commentary."

Lucius’s brows lifted slightly over the edge of his paper. "Montague... the Beater?"

"He’s on the team," Lyra said, keeping her tone even. "And he’s useful."

"Useful," Narcissa repeated, sipping her tea. "Interesting choice of word."

"It’s just gloves," Lyra muttered.

Draco smirked, clearly enjoying himself. "With enchantments. And his initials on the tag."

Lucius lowered his paper, regarding her with something unreadable in his eyes. "If it becomes anything more, you’ll let us know."

"There’s nothing to report," Lyra said quickly. "We’re teammates. Friends."

"Mm," Narcissa said. "For now."

Lyra stood, brushing non-existent lint from her sleeves. "I’m going to go check on the post. Maybe the school owls got lost in the snow."

Draco’s laughter followed her out of the room.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Here is the next chapter, more coming soon. Check of the Prequel I posted finally. Let me know what you think!

The air inside King’s Cross was stuffy and too warm for winter coats. Lyra didn’t bother removing hers. The sooner she was on the train and away from the polite tension of Malfoy family goodbyes, the better.

Draco trailed behind her, dragging his trunk with the same level of effort he applied to most physical tasks—minimal, with maximum complaint.

“This one’s heavier,” he muttered, glaring at the handle. “I think someone switched trunks.”

“It’s yours,” Lyra said, not slowing. “You just packed like you were fleeing the country.”

“I brought one extra pair of boots.”

“You brought five.”

He huffed, but didn’t deny it.

They crossed through the barrier at a quick pace and emerged onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The familiar bustle of trunks, cats, and steam greeted them. Parents were giving last-minute instructions, first-years clutched ticket stubs, and the scarlet train stood gleaming against the platform edge, already half-boarded.

Narcissa and Lucius didn’t follow. Lucius had given a nod at the barrier, and Narcissa a hand briefly on Lyra’s shoulder—warm, then gone.

Lyra didn’t look back.

She found a compartment near the rear, slid the door open, and lifted her trunk into the rack in one practiced motion. Her cloak was still buttoned to the neck when Graham arrived.

“You’re early,” he said, setting his bag beside hers.

“I left before Draco could start a monologue.”

“That’s fair.”

He took the seat across from her without asking, as usual. The train hadn’t started moving yet, but the compartment already felt separate—quiet, closed-off. Familiar.

“Sleep at all?” he asked after a moment.

“Barely.”

She wasn’t trying to be evasive. She just didn’t want to talk about it. The holidays had been what they always were—dinners with hidden meaning, questions she didn’t answer, and nights alone with dreams she couldn’t shake. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch anymore. But she never really rested, either.

Rodolphus lived in her memory like a splinter. Sharp. Deep. And always shifting when she tried to forget he was there.

Graham didn’t push. Just leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs out like he owned the place.

“At least we’re heading back somewhere with decent tea.”

“Flimsy standards,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He grinned. “You’ll protect me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

But her voice had softened a little. Just enough to be noticed.

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

The return to Hogwarts was marked by freezing wind and impatient prefects waving first-years toward the carriages. One had broken a wheel and spilled trunks everywhere. Draco was yelling at someone about the proper treatment of owl cages, while Gemma looked about five minutes from drawing her wand on a fourth-year blocking the path.

By the time they reached the common room, Lyra’s hair was damp from snowmelt and she could barely feel her fingertips.

It was a relief to walk through the stone archway and find everything exactly where it should be. No one had moved the chairs. The fire was lit. The low green glow shimmered across the water-veined walls like it always did.

Gemma was reading in the corner. Rhys and Terrence were setting up for a game of exploding snap on the floor. Someone had left a tea tray out—lukewarm already, but Lyra didn’t care.

She dropped her trunk near the couch and slumped into the cushions. Graham took the space beside her without asking, again. This time, his thigh brushed hers when he sat.

“You don’t have to be attached to my hip,” she muttered, tugging off her gloves.

“I’m not,” he said easily. “Just closer to the tea.”

She rolled her eyes and passed him a mug. He didn’t drink it.

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

Classes resumed without fanfare. Lyra’s first morning back began with Potions, which she approached the same way she approached war—carefully, and with the understanding that there would be casualties.

She arrived early, set her cauldron precisely, and pretended she didn’t hear Graham humming behind her while measuring ingredients.

Snape didn’t acknowledge her when he entered, but he stopped at her table halfway through the lesson, eyes flicking to the soft, even simmer of her brew. He said nothing. Just kept walking.

Lyra stared down at her potion. It was perfect.

She hated that.

Next was Runes, which at least required focus. The familiar scratches of translated Icelandic stanzas gave her something to anchor to—tight symmetry, clear rules, no space for guessing. Graham sat beside her, quill tapping rhythmically against the side of his inkpot.

“You’re double-spacing again,” he murmured.

“That’s how she wants it.”

“She told me to single-space.”

“She likes me better.”

He gave a short huff, half amusement, half challenge. His notes were messy. He’d copied her heading and underlined the wrong word. She didn’t correct him.

But she noticed.

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

Quirrell’s classroom smelled like mildew and ink.

His stutter had worsened over the holidays, to the point where he barely managed a greeting before launching into a painfully slow explanation of hex deflection theory. Lyra took notes carefully, even though the pace made her want to scream.

At one point, Quirrell dropped a stack of parchments and turned a shade of grey that suggested he might actually faint. No one offered to help.

“He’s not going to last the term,” Graham murmured under his breath.

“I told you,” Lyra replied. “He’ll crack by February.”

Gemma, seated on her other side, leaned in. “And when he does, I’m claiming his office for a nap room.”

“Get in line,” said Rhys.

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

Later that evening, Lyra sat near the fire in the common room, her Defense notes spread across her lap, ink drying neatly in tight, steady lines. A half-filled pot of tea sat on the table beside her, long gone lukewarm. She hadn’t touched it in half an hour.

She was tired. She hadn’t slept properly in days.

Sometimes it was just restlessness. Sometimes it was memory. Her body still remembered how to brace for spells in the dark, how to stay small and quiet and still. Rodolphus had left his mark in more ways than one. She didn’t speak about it. Not to anyone. Certainly not to Graham.

He dropped onto the couch across from her with a book in hand, flipping it open without a word. One leg stretched out toward the fire. His foot tapped lightly against the table leg.

“You’re still awake,” he said eventually.

Lyra didn’t look up. “Working.”

“You’ve been reading that same paragraph for five minutes.”

“I’m reviewing.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

Graham set the book down. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her quill paused just above the margin. Then she dipped it again, wrote a line, and said, without looking at him, “I know what happens when I don’t.”

He watched her for a second longer than she liked.

Then, lightly, “Don’t forget we’ve got Quidditch tomorrow.”

“I scheduled it,” she said. “I know.”

“I’ll be there early.”

“I expect you to be.”

His mouth twitched—half amusement, half something harder to name. “Yes, Captain.”

She didn’t smile, but her shoulders dropped the slightest bit.

Across the room, Terrence and Gemma returned from patrol, their cloaks dusted with ash from the torchlit corridors. Gemma yawned without apology, then nodded once at Lyra before disappearing toward the dorms. Terrence said something under his breath to Rhys and received a cushion to the face in return.

Lyra made one last note in the margin of her Defense page and closed the book gently.

She didn’t say anything else. Neither did Graham.

The fire burned low. And the quiet—for once—didn’t feel like something she needed to escape.

Notes:

Let me know if you have any thoughts or suggestions, I am open to hwat yall have to say!

Chapter 8

The pitch was frozen solid beneath a thin layer of frost, slick enough that Lyra didn’t bother walking across it—she just mounted her broom the second she cleared the equipment shed. The crates were already waiting, spells undone, gear exposed to the cold like bones.

She tugged her gloves on—green leather, spelled to resist wind and slick. They fit perfectly. Graham had gotten the sizing right without asking. She hated how much she liked them.

He arrived two minutes later, carrying his new Quidditch bag over one shoulder, the one she’d given him for Christmas. The embroidery—simple, sharp silver on dark green—caught the early morning light as he dropped it on the bench beside the equipment trunk.

“You beat me here,” he said, pulling his beater’s bat from the side pocket.

“You’re not usually late,” she replied. “I was starting to worry.”

He gave her a look. “I was walking behind a group of Ravenclaw second-years who thought they were inventing snow.”

“Sounds educational.”

“Sounds like a hazard.”

She mounted her broom again and kicked off. Above the pitch, the air was clearer. The castle loomed behind them, quiet and grey, windows still dark in the dormitory wings. She turned once, slowly, surveying the sky and the grounds. Then she dropped back down as the rest of the team began to arrive.

Terrence came first, gloves already on and eyes half-closed. Flint and Pucey followed together, Flint yawning like it was a personal statement. Bletchley—older, colder, and perpetually unimpressed—landed near the crates without a word. Warrington trailed in last, dragging his boots as though he expected applause for showing up at all.

“All right,” Lyra said once everyone had assembled. “Stretch, gear up, then formation warm-up. After that we’re running the side loop pattern again—yes, Flint, again—and no one leaves until we hit clean transitions for fifteen uninterrupted minutes.”

Flint groaned audibly.

“You can run laps instead,” Lyra offered.

He shut up.

The team split off to their routines. Lyra hovered, correcting spacing when needed, snapping at Pucey for slacking on his back passes, and calling out timing errors with the same sharp precision she always used. She didn’t believe in starting slow. They didn’t have time for it.

Ravenclaw was next, and their new Chaser had hands like a cursebreaker. Lyra had already watched the footage from their last game on her omniocluars twice. She knew what they were walking into.

Halfway through the second drill, Graham cut across the formation too tightly, flying close enough that Flint had to pull up short to avoid a collision. The Quaffle veered wide, and the pattern broke.

Lyra blew her whistle once, sharp and loud.

“Stop there. Reset the line.”

Graham looped back around slowly. “It was a clean pass.”

“You weren’t in position,” Lyra replied. “You cut into the lane and threw off the rhythm.”

“I was managing the left side spacing.”

“You weren’t supposed to be there at all during that rotation.”

He didn’t argue outright, but the look he gave her was edging toward defiant—half-smile, all challenge.

“We’re not improvising,” she said. “Again. Stick to your role this time.”

He gave a lazy salute with the end of his bat and returned to formation.

The next run went better. Not perfect, but clean enough to continue. Still, Lyra made a note to run precision drills with the Beaters next session. She didn’t care how experienced Graham thought he was—he didn’t set the rhythm. She did.

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

Lyra barely made it back in time for Advanced Transfiguration. Her hands still smelled faintly of broom wax, and her hair was damp from the cold, but McGonagall didn’t blink when she slid into her seat. Graham took the one beside her, shaking snow out of his sleeves like it owed him money.

They started in on object-to-animal transfigurations. Complex, unstable, prone to unpredictable side effects if the wandwork wasn’t tight. Most of the class struggled. Lyra didn’t. She’d practiced this sequence twice over the break—not out of obsession, just habit.

Graham kept sneaking glances at her parchment during the lesson, copying the layout of her spell structure but adjusting the glyphs slightly. She didn’t stop him. She just made her own margin notes more specific.

“You enjoy this too much,” he said afterward as they packed up.

“I’m good at it.”

“I said enjoy.”

Lyra rolled the scroll and tucked it into her bag. “It doesn’t have to be fun to be worth doing.”

“You and Snape should write poetry together.”

She gave him a bland look. “I already edit his drafts.”

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

By evening, the castle had settled into its usual winter hush. The dungeons were cold as ever, though the common room fire burned high. Gemma sat curled in an armchair with a parchment of patrol schedules spread across her lap, quill behind one ear. Terrence had just returned from his Astronomy shift and was recounting a tale of a first-year getting stuck behind the observatory doors with no shoes on.

“You’d think the stars were worth frostbite,” he muttered, accepting a mug from the tea tray.

“They’re not,” Gemma said without looking up. “But the gossip is.”

Lyra passed behind them, carrying her Runes texts to the table near the hearth. She’d been assigned a particularly dense translation involving layered northern dialects and she intended to finish it before breakfast. Her quill scratched steadily across the parchment, precise and fluid. Graham joined her again, uninvited but expected, book in hand, fresh ink on his fingers.

“Do you think you’re subtle?” she asked after a few minutes.

He didn’t glance up. “Never claimed to be.”

“You keep showing up like you’re on patrol.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You’re not a prefect.”

“I’m auditing the position.”

Lyra sighed and kept writing. “You’re not getting the badge.”

He leaned back, tapping the edge of his book. “Fine. I’ll just take over the team.”

“You’ll try.”

That made him smile, sharp-edged and amused. He liked her like this—focused, tired, still unwilling to lose.

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

That night, she didn’t even bother pretending she’d sleep.

She sat awake in bed long after the torches outside the dorm had gone dim, the hangings drawn tight around her mattress, her jaw locked, fists clenched beneath the blanket.

The nightmares had been worse lately. She hadn’t had them like this in years—not in this frequency, not with this sharpness. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of green light, felt the pressure of Rodolphus’s grip on her wrist, heard the cold, bored sound of his voice echoing from across the room.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

But she did sit awake long enough to feel the ache in her spine from staying too tense too long. And she hated not knowing why now—why they were clawing their way back to the surface after staying buried for so long.

Eventually, she slipped from bed and crossed the common room barefoot, robes wrapped tight. She sat by the lake window and stared out at the dark water.

She didn’t move until the green shimmer faded into grey.

Chapter 9

Lyra was three inches into an Ancient Runes translation when Graham dropped a heavy thud of books beside her.

She didn’t look up.

“You know,” he said, folding himself onto the bench across from her, “normal people take breaks.”

She kept her quill moving. “Normal people fail N.E.W.T.s.”

“You’re two weeks ahead on this essay.”

“I’m revising the thesis.”

“It’s already good.”

“I don’t care.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just leaned back, watching her handwriting scroll neatly across the page. Then, too casually, he said, “I could help.”

“With what?”

“Structure. Argument flow. Or I could read it, clean it up. Whatever.”

She finally looked up.

“I don’t pass off my work.”

His mouth pulled into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I didn’t say you should.”

“You implied it.”

“I said I’d help.”

“You don’t need to.”

His hands were folded in front of him now, arms resting on the edge of the table like he was setting up for a duel. “That wasn’t the point.”

She stared at him, calm and unreadable. “Then what was?”

He didn’t answer. Not properly. Just tapped his fingers against the wood twice before getting up again, not quite abrupt—but not smooth either.

When he left, he didn’t take the books with him.

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

Charms went long. Professor Flitwick was in a mood about precision, and half the class couldn’t manage the enchantment without turning their project objects inside out. Lyra completed hers on the second try, then spent the rest of the period fine-tuning a completely unnecessary variation.

Flitwick noticed.

“Very tidy, Miss Lestrange,” he said as he passed her desk. “Your calibration is nearly perfect.”

She nodded once, not looking up from her notes.

She didn’t need praise. She needed silence.

After class, Lyra caught sight of Draco leading a cluster of first-years down the corridor, talking animatedly and gesturing with one hand while the other kept his bag slung neatly over one shoulder. He looked entirely self-assured, chin tilted, stride just slightly ahead of the others.

Typical.

She didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need anything—and if he did, he’d be loud about it.

But she watched until he disappeared around the corner, then kept walking.

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

That evening, she didn’t sit near the fire. She took her books to the far side of the common room and carved out a corner of space beneath one of the low stone alcoves. The green-glass lamps cast soft, warped light over the parchment. Her eyes ached, but her quill didn’t slow.

Gemma passed by once and gave a brief, approving nod. She didn’t stop.

Terrence was off on patrol. Bletchley was nowhere to be seen. She liked the quiet.

When Graham entered, he looked toward his usual seat near the hearth, then scanned the room until he found her. He hesitated—just for a second—before joining her.

“You moved.”

“Clearly.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I wasn’t aware I had to.”

He settled opposite her again. This time he didn’t speak. Just watched her write, gaze flicking between her face and the page. At one point, his fingers brushed the edge of her notes. She moved them out of reach without a word.

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

She went to bed late. Not because she wanted to, but because her eyelids wouldn’t stay open anymore.

The dorm was quiet. She slipped beneath her blankets, wrapped herself tightly, and shut her eyes.

The dream came fast.

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

She’s in the drawing room again.

Winter. Firelight flickering. Everything too clean, too quiet. The rug beneath her knees is soaked. She doesn’t know with what.

Rodolphus is standing by the fireplace. He hasn’t turned around yet.

“You’re going to disappoint him,” he says.

His voice is casual. Cold. The kind that slices before you even feel the cut.

Lyra’s hands are trembling. She doesn’t know where her wand is.

“Stand up.”

She doesn’t move.

“Stand up, girl.”

She rises slowly. Her legs feel heavy, like they don’t quite belong to her.

When he turns, he’s holding something—a small silver object. A pocketwatch, maybe. It clicks softly between his fingers.

“You think cleverness will save you?” he asks, stepping closer. “You think that makes you safe?”

“I haven’t done anything,” she hears herself say, but the voice is too young, too thin. It doesn’t sound like her anymore.

His hand shoots out and grabs her wrist.

Her knees buckle, but she doesn’t fall. She doesn’t scream. She just freezes.

“You don’t get to have a future,” he murmurs, leaning in so close she can smell the ash on his robes. “You were born with chains.”

The silver object presses into her cheek. It burns.

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

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

She woke up with her throat dry and her hands clenched so tightly around the sheets that her knuckles had gone white.

The room was still. Silent. The other girls’ breathing was steady in the dark.

She didn’t move for a long time. Her jaw ached from how tightly it had locked.

The dreams were getting louder again, dragging her back into memories she’d spent years teaching herself how to bury. And this time, they weren’t fading when she woke.

She lay there, fists still curled in the blankets, staring up at the canopy above her bed.

Something was shifting.

And she hated that she couldn’t name it.

Chapter 10

By breakfast, the Great Hall was already humming.

Even the enchanted ceiling seemed brighter. The sun hadn’t shown itself in days, but the sky above the four long tables was a soft, eager silver—the kind of light that promised something worth watching.

Lyra barely touched her toast. Her gloves sat folded beside her pumpkin juice, freshly conditioned and laced up tight. Her gaze tracked the length of the Slytherin table, eyes moving from Flint’s fifth helping of eggs to Bletchley’s perfectly polished boots, then to Graham, who was leaning back with his arm slung lazily over the bench behind Adrian Pucey.

He caught her looking and raised his eyebrows, all mock innocence.

She didn’t return it.

“Ready?” Gemma asked from beside her, sipping coffee and scanning the front page of the Prophet.

“I’ve been ready since Wednesday,” Lyra muttered. “They’re not taking this game seriously.”

“They will,” Gemma said. “Once you start screaming at them midair.”

Lyra gave a tight smile and stood. “Good.”

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

The locker room smelled like leather, turf, and whatever potion Flint had dumped on his gloves to make them “bite better.” Lyra didn’t ask. She had other things to deal with.

“Listen up,” she said, standing in front of the bench line. “Stretton’s fast, but he favors his right side when he crosses. If he tries to double-loop, Bletchley—you shift under him and take the high angle. If they go into a triple pass stack, I want Pucey running tight and low. Flint, stay wide. Do not chase it out of zone again.”

“I didn’t last time—”

“You did. You always do.”

She turned to Terrence last. “Wait it out. Ravenclaw likes flash, but they overreach. If you’re patient, you’ll see the pattern.”

He gave a single nod. No theatrics. Just readiness.

That was why he was Seeker.

Lyra tugged on her gloves last, fingers pressing deep into the leather. Graham reached for his bat and the strap on his bag, the new one she’d picked out herself. He didn’t say anything. Just stood, rolled his shoulders once, and followed her toward the tunnel.

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

The pitch exploded in sound as they stepped into the sunlight.

Students packed the stands on all sides, green and blue banners whipping in the wind, scarves flaring, voices already raw from shouting. Above it all, Madam Hooch floated at mid-pitch, broom level, whistle at the ready.

Lyra mounted her broom and rose.

The wind hit her immediately, sharp and biting, but she didn’t feel it. Not through the weight of focus settling over her. The pitch stretched wide beneath her, the goals glinting at either end, the crowd a dull roar behind the shield of her thoughts.

She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t get nervous. She got precise.

Madam Hooch’s whistle blew.

The balls were released. The match began.

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

The first fifteen minutes ran clean.

Flint pulled off a narrow intercept against Ravenclaw’s left Chaser, and Warrington got off two solid assists before the Quaffle slipped from Pucey’s grip on a long curve.

Lyra caught it easily—tight dive, quick palm, clean clearance.

The stands erupted. She didn’t acknowledge them.

She tracked every movement with surgical focus. Her broom responded like an extension of her hands, curves smooth, tilts sharp. Every block was a decision made half a second before anyone else could think to act.

Ravenclaw adjusted. Hard.

Jeremy Stretton broke formation and started running a zigzag pattern through midfield that forced Pucey and Warrington wide, pulling them away from the target zone. The Chasers looped—once, twice—then passed back across field.

Stretton took the Quaffle, doubled back, and faked a shot left.

Lyra caught the faint shift in his shoulder and pivoted. He twisted midair and snapped a shot toward the right ring.

She blocked it with her forearm, pain sparking on impact.

“Nice try,” she muttered.

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

By the thirty-minute mark, the score was 40–10, Slytherin.

Ravenclaw had only managed one goal—Stretton, again—on a high shot that nearly scraped the rim. Lyra had gone too low on the initial dive. It didn’t happen again.

She was locked in.

Until she saw Graham.

He wasn’t doing anything unusual. Not exactly. But he’d drifted closer to her end than normal, under the pretense of covering a Bludger—except his eyes weren’t on the ball.

They were on her.

He tilted his bat over one shoulder and gave her a look. Not flirtatious. Not playful. But intent.

She narrowed her eyes.

That was all it took. A split-second lapse in her attention.

Stretton slipped past Flint with a brutal shoulder feint, ducked a swing from Bletchley, and shot high again.

Lyra lunged—

Too late.

The Quaffle sailed in clean.

40–20.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t curse. Just circled back to her post, breathing hard, jaw tight behind her teeth.

Graham passed her a little too close a minute later.

“You’re slipping,” he said.

“Watch your zone.”

“Always do.”

She didn’t respond.

But she remembered that smirk.

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

The pace of the game ramped up. The wind shifted. Ravenclaw got desperate.

Stretton pulled another two maneuvers that nearly broke through, but Lyra blocked both. She rotated in full extension for the second one—shoulder wrenching, broom tilting nearly vertical—and punched the Quaffle away with both hands.

The crowd roared. She didn’t look at them.

Slytherin put up another two goals—Pucey and Warrington, back-to-back.

60–20.

Then—

Terrence dove.

It was a sharp, ruthless dive, straight down and hard, no faking. The Ravenclaw Seeker scrambled to keep up, but Terrence had the line, the angle, and the acceleration.

Lyra held her breath—

The Snitch flashed gold once.

Terrence’s hand closed around it.

The whistle blew.

Match over.

Slytherin: 210. Ravenclaw: 20.

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

The sound was overwhelming.

Cheers from the green section of the stands. Booing from the blues. Students leaning over the rails, waving scarves, shouting names.

The team swarmed the pitch.

Lyra dropped to the ground and yanked off her gloves. Her hands were raw underneath, but steady.

Bletchley slapped her on the back. Pucey was whooping something about Stretton’s face. Flint and Warrington were doing a half-tackle hug that nearly knocked over Madam Hooch.

Then—

Graham was in front of her.

He didn’t ask.

He just reached out, cupped her face with one gloved hand, and kissed her.

The crowd was still cheering. She could hear them dimly, like sound underwater.

She didn’t move for a second.

She could’ve pulled away.

But she didn’t.

She let it happen. Let him kiss her in front of everyone, team watching, students watching, the whole pitch full of eyes.

And then—slowly—she kissed him back.

Not because she wanted the audience.

Not because it was perfect.

But because in that moment, with her heart still racing from the match and her throat dry from the cold and the chaos of it all pressing close around her—

She just wanted to feel like someone could choose her.

Chapter 11

Graham hadn’t stopped touching her since the match.

Nothing dramatic. Just fingertips at her lower back in the common room, knuckles brushing hers when they walked side by side, the casual way he leaned into her space like he owned a piece of it now.

He hadn’t asked if she was okay with it.

And she hadn’t said anything.

It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t even unexpected. But it sat oddly sometimes, the way his presence hovered. Like a hand just barely resting on her shoulder—comfortable until you noticed it had never moved.

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

Her arm still hurt.

That was easier to explain.

She’d landed hard once during the Ravenclaw match, elbow jarring as she twisted mid-save, but there hadn’t been time to think about it then. It had ached after, and more the next day, but she’d brushed it off. Probably bruised. Probably nothing.

Except it hadn’t stopped hurting. It had gotten worse—tight when she wrote, sharp when she turned it too fast. It throbbed at night, dull and constant.

She would’ve kept ignoring it. She was good at that.

But Gemma noticed.

They were halfway through Ancient Runes when she leaned over and said, low and flat, “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not even gripping your quill properly.”

“I slept on it weird.”

“You did that a week ago?”

Lyra didn’t answer. Just looked at her notes like they might save her.

Gemma closed her book. “Go to the hospital wing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then prove it. Go.”

Lyra glared at her, but it didn’t work.

So, she went just to shut her up.

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

The hospital wing was empty when she got there. Not quiet—Pomfrey’s office door was cracked open, and someone was speaking on the other side—but empty.

Lyra stepped inside and sat on the nearest bed, flexing her fingers a little. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop. She just didn’t have anything else to do.

That’s when she recognized the second voice.

McGonagall.

The door was almost closed, but not quite. Just enough of a gap to see light from inside, a book open on the desk, a teacup sitting off to the side. Their voices were low. Not urgent. Not about work.

Something familiar.

Lyra wasn’t trying to be nosy. She was just watching the light shift behind the door.

Then McGonagall reached for Pomfrey’s hand.

And a moment later, they kissed.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft press of mouths and the kind of quiet closeness Lyra had never really associated with professors. They pulled apart slowly, as if they’d done this a hundred times before and were still surprised it was allowed.

Lyra looked away before they noticed.

She didn’t feel weird about it. Not exactly. Just—

She hadn’t known you could do that.

She’d never really thought about it. Two women, like that. It made sense now, in hindsight. The kind of sense that felt like it had always been true, and she’d just never seen the shape of it before.

The door opened a second later.

Pomfrey stepped out first, all composed and professional again. If she was rattled, it didn’t show.

“Miss Lestrange,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“My arm’s been hurting,” Lyra replied, keeping her tone even. “Since the match.”

McGonagall didn’t say anything, but she lingered in the doorway for a beat longer than she had to.

Pomfrey nodded toward the nearest chair. “Let’s have a look.”

It took maybe thirty seconds for her to find it.

“You broke it,” Pomfrey said, not bothering to soften it.

Lyra blinked. “Really?”

“You’ve been walking around like this for a week?”

“I thought it was just strained.”

“You’ve been playing Quidditch, writing essays, sparring in Defense... with a fractured arm?”

Lyra shrugged. “Didn’t feel that bad.”

Pomfrey gave her a look. Not pity. Something heavier.

“You’re used to this kind of thing, aren’t you?”

Lyra didn’t answer.

Pomfrey didn’t push. She just summoned a vial, handed it over, and said, “Drink this. It’ll reset the bone. Won’t be pleasant.”

Lyra drank it in one go.

The pain was sharp, clean, and brief. Then it dulled.

Pomfrey wrapped the arm in a bandage and tapped it twice with her wand. “It’ll be sore for another day, but it’s healing now. Try not to ignore broken bones in future.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

Pomfrey added, more quietly, “It’s not weakness to ask for help.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

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

On the way back, Lyra thought about the door again.

The kiss. The way it hadn’t shocked her, exactly. Just reframed something. Two witches who cared about each other—that made sense. What didn’t make sense was how she’d never realized it was even allowed. That people could just... feel things like that. Out loud. In public. Without being told it was wrong.

No one had ever said it was wrong—Rodolphus probably would have if he knew she was even thinking about it in passing.

But no one had said it was possible, either.

She kept walking.

The dungeons were quiet when she got back. Graham wasn’t in the common room. Terrence was half-asleep in a chair, and Warrington was trying to convince Pucey to bet on the next match.

Lyra ignored them. Sat down by the fire.

Her arm throbbed under the bandage, but it was the kind of pain that felt distant now. Almost familiar.

She flexed her fingers slowly, one at a time. The movement was stiff but strong.

No one asked where she’d been.

She didn’t mind.

Chapter 12

Her arm still ached when the air dipped too cold, but she didn’t mention it. There were worse things than a dull pull at the joint, and at least now she could write without cramping up halfway through a sentence.

Besides, she had other things on her mind.

Graham, mostly.

He wasn’t obvious about it. Not in the way some boys were. He didn’t bark orders or grab at her or storm off when she didn’t follow along. He just… inserted himself. Into her day, her schedule, her space.

Little things.
Waiting outside her classroom when she wasn’t expecting it. Sliding into the seat beside her even if someone else had been there first. Asking what she was working on, then answering for her.

She hadn’t told him to stop.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted him to.

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

The sixth-years had started a new project in Ancient Runes that week. Professor Babbling introduced it with more excitement than it probably deserved—some deep-structure curse-breaking theory tied to old Merovingian sigils—and immediately split them into pairs.

Lyra was with Gemma.

“Thank Merlin,” Gemma muttered as they moved their desks together. “If I had to carry Rhys through another term, I was going to start hexing things at random.”

“You already do that.”

“I meant more than usual.”

Their assignment was to break down and rewrite a corrupted binding rune set into something functional—a slow, detailed process that would take weeks. Lyra didn’t mind. She liked methodical work. Liked the silence it carved out.

“You’ll do the heavy lifting,” Gemma said, adjusting the angle of their scroll. “I’ll make sure we don’t explode.”

“Reasonable.”

Graham turned around once to look at her, like he thought she might ask to switch. She didn’t.

His eyes lingered a beat too long before he turned back around.

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

By the time Thursday came around, the snow outside had gone crusted and grey. Icicles hung off the gutters of the North Tower like broken teeth. The castle stayed freezing in the corners, warmth only surviving near the fireplaces and enchanted sconces.

Lyra kept mostly to herself that day. Worked through her Charms essay at breakfast, then met Gemma in the library to sketch runic overlays on tracing parchment. It was quiet, and it was steady, and she didn’t have to explain why her shoulders were a little tenser than usual.

They all had their own silences. Sixth year had a way of carving that into people.

Back in the common room that night, Lyra dropped into her usual spot on the couch and opened her Quidditch notes.

The Hufflepuff-Gryffindor match was a week away. She’d already planned to take notes—then do the same for Hufflepuff’s game against Ravenclaw in March. Their match with Slytherin was in April, and she wanted every advantage she could find.

Hufflepuff played like a unit, not stars. It made them harder to break.

She was halfway through diagramming their last known formation when Graham flopped down beside her.

“You always work like this?”

She didn’t look up. “Like what.”

“Like you’re preparing for war.”

She shrugged. “Better than waiting to lose.”

He leaned closer, elbow brushing hers. “You think I’d let you lose?”

“You can’t catch the Snitch.”

“I can make sure no one else does.”

She gave a faint smile, but didn’t turn toward him. His hand drifted toward her notes, fingers lightly brushing the corner like he meant to straighten the page. She moved it just out of reach.

He didn’t comment.

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

Later, as the fire crackled low and the others started filtering off to bed, Lyra lingered in her chair. Graham hadn’t said much since the couch. Just stayed near. Didn’t ask her to come with him. Didn’t leave, either.

It was that kind of quiet that made her skin itch. Not because it was wrong, exactly—just… full of something she couldn’t name.

She wanted him to care.

She just didn’t know how much was too much.

When she finally slipped into bed that night, the blankets were cold. She lay on her side, staring at the curve of the stone wall, and thought about how Graham had looked at her when she didn’t sit with him at dinner. Not angry. Just surprised. Like he’d already started keeping track.

And she hadn’t noticed.

Chapter 13

The wind had teeth that morning.

It bit at her collar as she crossed the courtyard, cold slicing between layers even under her cloak. The sky was a blank sheet of pale grey, and Lyra could already tell the snow from last night wasn’t going to melt. It just sat there—slushy, miserable, half-frozen on the stone—like the castle was holding its breath for spring.

But none of that mattered once she reached the stands.

It was match day.

Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor.

She had her notebook. Her quill. Two layers of socks and a charmed thermos of tea. She took her seat high up in the Slytherin section and ignored the general noise of the crowd.

This wasn’t leisure. This was recon.

Graham arrived two minutes later and sat beside her without asking.

"You’re already plotting, aren’t you?" he said.

"You say that like it’s not my job."

He smiled, leaned in like he might kiss her, but only bumped his shoulder lightly into hers. "Reckon Potter will hold his nerve?"

"If Snape doesn’t throw him off his broom."

They didn’t talk much after that. Lyra was too focused.

The teams burst onto the pitch and the crowd roared to life. Hufflepuff wore gold and black like armor; Gryffindor looked like fire about to explode. It was snowing lightly now—flurries riding the wind—just enough to haze the air.

Lee Jordan’s commentary boomed overhead, laced with excitement and barely concealed bias. Lyra tracked the play with narrow eyes. Gryffindor was sharper than usual—Wood must have drilled them within an inch of their lives. Johnson and Bell were relentless.

Snape was refereeing. Of course he was.

Lyra watched every call he made, mouth pressed into a line. Two penalties to Hufflepuff already. One had been for a bludger that didn’t even make contact.

She flipped to a second sheet.

That’s when the noise shifted.

Low voices—then yelling. Not on the pitch. Sidelines.

She glanced down and spotted the mess: Draco, bright hair unmistakable, being jeered at by Malfoy’s usual prey—Longbottom—and now Ron and a few others were closing in.

It escalated fast. Crabbe and Goyle stepped in, fists flying. Ron dove at Draco, and Neville—of all people—threw himself into the scuffle.

Lyra stood.

She didn’t go down this time. The staff would handle it. McGonagall was already marching down the aisle, looking murderous.

But she watched. She watched her cousin clawing his way up from under Ron Weasley’s elbow, scowling and bloodied and furious. And even with the chaos, she thought he held his own.

Graham nudged her knee. “Your family’s got a flair for drama.”

She didn’t answer.

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

Potter ended it.

A sharp dive. Blistering speed. The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath as he rocketed toward the ground, nearly colliding with Snape midair. Then his arm shot up—fist closed around the Snitch.

It was over in five minutes.

The stands exploded.

Lyra didn’t move. Just scribbled one last note in the margin: Seeker dive—instant.

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

Back in the common room, she sat curled near the fire with her notebook spread over her knees. Her fingers ached from writing, but it was a good kind of ache. Her mind was clear, sharp.

Graham dropped into the seat beside her. "You were brilliant."

“I was sitting still."

“Exactly. You didn’t flinch once."

He said it like it was a compliment. She wasn't sure it was.

He leaned closer. She didn’t move.

His mouth brushed hers—slow at first, almost like a question.

She let him.

He kissed her again, more sure this time, and she let herself lean into it. His hand slid over her side, not possessive but definite, like he was steadying her or maybe himself. His lips moved against hers with practiced ease, soft and then firmer, and she felt herself tilt into the warmth of it, into the closeness, into the hush it created between them.

When she shifted slightly, he followed, pressing closer, and the kiss deepened—not messy or rushed, but sure. His fingers threaded lightly into her hair, and her hand curled into the front of his jumper. Her heart was loud in her ears.

There was something in it—something she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just pressure or instinct. It was the way he pulled back, just a little, and looked at her like she mattered. Like she was wanted.

It disarmed her more than the kiss itself.

He smiled faintly. “Took you long enough.”

She didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t tease.

She looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time, she didn’t feel entirely on guard.

“I think I like you,” she said.

He grinned. “You think?”

She smirked, but didn’t answer. Let the moment sit.

The fire crackled behind them. The common room buzzed with the low hum of distant conversations, but it all felt very far away.

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

Charms on Monday was chaos.

Flitwick had them trying hover-charm variations on tiny golden snitches. They weren’t real ones, obviously—no wings, no minds—but they zig-zagged unpredictably across desks and occasionally bounced off foreheads.

Terrence caught his midair on the second try. Rhys, attempting a dramatic flick, sent his flying into a stack of books with a loud thud.

Lyra didn’t even blink. She snapped hers still with a modified levitation hold and landed it smoothly.

Flitwick beamed. “Elegant, Miss Lestrange.”

She gave a short nod, ignoring Graham’s sideways glance. He hadn’t managed to pin his down yet. She could feel the shift beside her—the flicker of something he wouldn’t say.

She offered him her spare quill when his snapped.

He took it.

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

That night, she lay awake watching the frost patterns bloom on the inside of the dorm window. The lake outside was silent, black and glassy beneath the moonlight, and the faint glow of green reflected against the stone wall. Everyone else was asleep—Gemma breathing steadily across the room, the soft hush of the lake currents pressing against the windows—but Lyra’s thoughts wouldn’t settle.

She replayed it—Graham’s hand on her waist, the warmth of his mouth on hers, the way he’d looked at her like she was something to claim and protect all at once. It should have unsettled her. Maybe it did. But there was a part of her that curled into that closeness, that craved it more than she wanted to admit.

No one had ever looked at her like that before. Like she mattered. Like she was enough just standing still.

She didn’t love him. Not yet.

But something was beginning to shift. She could feel it beneath her ribs, quiet but certain.

Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe it would burn her, eventually.

But she was tired of feeling alone.

And tonight, when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t fear or pain that clung to her—it was the weight of his hand on hers, grounding her, reminding her she was still here.

Still wanted.

Still something more than a name with shadows behind it.

Graham had kissed her like she was already his. Like it had been decided.

She hadn’t said yes. But she hadn’t said no, either.

And that silence—hers—felt louder than anything else.

Chapter 14

Valentine’s Day had always seemed pointless to Lyra.

Flowers wilted. Chocolates melted. And no amount of charmwork could make lace look less ridiculous.

But this morning, she found a note tied around the handle of her goblet.

It was scribbled on the corner of a Transfiguration worksheet — Graham’s handwriting, slightly rushed.

Courtyard. After breakfast. You’ll know why.

She didn’t tell anyone. Just folded it once and tucked it into her sleeve.

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

The courtyard was cold but bright. The frost hadn’t lifted yet, and her boots crunched softly against the stone. She spotted him by the wall near the far arch, hands stuffed into his pockets, breath fogging the air.

He looked up the second she stepped through.

“Happy Valentine’s,” he said, voice low.

“Mm.”

“You didn’t think I’d ignore it, did you?”

“I thought you might be smarter than that.”

He grinned. “Not where you’re concerned.”

He handed her a box—small, square, charmed with a simple stasis charm. Inside were four chocolates, clearly handmade. They weren’t heart-shaped. No frills. Just carefully done, and just for her.

“I had help,” he admitted. “Don’t get used to me baking.”

She rolled her eyes, but one corner of her mouth tugged upward. “You’re very dramatic.”

“And you like it.”

He leaned in then, and this time she didn’t hesitate.

The kiss was soft—unhurried, warm against the cold air. His hand brushed the side of her jaw, thumb resting gently under her chin. She kissed him back with the kind of ease that still startled her a little. But it was becoming natural now. Almost like breathing.

When they pulled apart, he smiled.

“I want this to be real,” he said.

She nodded. “It already is.”

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

By lunch, the whole castle seemed to know.

Gemma raised her eyebrows at her across the table. “So. You two are official now?”

Lyra shrugged. “Apparently.”

“You okay with that?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced toward where Graham sat talking to Miles about practice rotations. He caught her eye and gave the smallest tilt of his head, like he was checking in.

She turned back to Gemma. “Yeah. I think I am.”

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

After Potions, they didn’t go back with the rest of the group. Graham caught her hand in the corridor and pulled her down a narrower hallway before she could argue. He glanced over his shoulder once, then tugged open the door to a broom cupboard and pulled her inside with him.

“You keep looking at me like you’re surprised,” he said.

“I am.”

“Why?”

She exhaled, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Because I’ve never done this before. I’ve never been with anyone.”

It wasn’t a confession she’d ever imagined saying aloud. But with him, it didn’t feel like weakness—it just felt true. A little terrifying, maybe. But still true.

Graham didn’t flinch. He reached out, slow and deliberate, brushing his fingers over hers.

“I’m not here to play games,” he said. “If we’re doing this, I want it to mean something.”

She met his eyes, unsure of what to say—of what to let herself feel.

He closed the space between them and kissed her, gently at first, like he understood. Like he was waiting to see if she’d pull away.

She didn’t.

And that kiss—unrushed, unforced—said more than either of them could’ve managed aloud.

She didn’t respond. Just leaned forward and kissed him, and it was steadier this time, more certain.

He pressed her back gently against the inside of the broom cupboard, the wooden wall cool through her jumper, hands warm on either side of her face. She kissed him until she stopped thinking, stopped second-guessing. When his mouth parted hers and his breath came a little faster, she felt a flicker of something deep in her chest that had nothing to do with nerves.

He kissed down to the corner of her jaw, slow and deliberate, and she let her head tip back just enough to give him space. He paused there, then lifted his head and looked at her like she’d done something magical.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered.

“You’re already ruined.”

She didn’t mean it to sound flirtatious, but it came out softer than she expected.

Graham grinned, and then his hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her gently but firmly against him.

“Not even close,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

This time, the kiss was heavier, more insistent. His mouth moved with a kind of quiet hunger, and she matched it without thinking. Her hands tangled into his coat, fisting the fabric near his shoulders as his hands roamed—one steady at the curve of her back, the other trailing up her ribs, thumb brushing the edge of her jumper beneath her cloak.

She gasped against his mouth when he pressed closer, the wall cold behind her but his body radiating heat. Every part of her felt alive—too much and not enough at once.

He pulled back just slightly, just long enough to look at her, eyes dark.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

She didn’t. She pulled him back in instead.

His hand slid under her jumper fully now, palm flat against her spine, and the contact made her knees buckle slightly. He caught her with ease, one leg braced between hers.

They kissed until she couldn’t tell where her heartbeat ended and his began.

It was breathless and unsteady and a little overwhelming, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.

She was flushed and a little dizzy, but grounded.

“Still think I’m dangerous?” he whispered.

She let her hand settle over his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart.

“Absolutely,” she said.

And she kissed him one more time.

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

That evening, back in the Slytherin common room, it was quiet. Most of the younger years had gone to bed early. The only sounds were the flick of pages and the occasional clink of a teacup.

Graham pulled her toward the couch by the far window again. This time, she settled into his lap without comment.

“You’re warmer than the fire,” he said into her neck.

“Stop talking.”

He chuckled, then kissed her again.

It started soft, but not for long.

This time, it was need—not performance, not teasing. His hands gripped her hips firmly as she angled herself closer. One of her legs draped over his, bringing them chest to chest. Their mouths moved in rhythm, deep and searching, his lips dragging slightly when he broke for breath only to return.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, one hand slipping up to cup the back of his neck. He groaned softly against her, low and rough, and she felt the heat of it coil through her belly.

They kissed like they were learning each other—like there was nothing else in the world but the way he held her, the way she fit against him.

She lost track of time. Of sound. Of everything except the warmth of his mouth and the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

When they finally slowed, she stayed curled against him, breath uneven. Her lips were swollen, and her heartbeat hadn’t quite returned to normal.

“Does this complicate everything?” she asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Graham didn’t answer right away. He just studied her face like he was memorizing it—like he wanted to be sure she meant what she was asking.

“If it does,” he said finally, brushing her hair from her forehead, “then good. I want it to. I want it to mean something.”

Her chest tightened, but not in the way it usually did. This wasn’t fear. This was something heavier. Warmer.

She closed her eyes and let her head rest on his shoulder.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And for the first time in a very long time, that word didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like a choice.

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

That night, as she got ready for bed, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were still a little swollen, her cheeks flushed.

And she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a mask.

Just something soft.

Something honest.

Chapter 15

The letters arrived separately. Hers came folded with pristine creases, parchment thick and smooth to the touch, each sealed with wax pressed in meticulous detail — one from Narcissa, one from Lucius. She recognized the difference immediately. Narcissa’s was pale blue, scented faintly like lavender. Lucius’s was stark white, the seal bearing the Malfoy crest pressed with precision so clean it could cut.

She read them both in silence on her bed, the curtains drawn tight around her. Narcissa’s words were careful, wrapped in her usual poise, but Lyra could read between the lines. She hadn’t said much over Christmas, hadn’t voiced an opinion, but it was clear now — she’d been watching, waiting. She called Graham "intense" rather than volatile, warned Lyra to protect her heart but never told her to stop. There was no gushing affection, no sweeping maternal comfort, but the message was there if you knew how to read it: I want you to be happy. I’m just not sure he’ll give you that.

It was more warmth than Narcissa usually allowed herself to put on paper. And that made it matter more.

Lucius’s letter, by contrast, was colder in tone but clearer in intent. He didn’t forbid her from seeing Graham. He never gave direct orders — Lucius Malfoy rarely had to. Instead, he outlined the optics, the implications, the whispered politics of legacy and bloodlines. He noted the Montague family’s influence in the Wizengamot, reminded her of Lord Howard Montague’s voting power and the family’s solid, if not illustrious, standing. “Not Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Lucius wrote, “but longstanding. Politically sound.”

It wasn’t disapproval. It was positioning. If Lyra intended to continue this attachment, she had better make it serve a purpose.

They didn’t ask if she was happy. They didn’t ask how she felt — not really. Narcissa had come close, in her own veiled way, but even then it was all careful wording, not true curiosity. Lucius hadn’t bothered.

She sat very still once she’d finished reading, hands folded around the edges of the parchment, the corners already creased from how tightly she held them. Then, without ceremony, she crumpled both letters one by one and fed them to the fire, watching until every trace of ink turned to ash.

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

Draco was waiting outside the dorm when she stepped out into the corridor. He leaned against the cold stone wall with his arms folded, expression somewhere between guilt and smug satisfaction.

“You got them?”

She didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

“I didn’t think they’d write back so fast,” he said, falling into step beside her.

“Didn’t think they’d write to me at all,” she muttered, voice low.

He hesitated, adjusting his pace. “They’re not angry with you.”

She gave him a sharp look. “No. Just disappointed I’m not a better political investment.”

Draco frowned. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond. And that silence said everything she needed to hear.

“You told them about him,” she said after a beat.

Draco didn’t deny it.

“I thought you trusted me,” she added, quieter now.

“I do,” he said. “But they needed to know. You matter to them.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I matter to their reputations.”

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

Dinner passed in an off-kilter blur. The Slytherin table buzzed with its usual energy — half the third years were arguing about the next Quidditch match, while a pair of second years accidentally spilled pumpkin juice down the bench in a scramble for extra treacle tart. It was loud and familiar. Comforting, even.

But Lyra didn’t feel grounded. Not tonight.

Graham sat beside her, his knee brushing hers under the table, but she didn’t lean into him like usual. She didn’t laugh at his muttered jokes or glance up when he nudged her elbow. She just picked at her food and tried to drown out the ringing in her ears.

Across the Great Hall, at the staff table, she caught it again — that quiet, soft moment. Poppy Pomfrey nudged a bowl closer to McGonagall, who took it with a glance and the smallest smile. Nothing extravagant. Nothing anyone else would have noticed. But Lyra saw it. Felt it.

Gemma leaned closer, pausing mid-sentence. She didn’t finish the question — just let her gaze flick toward the staff table again, thoughtful.

She’d figured it out ages ago. Anyone paying attention would have. The way Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall sat just a little too close when they didn’t need to. The way their glances lingered. It wasn’t a secret, not really. Just something most people didn’t bother looking at long enough to see.

But it wasn’t Gemma who kept watching now. It was Lyra.

And that gave Gemma pause.

She studied Lyra out of the corner of her eye — the way she stared a little too long, like she was seeing something she couldn’t name. Like it stirred something she wasn’t ready to talk about.

Gemma said nothing.

Just tucked it away for later.

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

She left early, long before dessert.

The common room was quiet when she returned, just a few fifth years scattered around the fireplace and one of the third-year prefects reading upside-down on the couch.

She dropped into a chair by the hearth, her notebook open across her lap. She didn’t write. Didn’t even look at the page. Just stared at the blank lines like they might rearrange themselves into answers.

A few minutes later, she heard familiar footsteps and the soft creak of the armchair beside hers.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Graham said.

“I’m tired.”

He reached for her hand, fingers curling around hers. She let him.

He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let herself rest against the warm pull of his presence. But even that couldn’t silence the voice in her head.

This wasn’t a schoolgirl crush. This was real. This was tangled, messy, and beginning to feel like a line she couldn’t uncross.

She didn’t know where it would end. Or what it would cost.

But she wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Hi, just a warning this chapter contains suicidal thoughts.

If you ever feel this way there is hope and help!
USA: Suicide and Crisis Lifeline - 988
UK: National Suicide Prevention Helpline - 0800 587 0800

By the time word got out about Hagrid’s dragon, Lyra wasn’t surprised. Not really. The only thing more ridiculous than smuggling a Norwegian Ridgeback into a castle was the fact that three first years and a dragon-loving half-giant had managed to keep it quiet for more than a week. It was the most absurd and yet completely predictable thing she’d heard all term, and somehow it still made her want to slam her forehead against a stone table.

Gemma caught her eye across the breakfast table, a mischievous flicker in her voice as she leaned in. “So, your precious cousin’s in a bit of hot water.”

Lyra set down her toast, already bracing herself. “What did he do now?”

“Draco got detention,” Gemma murmured, tearing a croissant in half. “And we lost fifty points.”

Lyra blinked. “For what?”

“Caught out past curfew. With Potter and his little fan club. Apparently they were skulking around with Hagrid.”

Lyra blinked again, slower this time. “Doing what?”

Gemma gave her a dry look. “Visiting Hagrid. Apparently he had a dragon.”

Lyra’s spoon clinked sharply against her teacup. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Wish I was,” Gemma said, taking a bite. “Hagrid apparently won the egg off a stranger in a pub. Decided to hatch it in his hut. Like it’s a chicken.”

“What kind?”

“Norwegian Ridgeback.”

Lyra stared at her. “Of all the bloody reckless—” She cut herself off, fingers curling around her mug. “Of course it was Draco. Of course he thought that was smart.”

Gemma tilted her head. “He said he was trying to catch them out. Get them in trouble.”

“Got himself there too,” Lyra muttered. “Idiot.”

Lyra set down her mug and got up, brushing a few crumbs from her skirt as she stood. She didn’t say anything else, didn’t need to. Her eyes flicked once toward the entrance hall — already picturing exactly where Draco would be sulking. It was too early in the morning for this kind of idiocy, and yet, here they were. Again.

Gemma didn’t try to stop her. Just watched with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Tell him I said well done,” she muttered.

Lyra didn’t even glance back. “If he survives the next ten minutes.”

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

Draco was exactly where she expected to find him: slumped on the edge of the Slytherin common room couch, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the flickering fire. He didn’t look up when she approached. He didn’t need to.

“You absolute idiot,” Lyra hissed, standing in front of him with her arms crossed.

Draco gave a dramatic sigh, like the weight of the world had landed on his eleven-year-old shoulders. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” she snapped. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you snuck out after curfew to go visit a half-giant and his illegally hatched dragon egg. With Gryffindors.”

“I wasn’t chasing it,” he muttered, finally looking at her. “I was gathering evidence.”

“For what?” she demanded. “So you could parade it in front of the staff and get half of Gryffindor expelled? You think that’d go well for you?”

Draco straightened slightly. “They broke rules—”

“So did you!” she snapped, voice sharp enough to draw a glance from a pair of second years nearby. She lowered her tone. “You’re smarter than this. You’re better than this. And you’re a Malfoy, which means everyone’s already watching for you to screw up. Stop giving them a reason.”

Draco looked away, jaw tight. “Why do you care so much?”

She stared at him, heart racing with frustration and something a little deeper. “Because you’re not just some random first year. And because someone needs to care enough to tell you when you’re being a complete brat.”

He stood abruptly, brushing past her with a glare. “You’re not my mother.”

“No,” she said, softer now. “I’m not. But I’m here. That should count for something.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t walk away, either. Instead, he sat back down with a muttered grumble and pulled his knees up onto the couch.

“Whatever,” he said.

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

Dinner was heavy with noise that night, but Lyra barely heard it. Between the clatter of silverware and the chatter about dragons, she sat quietly with her plate untouched, her eyes flicking across the Great Hall every few minutes. Draco hadn’t said much since their conversation, but he hadn’t avoided her either. That, at least, was something.

Gemma, seated across from her, didn’t say much at first. But she watched. Lyra could feel it. Like she always could when someone was putting the pieces together in their head.

“You’ve been… intense lately,” Gemma said eventually, spearing a bit of roasted parsnip.

Lyra snorted into her cup. “You mean existing?”

Gemma didn’t laugh. “I mean… all of this. You care a lot more than you let on. About Draco. About Graham. About… everything.”

Lyra didn’t answer. There wasn’t really anything to say.

And Gemma, to her credit, didn’t press. She just tilted her head a little and added, “You watch people like you’re waiting for them to disappear.”

Lyra looked down at her plate. “People do,” she muttered.

Gemma frowned slightly but let it go.

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

That night, Lyra dreamed of fire.

She smelled the smoke first.

Then came the cold — not real cold, but memory cold. The kind that crept down her spine and settled deep in her chest. Bones Manor stood before her again, massive and shadowed against the night sky, its windows flickering with distant firelight. She was small. Barefoot. Holding on to the hem of Rodolphus’s cloak.

He crouched to meet her eyes. “You watch,” he hissed, breath hot and sharp against her face. “You learn. This is what happens when someone tries to steal what’s mine.”

Then everything moved too fast. The doors exploded inward. Shouting. Screams. A blur of blood and green light. Edgar’s voice rose over it all, yelling for someone to get her out. The thud of running feet, the crash of spells tearing through stone.

Edgar stood at the top of the stairs, his robes over a T-shirt, wand already up. His eyes locked on hers — and everything inside her froze.

She saw Rabastan first, flinging curses like wild fire. Then Dolohov. Then Rodolphus, methodical and brutal. Spells collided in thunderclaps. Edgar fought like a man with nothing left to lose — fast, raw, unrelenting. He dropped Dolohov. Nearly took off Rabastan’s arm.

But then Rodolphus moved. He didn’t duel. He demolished. A bone-crushing curse shattered Edgar’s wand hand. He screamed, crumpling but not falling.

He drew a second wand.

And then he saw her.

She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed. Her little hands still clutched Rodolphus’s cloak.

He faltered.

The Bludgeoning Curse sent him flying. He slammed into the stairs, blood splattering the stone.

Still, he tried to crawl. Reaching for her. “Lyra—”

Rodolphus stepped over him like debris.

“Do you want to know a secret, little girl?” he murmured. “This man thought he could take your mother from me. Claimed her.”

Rodolphus crouched beside him and yanked Lyra forward, placing her just behind his shoulder. “You’re clever, aren’t you?” he said, voice low and taunting. “You always wondered, I bet. Why your mother hated me. Why I hated you.”

He grabbed Edgar by the collar and hauled him upright, just enough for Lyra to see his face clearly. Edgar groaned, blood spilling from his mouth.

“Look at him. Look hard,” Rodolphus said. “Because this—this is the man who sired you.”

Edgar’s breath caught. “No—”

“Yes,” Rodolphus snarled. “Your real father. And he thought he could keep that secret from me forever.”

He dropped Edgar, letting him crumple to the floor.

“So now you know,” he hissed. “And now she watches.”

The Killing Curse hit Edgar square in the chest. A flash of light. A soundless thud.

Lyra screamed.

Not loud. Not fierce. Just a sharp, broken noise that shook her bones.

She woke with a gasp, heart pounding, hair damp with sweat. Her chest ached.

She sat in silence for a long time.

He’d told her she would remember.

And he was right.

Her hands trembled uncontrollably.

She pulled her knees to her chest, but the motion felt mechanical, distant — like her limbs didn’t quite belong to her. Her breath came in short, shuddering bursts.

She tried to focus. To ground herself. But the images wouldn't leave her. Edgar’s broken body. The blood. Rodolphus’s voice. That smile.

She clamped a hand over her mouth as the sob finally escaped — a raw, breathless thing that tore up her throat and left her dizzy.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

What was she even doing here? Pretending to be normal. Pretending to be okay. She wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been in years. Maybe ever.

And now she was dreaming of the one man who had truly seen her — and watched him die again.

He’d died in front of her. Because of her.

What was the point of surviving if the world kept taking everyone that mattered?

She pressed her forehead to her knees and rocked slightly, tears spilling down her cheeks in silence. No one else in the common room stirred.

He’d said she’d remember.

And he was right.

But he hadn’t warned her how much it would still hurt.

But maybe that was the point — to hurt. To leave something behind that would rot her from the inside. Rodolphus hadn’t just wanted Edgar dead. He’d wanted her to carry that death forever. To make sure she remembered, every time she closed her eyes, what it cost to matter to someone.

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

The next day in Charms, Lyra moved like her body was made of glass — every motion precise, deliberate, and just a little too controlled. Professor Flitwick had them practicing advanced wand coordination through simultaneous spell casting — something she would normally enjoy. But today, it felt hollow.

She conjured a set of animated paper birds with silent precision, watching them fly in a perfect arc around the flickering edge of her Lumos spell. Her movements were exact. Too exact.

“Beautiful, Miss Lestrange!” Flitwick chirped. “Exactly the coordination I was hoping to see!”

She gave a tight nod but said nothing. Pride didn’t register. The sound of the classroom felt miles away. Her limbs ached like she'd run miles in her sleep. Her chest still felt bruised.

She hadn’t cried again that morning. But only because she’d locked herself in the bathroom until her eyes stopped burning.

Gemma had looked at her funny when they dressed for breakfast. Said nothing, but watched too long. And Graham — Graham had barely noticed. Or maybe he had and just didn’t care.

A few students turned to look. She didn’t meet their eyes.

What she didn’t miss was the flicker in Graham’s jaw.

They walked out of class in silence, his hand brushing hers, then slipping into it — warm, familiar. A thread of comfort. But then it tightened around her wrist. Not painful. Just firm. Controlling.

“You didn’t have to show off,” he said, voice low.

Her stomach clenched. “It wasn’t about you.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You just can’t help needing to prove yourself.”

She blinked. She was too tired for this. “Excuse me?”

“You always have to be the best,” he said. “Top marks, perfect spells. Just once, it’d be nice to see you be normal.”

Her heart twisted. “You mean less.”

“I mean you don’t have to prove anything. Especially not in front of everyone.”

She eased her hand from his, her throat tight. He didn’t know. He didn’t see.

Of course she had to prove herself. Because if she wasn’t the best, if she wasn’t in control, she was that girl again. The one with blood on her shoes. The one who watched her father die.

And no one could know she was still that girl.

Still, she wanted him beside her.

Even if it was messy.

Even if it hurt.

Because at least he wanted her.

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

That night in the common room, she curled into the corner chair by the fire with a book in her lap. She didn’t read it. Couldn’t. Her hands were cold. Her head still felt like it hadn’t fully left the nightmare.

Across the room, Graham laughed with Marcus and Cassius — so easy, so loud, like he didn’t notice the way her silence had stretched all day.

Gemma walked past, pausing only to set a mug of cocoa on the table beside her.

“Don’t let him make you smaller,” she said softly.

Lyra stared at the fire. “Maybe small is safer.”

Gemma hesitated, but didn’t press. She just gave her a look — thoughtful, sharp — and walked on.

Lyra didn’t touch the cocoa.

Her fingers tightened around the spine of the book, knuckles white.

She wouldn’t disappear.

She wasn’t sure where she ended and this version of her began — the one who smiled for Graham and fought nightmares alone — but she’d hold onto something.

Even if it was just the burn in her throat.

Notes:

Alrightly everyone, that got deep there. Please reach out if you ever feel suicidal, people want to help and you are not alone!

 

This chapter contained parts from my Prequel so check that out if you haven't already.

This is the last chapter I have finished at the moment, I have a few that need editing still but those should be coming soon!

Let me know what you think, I would love any suggestions yall have so don't be shy I will take all into consideration so if you want to see something specific then let me know and you might just see it!

Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 17

The castle smelled like wet stone and parchment ink, a mix Lyra had always liked, though this week it had been making her feel vaguely nauseous. Something about the way the corridors held onto cold in March, still clinging to winter's breath despite the sun warming the grounds outside, made everything feel wrong-limbed. Off balance. Like a corridor was about to twist in the wrong direction or a tapestry would blink.

She tugged her robe tighter around her neck as she walked, fingers curling against the fabric. Graham had offered to carry her books that morning—again—and this time, she’d let him. He’d taken her satchel with a faintly amused look, brushing a kiss against her temple as they left the common room, and didn’t press her. She wasn’t sure why she’d said yes—just that it hadn’t felt like losing anything.

He was being... decent lately. Almost attentive. And she didn’t mind it. That was the strange thing. She’d never let herself rely on anyone before—not really—and it felt both foreign and grounding to have someone steady at her side. Someone who wanted to be there. She wouldn’t call it love. She wouldn’t call it anything at all. But when he smiled at her like that, something warm flickered in her chest that hadn’t existed in years. Not quite trust. Not quite affection. Something complicated and halfway to dangerous.

She found herself thinking about him more often when he wasn’t around—what he might say about something she read, whether he’d smirk at a comment she hadn’t even voiced aloud. Sometimes, without meaning to, she looked for him when she entered the common room. Not out of worry. Just... habit. Familiarity. That, too, unsettled her. But she let it happen anyway.

She reached the top of the dungeons staircase and turned toward the Charms corridor. Runes had gone long and Terrence had spent half of it trying to get a rise out of Professor Babbling by insisting one of the stone tablets referenced a magical codpiece. He’d even tried to sketch one in the margin of his notes. Gemma had smacked him with her ink bottle before the bell even rang, and the ink hadn’t come out of his collar.

Now, Lyra had ten minutes before Charms, and no patience for the hallway full of babbling second-years crowded by the door. One had dropped their wand, and another was reciting something about jelly-legs jinxes at full volume. She skirted the mess and slipped into the classroom early.

Professor Flitwick was standing on a stool by the blackboard, levitating an entire bouquet of fake daisies to demonstrate the day's charm. The moment he saw her, he beamed and waved, and the flowers dropped in a soft rustle.

"Miss Lestrange! Splendid, splendid. You’re early. That’s what I like to see.”

Lyra gave him a small nod and settled into a seat near the back. The usual spot she shared with Gemma when they had Charms together, though Gemma wouldn’t show for another five minutes at least. The Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw match was tomorrow. Lyra had already drafted four separate plays for Slytherin’s match against Hufflepuff next month and forced Miles and Terrence into a lunchtime strategy meeting. Flint had shown up late with jam on his collar and got hexed for it. They were making progress, though. At least two of the new formations had potential, and if Adrian didn’t lose the Quaffle more than twice, they might even win with a margin.

“Do you have a moment?” Flitwick asked, hopping down from the stool with a squeak of polished shoes.

Lyra blinked. “Sir?”

“Just a quick one,” he said, beckoning her toward the front desk.

She hesitated, then rose. Her boots made no sound on the stone as she crossed the room.

“You’ve been performing very well in class,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “But I noticed your essay on Synchronised Wandwork came in late last week.”

She stiffened. “Only by half a day.”

“Yes, and the content was still excellent, as always. But I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right.” His tone was light, kind. “Sixth year is rather demanding. And Headmaster Dumbledore always reminds us to keep an eye on students who seem a little... overworked.”

Lyra bit back a sharp reply. “I’m fine.”

Professor Flitwick nodded slowly. “Very well. If that changes, my door is always open. Now go on, sit, before you start thinking I’ve gone soft.”

She returned to her desk just as Gemma arrived, tucking her braid behind her shoulder and whispering something about Terrence being an idiot and Runes being a lost cause. She flopped into the seat beside Lyra with an exaggerated sigh and dropped her bag with a thud.

“You look like you just fought off a troll,” Lyra muttered.

“I wish it had been a troll,” Gemma said under her breath, pulling out her notes. “At least then I could’ve hexed it without getting detention.”

Lyra huffed a soft laugh but didn’t speak again. Her thoughts wandered instead—back to Flitwick’s concern, to the half-glance she’d given Graham as she left the common room, and to the way her stomach had dipped when she caught that look he gave her. The one like he knew her better than she knew herself.

She didn’t like how much she didn’t mind it.

She didn’t like how much she wanted to see it again.

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

They left the Charms classroom just after the bell, Gemma still grumbling about spellwork applications and muttering that Terrence would die by her hand before NEWTs. Lyra half-listened, mostly watching the flow of students along the corridor, already sorting through formations in her mind. Adrian had improved since winter term, but she didn’t trust him under pressure. Cassius had stamina but no strategy. She needed to see how they moved under Hufflepuff’s defense before she could finalise anything.

Graham was waiting just outside the Charms corridor, leaning casually against the wall with her satchel slung over one shoulder. His green jumper sleeves were pushed to the elbow, and his hair looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times between lunch and now. When he saw her, his mouth curved, and he straightened.

“I was about to come find you,” he said, brushing her arm lightly with the back of his fingers. “Did Gemma survive Terrence?”

“Barely,” Lyra said. “She’s planning his funeral.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Gemma gave Lyra a quick, sideways look before peeling off toward the library, already muttering about finding the least miserable study table. Lyra watched her go for a second, then turned back to Graham.

She reached out without thinking and slid her fingers through his hair.

He looked sideways, eyebrows raised, amused.

“It’s always a mess,” she said simply, though her hand lingered for a moment too long before dropping back to her side. The strands were soft and finer than she’d expected. For a fleeting second, she thought, I wish it were longer. She liked long hair. Always had. There was something striking about it. Elegant. Rebellious. It didn’t suit him, though. Graham’s sharp edges were part of his charm.

“Careful,” he said, eyes glinting. “If you keep touching me like that in public, I’ll start thinking you like me.”

She gave him a dry look. “Shut up.”

He grinned.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor was quieter here, the usual echo of footsteps and chatter muffled by the thick stone walls and narrow windows. Lyra glanced up at him, catching the curve of his smile and the way the fading sunlight caught in his lashes. Something inside her twisted.

“I love you,” Graham said, softer this time. Not teasing. Not dramatic. Just quiet, like it had already been true for a while.

Lyra froze.

Only for a breath. But it was enough.

She looked away quickly, pretending to study the curve of the stairwell ahead. Her pulse jumped, a silent flutter under her ribs.

“You don’t have to say things like that,” she murmured.

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

He shifted her satchel on his shoulder, watching her with that same steady gaze that always seemed to unravel her a little too easily. “You don’t have to say it back.”

She didn’t. But she walked a little slower beside him, close enough that their arms brushed, and let the silence stretch between them like something almost gentle.

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

Dinner was loud.

Not chaotic, not rowdy—just loud in that particular Hogwarts way, with cutlery clinking and laughter from the Hufflepuff table and a burst of noise whenever someone enchanted something they shouldn’t. But Lyra barely registered any of it. Her plate sat half-empty in front of her, roast chicken going cold beside a pile of untouched potatoes.

She kept catching herself looking at Graham. Not in an obvious way, not really—just quick glances across the bench. The curve of his jaw. The way he held his fork. His fingers pushing his hair back like it was a habit, like it didn’t mean anything. But it did, at least to her. She liked his hair. She always had. But lately, she kept thinking... she wished it were longer. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was the shape of it, or the way her fingers had brushed through it earlier. There was something about long hair she’d always liked. Something sharp and soft at once.

Her eyes flicked to Gemma across the table. The other girl was pretending to read a folded schedule while picking apart her dinner roll, but she glanced at Lyra once, then again—like she knew something Lyra didn’t. That was happening more often. Little glances. Pauses in conversation. Expressions Gemma didn’t voice.

Lyra shifted in her seat.

Her thoughts drifted sideways, unexpectedly—to the hospital wing. To McGonagall and Pomfrey, the way they’d stood so close in the office, the gentleness between them, quiet and certain and private. She hadn’t meant to see it. Hadn’t known what to do with it. It had tugged at something she didn’t understand. And it hadn’t just been that once. She kept thinking about it. Sometimes in class, sometimes at night when the common room was quiet and Graham was beside her but not touching. It would surface, uninvited—a flash of McGonagall’s hand resting near Pomfrey’s, a glance exchanged like a shared secret. Something about it lodged itself in Lyra’s chest, stubborn and persistent, waiting to be understood.

Her eyes flicked again—this time to the Ravenclaw table. Penelope Clearwater was laughing at something one of her friends said, her long blonde hair tucked behind one ear. Lyra had always thought she was a jealous bitch. Vain, controlling, obsessed with being seen. But Merlin, she was beautiful. That hair. That look. There was something striking about her. There always had been.

She blinked.

The thought came and went so fast she almost missed it. Graham would be perfect... if he were a girl.

She froze.

A sick twist hit her gut. Like stepping off a stair that wasn’t there.

No. No, that wasn’t—she didn’t—

Her hands clenched under the table. She forced herself to take a bite of food, even though it tasted like parchment.

Pure-blood daughters didn’t think things like that. Not when they were raised to marry well, to bear children, to carry family names. She had Graham. She liked Graham. He made her feel safe. He cared. He said he loved her.

And still, somewhere in the back of her mind, she was wishing he looked more like... someone else. Someone softer. Someone with long hair and a different kind of presence.

There was something wrong with her. There had to be.

She barely tasted the next bite of food. A burst of laughter came from somewhere down the table—Miles, probably, making fun of one of the third-years again—but it might as well have been happening underwater. Everything felt far away.

The things she’d thought—what kind of person even thought like that? Her mother had never said it outright, but it was always understood. Witches married wizards. Witches had children. That was how things worked. That was how names carried on. And Lyra had already failed at too many things to afford failing this one too.

She stared at her plate and tried to steady her breathing. It didn’t help. Her stomach had knotted itself into something unmovable.

She couldn’t be that. She couldn’t want that. Not when everything in her life depended on being exactly the kind of girl she’d been raised to be. Not when she carried the Lestrange name like a blade in her mouth every time she walked into a room. She’d spent her whole life fighting to prove she wasn’t her step-father. That she wasn’t dangerous. That she wasn’t broken.

And now—now her mind was slipping in directions it shouldn’t go.

A girl. Long hair. A different shape. A different softness. She didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t want to.

“Lyra,” Gemma said softly.

She looked up. Too fast.

Gemma was watching her with an unreadable expression, her half-finished dinner forgotten. The corners of her mouth were pressed in that slight way she did when she wanted to say something but didn’t.

“You okay?”

Lyra forced herself to nod. “Just tired.”

Gemma didn’t believe her. She could tell from the way her friend’s gaze lingered for a beat longer than necessary before nodding back. But she didn’t push it.

Lyra dropped her eyes and pushed the food around her plate, heart still thudding like she’d said something out loud.

All she could think of now was one word.

Fuck.

Chapter 18

She didn’t go back for seconds. Didn’t wait for pudding. Didn’t say goodnight to anyone when she stood from the Slytherin table—just pushed her plate forward and left, ignoring the look Graham gave her as she passed.

The corridors were quiet. Most of the castle was still at dinner, but Lyra took the long route anyway, following a stretch of stone wall past the tapestry that usually concealed Peeves when he was avoiding Filch. Her boots echoed too loudly. Her thoughts louder still. The torches along the walls flickered green and gold, casting long shadows that danced across her face and made her feel even less real than she already did.

Graham would be perfect if he were a girl.

She couldn’t shake it. The thought had settled in her chest like a stone and refused to move. She tried ignoring it, tried pushing it into the corners of her mind where other dangerous things had once lived, but it refused to stay buried. It looped and repeated, over and over like a cursed echo.

She walked slower the closer she got to the common room, hoping the corridors would swallow her whole before she had to speak to anyone. When the wall opened at her approach, she slipped through the entrance and let the emerald light of the lake press in around her. A pair of second-years by the fireplace looked up, but she didn’t meet their eyes.

She didn’t speak to anyone. Just crossed the common room in silence, cut between two third-years arguing over a chess set, and slipped through the archway leading to the girls’ wing. Her dorm was quiet, the water outside the window glowing pale green, and she dropped her bag at the foot of her bed before sitting down hard on the edge of the mattress.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t think she would. But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The dorm was empty, quiet except for the faint hum of water pressing against the windows. She stared at her reflection in the glass—distorted, doubled, and distant—and tried to ground herself in the shape of her own outline. Who was that girl? The one with the guarded eyes and tangled thoughts. The one who’d always known what to do until now.

By the time she returned to the common room, most of the house had filtered in. The fire in the grate was burning low but steady, casting thin shadows that pulsed gently across the stone floor and the green-and-silver rug. Adrian and Marcus were hunched over a chessboard in the far corner, their voices low but clipped—Marcus already swearing about a bishop he’d misplayed. Rhys sat sprawled on the nearest sofa, halfway through a sugar quill and laughing to himself while flipping through an old Quidditch magazine. Two second-years whispered behind a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions, and someone on the far end of the room sneezed loud enough to make a candle flicker. A third-year tripped on the hem of his robe by the hearth and let out a muffled curse as he caught himself on a table.

The room felt... normal. Soft in the way only Slytherin’s common room ever could be. Familiar, even. But the calm in it felt mismatched to the storm curling beneath her ribs.

And then there was Graham.

He was on the sofa near the hearth, arms stretched along the back like he owned the room, legs crossed at the ankle, watching the flames like they’d said something personal to him. He looked up the moment she entered, and the easy tilt of his mouth faded.

She took one look at him and felt her throat close.

He noticed.

He sat forward. “Where’d you go?”

She didn’t answer. Just crossed to the corner bookshelf and pulled out a copy of Quidditch Formations, 1895–1976 she didn’t actually plan to read. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the cover.

“Lyra.” His voice was firmer now, not loud but laced with something harder.

She turned. “What?”

Graham looked at her like he didn’t know whether to be annoyed or worried. “You’ve been off all day.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he said. “That’s not it.”

She bristled. “Maybe I don’t feel like talking.”

“That’s convenient,” he muttered, standing. “Considering you haven’t felt like talking to me properly in three days.”

Lyra’s pulse quickened. “What do you want from me?”

Graham stepped closer. “I want you to act like you’re here. Like I’m not the only one in this. Because right now, it feels like I’m dating a ghost.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” he cut in. “You’re not really here. You’re somewhere else all the time and you don’t let me in, and I thought—Merlin, I thought I could fix you.”

Her chest went still.

“I thought if I just gave enough—if I was good enough—you’d let me in. But that’s just not possible, is it?”

Lyra’s voice dropped. “Don’t say that.”

“No?” he snapped, jaw tight. “Why not? You think I don’t see it? You pull away every time I’m close. You let me in for five seconds and then shut me out again like you’ve remembered you’re not supposed to care.”

“I do care—”

“Then act like it! Because I am bloody tired of talking to a wall. You’re just—” He broke off, then laughed bitterly. “You’re just an emotionless stump, Lyra. You look like a person, but you’re so goddamn unreachable sometimes it makes me feel like I’m going insane.”

Her face went pale.

The silence after that was sharp. Cracking.

Then quieter, almost like he hated himself for saying it, he added, “Sometimes I wish you were easier to love.”

He flinched like he’d slapped himself.

The silence after that was sharp. Cracking.

Someone shifted by the stairs. Draco.

“Oi,” he said flatly, stepping forward from the shadows like he’d been there longer than he should’ve. “Leave her alone.”

Graham turned. “This doesn’t concern you, Malfoy.”

Draco crossed his arms. “She’s my cousin. That makes it my business.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Graham said, his tone colder now.

Draco didn’t blink. “Then maybe try being someone who actually deserves her.”

A few heads turned. The room wasn’t entirely listening, but enough people had gone quiet to feel the tension shift.

Graham opened his mouth, closed it again. His jaw tightened. Then he looked back at Lyra.

Her chest ached. Not from guilt. Not from love. From everything.

“I’m still here,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “But I need you to stop pushing me.”

He stared at her a moment longer. Something in his expression flickered—anger, confusion, maybe even hurt. Then he nodded once, without speaking, and walked past her, toward the boys’ dorms.

Draco watched him go, then turned back to her.

“You all right?” he asked, quiet now.

Lyra didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to answer.

She sat down, alone, in the armchair Graham had just left. The cushion was still warm. Her hands curled around the armrests like she might fall without them.

The fire popped, sending a soft crackle through the room.

And she stared into it until the smoke blurred her eyes and the ache in her chest turned to something quieter.

Draco didn’t leave. He sat on the arm of the chair beside her without asking, close enough to count as company but not too close to make her flinch.

They didn’t speak. But somehow, it helped.

After a while, Draco gave her a gentle nudge with his knee and stood, muttering something about finishing a letter. He didn’t ask her to come with him. He didn’t tell her to get some rest. He just walked away, and Lyra was grateful for it.

She stayed where she was.

The fire burned lower. Voices returned to the common room in fragments—Gemma entering with her bag half unzipped, Rhys snorting at something Adrian said—but they were background noise. Distant. Thin. Nothing touched her.

Eventually, she moved. Slowly. As if her limbs had forgotten how to work together. She didn’t go back to the dorm. Not yet. She crossed instead to the window nearest the eastern curve of the lake, leaned her forehead against the cool glass, and stared out into the water.

It was dark out there. Murky. Shifting. The light from the common room barely reached past the silt. Occasionally, a flick of a fin cut across the gloom. Shadows moved in slow spirals. Somewhere far off, something glowed faintly green—one of the older kelp lanterns that hadn’t been changed in decades. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

Her breath fogged the glass.

She let it.

Her hands pressed into the stone ledge beneath the window. Her fingers curled around the edge like she might slip.

He’d called her emotionless.

He’d said he wanted to fix her.

He wasn’t wrong.

She didn’t know how to explain what was happening to her—how the nightmares had left her raw and frayed all week, and how tonight had cracked her wide open. Before, it had just been the exhaustion, the memories, the heaviness of sleep she couldn’t shake. But now it was something else. Something worse. Something she didn’t know how to name. Nothing fit. Not even Graham. Especially not Graham.

She didn’t want to hate him. She didn’t. But the more he tried to understand her, the more hollow it made her feel. Like she was being held up to a light she hadn’t asked for.

And all she wanted was to disappear into the dark and be left alone with it.

Her reflection in the glass looked too much like her mother. Not just in the shape of her face or the tired eyes, but in the heaviness, the sharpness, the unspoken break that lived in the space between her bones. Like her mother had passed something down to her more potent than magic or blood—a fault line. A flaw. A quiet kind of broken that couldn’t be healed. And now she was beginning to understand just how deep it ran.

She pulled away.

Her chest still hurt.

Somewhere behind her, Marcus cursed about practice. Lyra blinked. Right. Quidditch. There was still a game coming. Still a season. Still everything she was supposed to care about.

She exhaled, sharp and quiet.

She was still captain. She could fall apart later.

She turned away from the window and walked back toward the dorm wing. Not because she felt better. Just because it was late, and she had no more excuses.

She didn’t look back at the fire.

She didn’t look back at the glass.

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

The morning of the February matchwas cold. Sharp, brittle air that hadn’t quite warmed despite the sun shining low through the Great Hall windows. The February Quidditch match was already underway by the time Lyra slipped into the stands, coat pulled tight around her and a pair of borrowed gloves half a size too big stuffed in her pockets. She didn’t sit with the rest of the team. Didn’t feel like it.

Slytherin wasn’t playing, so the stakes were low for her, but she needed to watch. She always watched. Not just for notes—though she’d already brought a small pad to scribble plays—but for instinct. For gut reads. It was how she figured out which teams cracked under pressure and which ones didn’t. Who telegraphed feints. Who forgot wind existed. And maybe, deep down, she just wanted something to make sense. Something she could analyze and control.

Below, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor were mid-tangle. The score was close, maybe thirty points apart. One of the Hufflepuff Beaters was showing signs of fatigue, missing more blocks than he should have, and the Chasers were beginning to slip into messy passing under pressure. Lyra tracked their formations with a critical eye, already noting where their timing fell apart and who defaulted to vertical drives instead of lateral dodges. The Gryffindor Keeper, Oliver Wood, blocked a shot from the left ring with a little too much flair, and Lyra made a mental note of how easily he left the central post exposed when baited by a feint. But her attention stayed mostly on Hufflepuff. They were the ones she needed to beat next.

She should’ve cared more.

But her eyes kept drifting to the pitch without really seeing it.

Graham had been at breakfast. He hadn’t looked at her.

She didn’t blame him. He had every reason to be angry, and she'd given him no explanation, no reassurance. Just silence. Just distance. She wasn’t proud of it, but she wasn’t sure how to fix it, either.

Everything he’d said was still with her. Still echoing. She wasn’t ready to forgive the words—some of them still felt like bruises—but she wasn’t ready to leave, either. She understood what he meant. Understood the helplessness that must’ve clawed at him when she didn’t respond, when she vanished into herself and didn’t come back fast enough.

And she was starting to realize how much of her had never really been there at all. Not just with him, but with anyone.

She just wished he could understand her, too. That it wasn’t cruelty or distance for its own sake. It was survival. It always had been. When everything about you felt like a liability, sometimes the only safe way to exist was to keep yourself unreachable.

She adjusted her gloves and forced herself to focus. The Snitch had yet to appear, and the Seekers were riding high, scanning for gold flashes. Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff Seeker, had excellent posture on his broom—clean lines and steady control—but his reaction time lagged slightly in tight corners. Across the pitch, Potter darted through the air with his usual reckless precision, eyes sharp and knuckles white around his broom handle. Lyra watched them both carefully, but her notes leaned toward Cedric. She focused in more narrowly on the Hufflepuff players now, mentally tracking the ones who faltered when the pressure mounted or drifted out of position when the Bludgers flew wide. These were the vulnerabilities she'd exploit come April—these were the patterns she'd break if Slytherin was going to take the Cup.

A group of first-years nearby cheered as one of the Chasers scored. Lyra didn’t even glance. Her thoughts trailed back to Draco.

He hadn’t talked about his detention much. Just muttered something about “bloody centaurs” and made a face when she asked. Apparently he’d been sent into the Forbidden Forest with Potter, Weasley, and Granger. Filch had gloated about it for days.

Draco hadn’t gloated back.

That, more than anything, had caught her attention. He hadn’t bragged. Hadn’t made some grand show of how unfair the detention was or how inferior Potter must’ve been. He was still Draco—still snide, still proud, still too much like his father in all the ways that grated—but there was something else beneath it. A sliver of restraint. A pause before the punchline. Like maybe, for a moment, he’d realized that being scared didn’t make you weak. And that silence could sometimes say more than swagger ever could.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and scratched a few notes in the margin of her pad. The Gryffindor Beaters were overcommitting again. Sloppy. A strong enough counter-formation could pull them apart.

Her hand slowed.

The thought circled back, sharp and quiet: she wished Graham were a girl. It had landed inside her a few nights ago like a pebble tossed into deep water—barely a splash at first, but the ripples were still spreading. She hadn’t said it aloud. Didn’t know if she ever could. But it was there. Undeniable now. The shape of her want, the edges of it—soft, curious, drawn to something he didn’t quite have. Something he never could.

And that wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t fair.

But it was real.

She could still care about him. She did. But some part of her kept imagining what it would be like if he was different. If the lines of his body shifted. If the curve of his jaw softened. If his hands felt like hers, familiar in a way she couldn’t name.

And that made everything worse.

She didn’t know what she was doing. Not with Graham. Not with herself. Everything felt frayed at the edges.

But for now, she wasn’t calling it off.

She wasn’t ready to walk away from him. He made her feel safe, even when he didn’t understand her. Even when she didn’t understand herself. He made her feel like she could be someone—someone whole, even if she wasn’t.

That meant something.

For now, she just kept watching the match and tried to feel like herself again. The wind tugged at her collar, and her eyes stung more from the cold than the emotion she wouldn’t name.

It didn’t quite work.

But it was something.

Notes:

Finally finished editing this chapter! This has one of the main scenes I thought of when I started writing this so I hope you enjoy. I have a few more chapters that are largely written out (like chapter 31 which contains another big scene I had in mind when I started this) so don't worry we will reach the end of book 1 soon. I am looking forward to see what everyone thinks, thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 19

She found him in the corridor outside the common room the next night. He was leaning against the wall like he was trying to look casual, but the set of his jaw gave him away. His arms were folded, but his fingers twitched against his sleeves like he didn’t know what to do with them. He looked like he was waiting for a verdict, like he already knew he should have won.

“Hi,” she said.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked at her like she might vanish if he blinked. She hated that look. Hated how it made her feel like she owed him something. Like reassurance was the price of being forgiven.

“I’m sorry,” Lyra said, before he could say anything else. “For the other night. I—I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

She meant it. Her voice was quiet, stripped bare of the usual edge. Her fingers twisted together in front of her cloak. She hated apologies. Hated how they felt like surrender. But this wasn’t about pride. This was about survival. About keeping something in her life from slipping away.

Graham’s shoulders relaxed, but not fully. There was a flicker of something colder behind his eyes. Not just relief—satisfaction. Like she'd taken the first step in what he expected to be a long string of concessions. He gave a tight nod and reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers like he was reclaiming what had always belonged to him.

She let him take it.

They walked a little. Not far. Just enough to put a bit of space between them and the portrait hole. He led the way, never asking where she wanted to go. His grip on her hand was firm—controlling, even. It wasn’t unkind. It didn’t need to be. The point was made in the pressure alone.

“I was being honest,” he said after a long silence. “I was angry, but… I meant what I said.”

“I know.”

She didn’t press him for an apology. Didn’t even realize one hadn’t come. Her mind was too tangled, too tired. She just wanted something—someone—to hold onto. And he was here. That had to be enough. He wanted her. That had to count for something.

They stopped near a stretch of stone with a tapestry she barely remembered. A silver-furred wolf stitched into the velvet snarled silently down at them. Graham turned toward her like he expected an answer to a question he hadn’t asked.

“So… are we all right now?”

“I think so,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a full answer, but it was the only one she could give.

He leaned in and kissed her—without hesitation, without pause. Like nothing had ever broken. Like she belonged to him again, and this sealed it. It was soft at first, then firmer. She let him. Kissed him back. Tried to pretend it wasn’t for the sake of peace.

But her mind flickered.

She wished he were a girl.

The thought wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even loud. It just was. Sitting quietly in the corner of her heart where it had lived for the last few nights. And with it came guilt—sharp and metallic. She hadn’t asked for this realization. It felt like a betrayal. Like something she wasn’t allowed to feel.

She wanted someone to love her. Maybe even him. Maybe it didn’t matter that sometimes she closed her eyes and imagined something different. A different body. A different voice. A softness Graham didn’t have and would never offer.

When the kiss ended, he smiled.

She tried to.

“I missed you,” he said.

She nodded, but the words caught in her throat. “Me too,” she managed, even though she wasn’t sure it was true. Or maybe she just missed the version of herself who hadn’t felt like this—fractured, foreign in her own skin.

Back in the common room, they sat together. Graham settled onto the couch like he belonged there, like she was a piece of furniture he’d reclaimed. His arm draped behind her shoulders, fingers curling against her upper arm with idle possessiveness. She leaned into him when others passed, too tired to pull away. Let them see what they wanted. Let him have his claim.

She didn’t want to be normal.

She wanted to be whole.

Later, she excused herself. Homework. Revision. Something.

His jaw tightened. Just slightly. But she saw it.

He kissed her temple—not gently—and let her go. Like he was doing her a favor.

She crossed the common room alone, her boots heavy on the smooth stone floor, and made her way into the girls’ wing of the dormitories. The corridor was empty, dimly lit by the glow of the lake pressing in beyond the enchanted windows. Her steps were slow, quiet, like each one needed permission. When she reached her bed, she stood in front of it for a long time without moving. Her reflection in the dark glass of the lake-facing window stared back at her like a stranger. Her chest ached in places she didn’t have names for. The water beyond the glass swirled slow and green, the murky calm of something hiding in the dark.

She crawled into bed without changing and stared at the canopy like it might split open and swallow her.

She liked women.

She hadn’t said it, hadn’t even fully thought it until now. But the signs had been there—flashes in mirrors, stolen glances at softness she couldn’t explain, the strange ache in her chest whenever someone like Pomfrey smiled gently or when she caught herself watching another girl’s hands. Moments that hadn’t made sense at the time, or hadn’t seemed worth questioning. But now, with everything sitting raw and open, it all clicked into place. Graham made her feel safe. But not seen. Not really. Not the way she needed. And she didn’t want to hurt him. But pretending—gods, pretending—was its own kind of harm.

And that was the thing. She wasn’t supposed to want more. She was supposed to be grateful. He liked her. He wanted her. What more could she possibly need?

Because she was a girl. And he was a boy. And that was supposed to be enough.

She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly, burying her face in the fabric of her dressing gown. The words repeated again and again in her head.

I like women.

And it felt like something that should crack her open.

But all it did was make her feel wrong.

Wrong in the way that twisted inside your stomach and whispered that you were ungrateful. Selfish. Defective.

Rodolphus had always said she was too difficult. Too cold. That she’d end up alone if she didn’t learn to behave. That she was a disappointment, a waste, that she never should have been born. And Lucius had once told her—without irony—that the only thing worse than an unruly woman was one who thought she didn’t need a man. She hadn’t believed him. Not fully. But part of her had listened. Had internalized every warning, every threat masked as advice.

They were voices in her head now. Echoes of a world that still clawed at the edges of her choices. They’d built her cage before she’d even known she was in one. And she was still standing inside it, too scared to test the lock.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But something inside her shifted. Just a little.

Like the first fracture in a glass wall.

A warning crack.

A beginning.

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

The next afternoon, Gemma found her by the window near the end of the common room, the one tucked between two stone columns where the kelp blurred the lake into slow-moving green shadows. Lyra hadn’t realized she’d been staring at nothing for nearly half an hour until Gemma sat beside her, dropping a handful of parchment and a half-eaten scone onto the table between them.

“You looked like you were about to become one with the windowsill,” Gemma said mildly, tearing off a corner of the scone. “Everything all right?”

Lyra blinked like she’d just been pulled from a fog. “Yeah.”

Gemma raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Lyra sighed. “No. Not really.”

Gemma didn’t press. She just pulled her legs up onto the bench and leaned her shoulder lightly against Lyra’s. The pressure was quiet, grounding. Familiar. It didn’t demand an answer, didn’t ask for more than Lyra could give.

They sat like that for a while. The lake cast shifting green patterns across the floor, rippling over their shoes like something alive. Time moved differently here, suspended in the hush of water and flickering light.

“He’s being nice again,” Lyra said eventually.

Gemma hummed, noncommittal.

“It’s like… when I apologize, things get easier. But only then.”

Gemma nodded slowly. “That’s not nothing, Lyra. That’s a pattern.”

“I don’t know,” Lyra murmured. “I just… I want to be loved. That’s all.”

There was a pause. One of the first years giggled from across the common room, and Lyra flinched like it had struck her.

“I know,” Gemma said, softer now. “You deserve to be.”

“I don’t think he’s trying to be cruel,” Lyra added quickly, like she needed to defend it, to defend him. “He just… he wants things a certain way. And I’m not always—”

“—easy?” Gemma offered. She didn’t say it unkindly.

Lyra looked at her.

Gemma didn’t smile. “You don’t owe anyone ease, Lyra.”

Lyra bit the inside of her cheek. “Sometimes it feels like I do.”

There was a long silence. Long enough that Lyra thought maybe the conversation was over.

“I think I’d prefer him if he were a girl,” she said quietly. Her voice barely carried over the low murmur of the common room.

Gemma’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t flinch. She just waited.

Lyra stared at her hands. “That makes me a terrible person, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Gemma said. Firm. Steady. “It makes you honest.”

“I feel… wrong,” Lyra admitted. “Like broken or something. Like I’m twisted up inside and I don’t even know what I want half the time. It’s like my body’s walking through something my mind can’t keep up with.”

“You’re not broken.”

“But I think I like—”

“Girls?”

Lyra nodded slowly, as if the motion itself might undo her. “Yeah. I think so. I don’t know. I mean, I do, but…”

“But it’s terrifying,” Gemma finished for her. “Because it changes everything.”

Lyra nodded again.

Gemma let that settle between them. She was quiet, but not distant. She watched Lyra with the kind of patience that didn’t ask anything in return. She didn’t fill the silence with advice or try to explain it away. She just stayed.

“You ever think about Pomfrey and McGonagall?” Gemma asked gently. “They’ve been together forever. They’re… they make sense. They’re good.”

Lyra swallowed. “Yeah. They’re lovely. I like them together. It’s not— It’s not them. It’s me.”

Gemma waited again.

“I’m a pure-blood,” Lyra said eventually, her voice low. “My whole life, it’s been Rodolphus and Lucius telling me what I’m supposed to be. Who I’m supposed to marry. It’s always a man. There’s always an heir. There’s always a script. It’s written in blood and tradition and expectation. And if I go off-script, it’s like I’m betraying the whole structure.”

She stared at the scone crumbs between them.

“I can’t picture a life where I get to have something else. Not really. Not without feeling like I’m breaking everything that held me up this long.”

“You’re not breaking anything,” Gemma said. “You’re just seeing clearly for the first time. And that’s terrifying. But it’s also yours. Not borrowed. Not forced.”

Lyra didn’t speak.

“You’re not them,” Gemma added. “You’re not Rodolphus. Or Lucius. Or the Black family tapestry.”

“No,” Lyra said, almost to herself. “But I was raised to think I’d end up like them.”

“And what if you don’t?” Gemma said softly. “What if you get to build something different?”

Lyra’s eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t—not yet. But the lump in her throat felt sharp enough to cut.

Gemma nudged the parchment toward her. “You don’t have to decide anything today. But you don’t have to do this alone either.”

Lyra reached for one of the papers, not because she cared what was on it, but because she needed to touch something real. Something that grounded her back in the world.

She didn’t say thank you. Gemma didn’t need her to.

But she stayed there beside her, steady and unshaken, like an anchor in a storm Lyra hadn’t realized she was caught in.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Chapter 20

Transfiguration was her best class—even if Ancient Runes would always be her favorite. She had a knack for it, sharp instincts paired with careful technique, and she knew how to make the magic bend exactly the way she wanted. There was something about the discipline of it that spoke to her: the way every movement had purpose, the way success relied on precision and patience, not instinct alone. It felt clean. Safe. Like if you could just understand the structure well enough, you could make anything change—turn chaos into shape, rough into smooth, confusion into clarity. Something broken into something whole. Like maybe, just maybe, if she could master every aspect of the spell, she could do that to herself, too. Fix the pieces that never quite fit.

She liked the reliability of it. The certainty. There was no guesswork with Transfiguration—either the spell worked or it didn’t. Either you had control, or you didn’t. It was honest in a way people never were. And Lyra was tired of lies. Tired of pretending things made sense when they didn’t. At least here, there was logic. Cause and effect. Error and correction. You could see where you'd gone wrong and try again. You could improve. You could practice until it stopped failing.

She needed that. Something that wouldn’t lie to her face. Something she could count on to behave exactly as it was meant to. The world beyond the classroom felt like walking a tightrope in the dark—people said one thing and meant another, smiled while they sank a knife in. But Transfiguration? Transfiguration told the truth.

And lately, that truth had become a tether.

Transfiguration just made sense in a way that very little else did lately.

But today, Lyra could hardly hear a word of what McGonagall was saying.

She sat near the middle of the room, flanked on one side by Gemma and on the other by Graham. Gemma’s notes were already in neat columns. Graham had pushed his chair slightly closer than necessary. His knee kept bumping hers under the desk, like a warning.

Across the room, McGonagall paced in front of the blackboard, her wand in hand, explaining the intricacies of Partial Object Transfiguration—specifically, how to safely alter the material composition of an object without disturbing its core structure. Her voice carried, calm and clipped, her movements precise. She was the same as she always was—unshakeable, composed. And Lyra couldn’t stop watching her.

Not because of the spellwork.

Because McGonagall loved women.

Because she had chosen a life that made room for that truth, and no one seemed to think she was broken.

Lyra’s stomach twisted. Her fingers tightened around her quill.

She couldn’t be like that. She wasn’t like that.

McGonagall had always seemed right—like a tower of steel and silk, unbending and good. But Lyra? Lyra felt like a crack in a mirror. Like something sharp pretending to be whole.

Gemma shifted beside her, glancing sideways with just the slightest wrinkle of concern between her brows.

Lyra dropped her gaze to her notes.

Graham leaned in closer. “You all right?” he murmured under his breath, the question too pointed to be gentle.

“Fine,” she said. Her voice came out clipped.

His fingers grazed her wrist as if to test whether she was lying. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t look at him either.

Gemma’s hand stilled on the page. She didn’t say anything, but the line of her jaw had tightened.

“Now,” McGonagall said from the front, her eyes sweeping the room. “You’ll work in pairs today. You’ll be practicing partial transfigurations on non-magical objects—specifically, altering small segments of material without disturbing the object's overall integrity. Precision will matter. Partner with someone whose concentration and control match your own.”

Graham immediately turned toward Lyra, placing his hand on her desk as if to stake a claim. “We’ll work together,” he said before she could speak.

She nodded. Automatically.

Gemma didn’t move.

The next half hour passed in a blur of incantations and wand angles. Graham kept correcting her, even when she didn’t need it. Every time her spell wavered—every time the material twitched instead of shifting—his voice was right there, low and insistent.

“Not like that. Your wrist’s too stiff. You’re rushing it again.”

She gritted her teeth. “I know how to cast it, Graham.”

He didn’t back off. “Then do it properly.”

Her hands burned.

Across the room, McGonagall was circling slowly, observing each pair. When she reached Lyra and Graham, she paused for just a beat longer than necessary. Her eyes flicked to Lyra’s face, then to the tension in her shoulders, then to Graham’s posture.

“Miss Lestrange,” she said quietly. “A moment after class, please.”

Graham’s head snapped up.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

McGonagall gave him a look. “That will be all, Mr. Montague.”

He said nothing else. But Lyra felt his displeasure ripple like a stormcloud.

When class ended, students filtered out. Graham lingered.

“I’ll wait outside,” he muttered.

“You don’t need to,” Lyra said.

His eyes flicked to McGonagall, then back to her. “I’ll wait.”

He left.

McGonagall gestured for Lyra to follow her.

They walked in silence to her office, footsteps echoing down the stone hall. When the door closed behind them, McGonagall motioned to the chair across from her desk.

“Sit.”

Lyra did.

McGonagall didn’t sit right away. She walked to the window, folded her hands behind her back, and stared out over the grounds for a long moment.

“I know what it looks like when someone’s unraveling,” she said finally.

Lyra’s heart kicked.

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly.

McGonagall turned, brows lifted just slightly. “That wasn’t a question.”

“I’m just tired,” Lyra added, her voice softer. “It’s nothing.”

Another long silence. McGonagall finally sat.

“You’re not obligated to tell me anything,” she said. “But you are allowed to. You know that?”

Lyra nodded, eyes fixed on her hands.

McGonagall waited a beat, then stood and opened the door again.

“You’re dismissed, Miss Lestrange.”

Lyra rose and left without another word.

She didn’t look up as she passed Graham in the corridor.

But she felt his eyes on her all the way back to the dungeons.

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

The letter was waiting for her on her bed.

Lyra stared at it for nearly a full minute before picking it up, her stomach already tight. Creamy parchment, elegant script, a dark green wax seal pressed with the Malfoy crest. She didn’t need to open it to know who it was from. Just the sight of it made her fingers curl in reflex.

It wasn’t Draco—he wouldn’t use wax, and definitely not the crest. He’d send something sarcastic, half-folded, probably smudged, maybe not even spelled shut. And it wasn’t Lucius. His letters came rarely, formal and brief, when they came at all. Thoughtful in their own way, but distant. Reserved. This—this had warmth to it. This had concern.

This was Narcissa. It could only be.

And that made it worse.

Because Narcissa never wrote without a reason.

Her fingers hovered for a moment, then cracked the seal. The parchment unfolded easily in her hand, the handwriting looping across the page in steady, deliberate strokes.

—

Dearest Lyra,

I’m not writing to pry. I know how you value your privacy, and I would never want to overstep. But when I received letters from both Minerva and Severus—and, most concerningly, from Draco—I knew I couldn’t stay silent.

I won’t pretend to know everything. But I can see the pattern, Lyra. And it frightens me. Not because I believe you’re weak—far from it—but because I know what it looks like when someone learns to hide their pain too well. I watched it happen to your mother. I watched her disappear behind a mask she never took off.

Please. Talk to someone.

If not Severus, then me. Or Minerva. Or anyone you trust. You don’t have to carry this alone.

I love you, Lyra. That has never been a question.

We'll have time to talk over Easter break. Just the two of us, if you're willing. You don’t need to say anything right away. I only want to make sure you’re truly all right.

With love, Narcissa

—

She read it once. Then again. A third time.

Her chest tightened with every word. Her fingers dug into the parchment like it might disappear. There was something brutal about how gentle the letter was—how obvious the care behind each word felt. It made her feel exposed, as though Narcissa had looked straight through the glamours and shadows and seen exactly what she didn’t want anyone to.

She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream.

She chose the second.

She left her dorm in a blur, barely registering her surroundings as she cut across the cool stone corridor. The letter was still crumpled in her fist as she reached Snape’s office and shoved the door open without knocking. It slammed against the stone wall with a sharp echo that startled even her.

Snape looked up slowly from his desk. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered.

“Miss Lestrange,” he said coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You told her,” Lyra snapped, striding forward and slamming the letter down in front of him. “You told Narcissa.”

Snape didn’t flinch. He glanced at the letter once, then folded his hands over his desk. “I informed her that I was concerned.”

“You had no right.”

“I had every right.” His voice was level, sharp. “Draco is my godchild. And as far as I’m concerned, you may as well be, too.”

That stopped her. Not because it was new—but because he’d never said it aloud. Never made it real like this.

She blinked, fury draining just a little. “I don’t need you interfering in my life,” she said, but it came out quieter than she meant it to.

Snape stood, slowly. “You may not think you do. But I have watched you unravel for months, and I will not sit back and do nothing.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.” His voice deepened—not louder, but heavier. “I know what it looks like when someone starts dimming themselves to survive someone else. I’ve seen what it does to a person when they believe they deserve it. I’ve watched people disappear into that kind of pain.”

He stepped around the desk and leaned back against it, arms folded. His tone softened—not weak, but measured. “I’m not calling it anything. I won’t make you label it. But I see what’s happening, Lyra. And I’m not going to ignore it because you’re too proud or too scared to admit it yet.”

She clenched her jaw. Her fists. Her eyes burned, but she wouldn’t let herself cry.

He let the silence settle for a moment, watching her carefully. Then his gaze shifted toward the letter again.

“She’s the closest thing you’ve had to a mother since Azkaban,” he said, quieter now. “And she loves you. That’s not sentiment. That’s fact. She’s been there. She knows what’s beneath the surface, even if you won’t say it out loud. And if she’s already reaching out—offering to help—then it’s because she will. You know she will. So listen to her. Even if it’s just for a moment.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” he interrupted sharply. “You need someone to remind you that this… this quiet collapse you’ve been hiding behind your eyes isn’t strength. It’s survival. And it’s not sustainable.”

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze.

“You are not your mother,” he said more quietly. “And you are certainly not your step-father. You don’t have to carry their damage like it’s a legacy.”

She let out a slow, shaking breath. The fire crackled behind him, the only other sound in the room. It should have felt warm, but it only reminded her how cold her insides felt.

Snape stepped forward and laid a hand on the letter. “You don’t have to decide anything now. But you should read it again. Not because she needs to be heard—but because you need to know you’re not alone. That someone still sees you, even when you can’t.”

Lyra stared at the parchment. At her name written in Narcissa’s hand.

Finally, she reached for it again.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, voice rough but steady.

Snape nodded, once. “That’s all I ask.”

She turned and left his office without another word.

But she didn’t throw the letter away. Didn’t tear it to pieces, didn’t shove it to the bottom of her trunk like the others. Didn’t burn this one just to watch it curl.

She folded it, carefully this time, and tucked it into the inside pocket of her robes—close enough to feel the weight of it with every step back to the common room. Like a reminder. Like a promise.

She didn’t believe she was okay.

But someone else still wanted her to be.

And for now, that was enough. She wasn’t ready to ask for help—not yet—but she would listen. She would try. Try to understand what was happening inside her, try to make sense of what she was feeling before anyone else could name it for her. Maybe Narcissa would help her figure it out. Maybe she wouldn't. But Lyra was willing to let the door crack open. Just a little.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Hi, just a warning of suicidal thoughts and self harm in this chapter.

They stepped off the Hogwarts Express in the late afternoon, the spring chill still clinging to the platform. Lucius was already waiting just outside the barrier, standing apart from the crowd of bustling parents and younger siblings. Without a word, he guided Lyra and Draco to a quiet alley, where the three of them Disapparated with a sharp crack.

The Apparition dropped them just outside the wrought iron gates of Malfoy Manor. A cool breeze stirred Lyra’s robes as she and Draco stepped onto the gravel path, the air smelling faintly of early spring and old stone. The gates opened before them with a whisper.

Draco didn’t say anything. He walked beside her in silence, his usual confident stride muted. Maybe it was the gray light or the silence between them, but everything about the approach to the manor felt heavier than it should have—like the house itself could sense their moods and had dimmed accordingly.

Lyra kept her gaze on the path ahead. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She didn’t want to pretend everything was fine.

She knew this path. Knew the manor’s silhouette as it loomed closer, every window and balcony and vine that trailed the stone. She’d walked this way a hundred times before. And yet it didn’t feel like coming home.

It felt like returning to something she wasn’t sure she wanted.

When they reached the front steps, a house-elf appeared, bowing low as it opened the doors and took their trunks. The polished marble inside caught the fading light, sharp and cold beneath her feet. Everything gleamed, too clean, too precise—like a stage set waiting for someone to perform a role.

Lyra didn’t want to play her part. Not tonight.

The walls echoed faintly with the sound of their footsteps. Lyra paused on the threshold, her fingers twitching at her sides. Narcissa was already waiting for them.

She crossed the room in three smooth steps, pulling Draco into a brief but firm hug before turning to Lyra.

"Welcome home," she said gently.

Lyra nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak. The word home sat strangely in her chest.

Narcissa didn't push. Just offered a small smile and gestured toward the staircase. "Dinner in half an hour. You both have time to change."

They climbed the stairs side by side. Not speaking. The silence didn’t feel tense—it just felt full. Like too many words hanging in the air, none of them ready to fall. Draco glanced at her once, like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

Dinner was served in the smaller dining room, a long table built for eight but set for three. The candles floated a little lower than usual, their golden light casting shadows against the dark wood paneling. Lucius sat at the head, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. The silverware gleamed.

They spoke of school at first. Grades. Professors. Draco made a few snide comments about Hagrid’s creature obsession and Granger’s tendency to over-answer in every class, and Lucius chuckled without real warmth. Narcissa watched them both carefully, her fork moving slowly across her plate. Her eyes flicked to Lyra more than once, but she said nothing.

Halfway through the main course, Lucius glanced at Lyra.

"And how is Montague? Still treating you well?"

Lyra didn’t flinch. Not outwardly.

She picked up her glass of water. “Fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

Lucius nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. He's a solid match."

She forced a tight smile. Narcissa’s hand paused over her plate, but still, she said nothing.

Later, she found herself alone in the hallway that led to the east wing, where the library was. The sconces along the walls flickered in the draft, casting thin gold lines across the stone. Draco had gone off to his room to write a letter to Pansy, or maybe just to be alone. She didn’t ask.

She wandered until the door to the library creaked open beneath her hand.

Lucius stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel. He didn’t turn when she entered, but his voice carried easily in the stillness.

“I remember when your mother used to hide in here during the holidays when she visited. Pretend she was reading, though she never turned a page.”

Lyra stayed in the doorway, unsure if she wanted to step inside.

“I assume you know why I approved of Montague,” Lucius said, finally turning to look at her. "He’s well positioned. Comes from an old line. Decent instincts."

She nodded faintly. Her throat felt dry.

“If the match continues to suit you,” he continued, “I wouldn’t mind opening a conversation with Lord Montague this summer. Nothing formal yet. Just preliminary terms.”

Lyra's stomach twisted. Her mouth formed words before she could stop it.

“Thank you,” she said. It came out hollow.

Lucius studied her a moment longer. Then he nodded, once, and turned back to the fire. The moment closed like a door.

She didn’t go to her room right away.

Instead, she wandered the manor in slow circles. The portraits blinked at her with cold, watchful eyes. Some of them followed her with vague disapproval, their frames like cages. She passed the staircase three times before realizing it. Passed the east-facing windows where moonlight spilled like ice onto the floor.

Everything felt too polished. Too still. Like the manor itself had paused to hold its breath.

By the time she crawled into bed, her skin felt too tight. She stared at the ceiling in the dark and tried to remember what it felt like to belong here.

That night, the dreams came.

No images. No scenes. Just drowning.

A weight pulling her down through black water, lungs burning, her body thrashing against nothing. Her chest locked tight. Her thoughts shattered like glass in deep water.

And above her, a light she could never reach.

When she woke, her hands were shaking. Her pillow was damp with sweat. The sheets tangled around her like bindings.

She stared at the ceiling. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move.

Just breathed. In. Out. Again.

But it wasn’t enough.

The silence of the manor pressed down on her chest like stone.

And for a moment—just one—she wanted to disappear. Entirely. Like smoke curling into nothing.

And she wondered, not for the first time, if it would really matter if she did.

The thought didn’t startle her. It landed with a kind of heavy stillness, the same way rain fell in graveyards. Not loud. Just final. She lay on her back, arms crossed over her chest like a body already being mourned, and stared blankly into the dark. Her whole body felt too small to contain the pressure building inside it—weeks of silence and strain pressing in from every angle.

What would change, really, if she stopped existing? If she slipped away in the middle of the night, dissolved into mist, and never came back? Would Draco notice? Would he even understand? Would Narcissa still try to write letters to a ghost? Would Lucius even bother to look up at the old portraits where she was frozen in time, tucked into the corner of a frame like an afterthought?

Her chest ached like it had been hollowed out with a dull knife. She closed her eyes and imagined the weight of the manor above her crumbling, stone by stone, and burying her with it. There was something seductive in that idea—not of violence, but of stillness. Of quiet.

She turned onto her side and reached beneath the pillow with numb fingers. Her wand was there—always there—but she didn’t want spells. Didn’t want healing charms or sleep draughts or numbing hexes.

She needed something real. Something that didn’t lie.

Her hand found the quill knife in the drawer of her nightstand instead. Thin. Sharp. Trustworthy in its cruelty.

She stared at it for a long time, the blade catching the faintest moonlight, pale and cold.

The first cut across her forearm was shallow, a tentative line just beneath the skin. A whisper.

The second was deeper.

By the third, her breath had begun to shudder.

It wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t control. It was proof. That she still existed. That something in her could still feel. Her eyes blurred, but not with tears—just the strange clarity that came with pain that finally matched the weight inside.

She didn’t know how many more came after that. She lost count. Her breath came in sharp little bursts, like she couldn’t draw it fully. Her hands were slick. The bedsheets stained.

When she finally stopped, it wasn’t because it hurt. It was because she was tired.

With trembling fingers, she whispered a cleaning charm. Watched the blood vanish. The cuts sealed. The room reset.

But she knew what had happened. She would carry it in her bones.

There was something broken in her. She could feel it under her skin—like spiderweb cracks on porcelain. Like decay in the walls of a house no one had entered in years.

She curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her middle, and let the silence stretch long and deep around her. Not because she felt calmer.

But because there was nothing left to feel.

She didn’t sleep. Not really.

But she didn’t move either.

She stayed curled in the center of the bed, breathing in the scent of blood long vanished, her arms wrapped around her ribs like she could hold herself together if she just held tightly enough. The dark pressed close, heavy as a shroud, and somewhere in the distance a clock chimed the hour, unnoticed.

She imagined Narcissa walking past her door, pausing just briefly. She imagined Draco, fast asleep, unaware of the storm unraveling just across the hall. And she imagined her mother, too—locked behind Azkaban bars, broken in a way Lyra had spent years trying to pretend wasn’t hereditary.

But tonight it felt like it was.

Tonight, it felt like she was becoming the worst of everything she came from.

She shut her eyes against the ceiling, biting back a sob that never came.

And in that stillness, she told herself she could get through it. One breath. Then another. Then maybe another after that.

Not because she believed it—but because there was no other choice.

Because if she didn’t believe it, who would?

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

The morning light was too soft.

It crept through the curtains like it didn’t want to disturb her, but Lyra lay wide awake, watching it bleed across the floor with glassy eyes. Her limbs were heavy. Her mouth dry. Her arm ached from the cuts she’d healed the night before—not entirely, just enough to stop the bleeding. Enough to make them disappear beneath her skin but not from her mind. Not from the way her body remembered the shape of the blade, the sting of the edge, the relief in the pain.

She hadn’t slept. Not truly. There had been flashes of nothingness—brief, weightless pockets of silence—but even in those, she’d been aware of herself. Of her skin. Of her heart pounding like it wanted to break free. Every breath had been effort. Every minute a choice not to sink back into the dark. It was exhausting, being alive.

She got up slowly, careful not to let the sheets drag. Not to brush her arm against anything too hard. She moved like she was made of glass—fractured, fragile, one wrong step from shattering. She changed with numb fingers, dressing in pale green robes with silver trim, the ones Narcissa had bought her last year. They still fit. They always would. That was the thing about pure-blood expectations—they never changed size, only shape.

In the mirror, she looked composed. A little tired, maybe, but nothing that would draw suspicion. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by travel or dreams or the weight of being a sixth-year. She smoothed her curls on top—short, thick, shaped clean at the sides, no length to hide behind. There was nothing to tuck. Nothing soft to fall over her cheekbones. Just the face she had and the things she couldn’t forget. Her reflection looked like someone she didn’t know anymore. Like someone who hadn’t spent the night wondering whether the world would be better without her.

She didn’t speak to anyone that morning.

Not Draco, who passed her in the corridor without comment, his eyes flicking to hers with a question he didn’t ask. His expression lingered on her face like he knew something, but not enough to push.

Not the house-elf who offered her tea, who lingered a little longer than usual in case she changed her mind, as if sensing the tension in the air.

Not even the mirror, which stared back at her like it knew. Like it was waiting.

She didn’t speak until dinner.

The Easter meal at Malfoy Manor was quieter than usual. The table was dressed in fresh lilies and pale silver runners, a soft glow radiating from the candelabra floating overhead. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. It made her skin itch.

Lyra hated it.

She took small bites. Chewed slowly. Answered questions with one-word replies. Draco did most of the talking, recounting a Charms mishap from earlier in the term and making dry comments about Gryffindors that earned a small smile from Lucius. Narcissa didn’t eat much. She kept glancing at Lyra, her expression unreadable, like she was trying to find the right time to say something and kept losing it. Like she saw too much but didn’t know how to name it.

Eventually, as the plates were cleared and the wine was set aside, Narcissa reached over and rested her hand lightly on Lyra’s.

“Will you walk with me?”

It wasn’t a request.

Lyra hesitated, then nodded.

They left the dining room and turned down the long hall toward the solarium. Narcissa walked slowly, her posture elegant but relaxed, like this wasn’t a confrontation. Like it was just a stroll. Like she was trying to offer safety without saying the word. The quiet hum of the manor echoed in their steps.

They stepped inside, and the scent of blooming wisteria curled through the air. Moonlight filtered through the enchanted glass ceiling, casting long shadows on the tile. It was beautiful in a way that hurt.

“I’m not here to interrogate you,” Narcissa said softly, settling into one of the cushioned seats. “I just want to talk. Like we used to.”

Lyra didn’t sit right away. She stood for a moment, arms crossed, staring at the glass ceiling where stars were beginning to appear. Everything inside her felt brittle, like if she moved too quickly the words would crack her open.

“There’s nothing really wrong,” she said finally. “I’ve just been tired. School’s been... a lot.”

Narcissa didn’t argue.

“I’m sure it has,” she said gently. “But tired doesn’t make someone look like they’re disappearing.”

“I’m not disappearing.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Then tell me what’s pulling you under.”

Lyra sank into the chair across from her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Or I do, but it’s stupid. It’s things I should be able to handle. Things everyone else seems to be fine with.”

“Things don’t stop hurting just because you think they should.”

There was another pause. Longer this time. Lyra’s hands curled in her lap, nails digging into her palms through the sleeves of her robe. Her voice cracked.

“I just want to fix it on my own,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to figure it out before someone else tells me what I’m feeling. Before I let someone else decide what it means.”

“I’m not trying to name it for you,” Narcissa said. “I just don’t want to look back and realize I stayed silent when you needed me to reach out.”

Lyra looked away, jaw tight. Her throat burned.

“I don’t want to be broken,” she said again, like if she repeated it enough times, it might be true. “And I—I don’t want to be like Rodolphus.”

Narcissa’s face didn’t flinch. “You’re nothing like him.”

Lyra exhaled shakily. “I know. I know that. But sometimes… sometimes I feel like I’m unraveling the same way. Like there’s something inside me that he left behind, and it’s rotting everything else. Like the worst parts of him made a home in me.”

“You’re not him. And you never will be.”

Lyra blinked, eyes unfocused. “I don’t want to be like my mother either. But I remember… I remember that she tried to protect me. That somewhere under everything else, she loved me. I think she wanted to be more than what she became.”

“She did,” Narcissa said softly. “She did love you.”

Lyra nodded, eyes glassy. “I just… I don’t know what that means anymore. I can’t remember what it feels like. To be loved like that.”

“You don’t have to understand all of it right now,” Narcissa said gently. “You’re allowed to be unsure. To not have it all sorted. But you’re here, Lyra. And that means something. Let that be enough for now.”

After a long silence, Narcissa added, “We’ll be leaving for the station early tomorrow. I’ll make sure you have something packed for the train—something warm.”

Lyra nodded again. Slower this time. She didn’t speak again that night.

When she went upstairs, she slid her fingers into the inside pocket of her robe and pulled out Narcissa’s letter. The only one she hadn’t burned. The one that still smelled faintly of perfume and old parchment. The only thing that hadn’t slipped through her fingers.

She pressed it against her chest and breathed.

And for the first time all break, she let herself believe that maybe… maybe not everything was lost yet.

Notes:

When I was editing this chapter I had Alex Warren's song Eternity on repeat, it just released today and I felt it fit the vibe in a way. Thank you for reading and don't forget to tell me what you think!

Chapter 22

The train ride back to Hogwarts had been quiet.

Lyra and Draco shared a compartment, tucked in a corner near the middle of the train where the chatter was less relentless. He’d spent most of the ride flipping through a book on hex theory, occasionally pointing out lines and passages with a practiced sort of smugness, as if waiting for her to disagree just so he could argue.

But Lyra didn’t argue.

She’d sat with her chin in her hand, eyes half-focused on the window. The trees blurred past like smoke, and the rhythm of the train felt too steady against her pulse. There was something numbing about the way the countryside rolled by, indifferent to her silence, her stillness. She found herself counting fence posts as they zipped past, losing track again and again.

“You’re being weird,” Draco had muttered at one point.

Lyra raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at him. “You’re always weird.”

It was the closest they came to a real conversation.

By the time they arrived back at the castle, the sky was growing dim. A sharp breeze swept off the lake, biting through cloaks and scarves. Lyra walked a step behind Draco through the Entrance Hall, her fingers tight around the strap of her bag. Students spilled in all around them, laughter echoing against the high stone walls.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile.

The castle felt colder than it had before the break. Emptier, despite all the voices.

She didn’t talk to Graham that night. Didn’t talk to Gemma either. She’d gone straight to her dorm, dropped her bag on the floor, and stared at the ceiling until her eyes stung. She couldn't have said what she was thinking. Mostly, it was just a loud, echoing nothing.

The next morning, she didn’t eat much. The Great Hall was too loud. Too bright. Even the Slytherin table felt like it pressed in from every side, the green and silver banners like walls closing in. She picked at toast and left without speaking a word.

It wasn’t until the walk up to the pitch that she found herself grounding again. Found something to focus on. Something that wasn’t tangled in her ribs or lodged behind her sternum like a thorn.

The stands were packed, students spilling into the rows with scarves knotted tight and cheeks flushed from the late March chill. Hufflepuff yellow and Ravenclaw blue streaked the air in banners and face paint, the sky above a brilliant, cloudless dome of cold spring sunlight. It was the second-to-last match of the season, and while neither team had a shot at the Cup, the stakes were still high—for pride, for house points, and for proving something before the final match. The air buzzed with noise and energy, the sound of hundreds of students chattering, cheering, and stomping on the wooden stands like a living heartbeat. Lyra could feel the vibration of it beneath her boots.

She sat toward the back of the Slytherin section, her eyes locked on the field. The chill in the air nipped at her face, but she didn’t bother with gloves. Beside her, Gemma leaned forward with her chin in her hands, boots propped up on the bench in front of them. She was muttering about the last Ravenclaw match under her breath, mostly to herself. Terrence shifted restlessly beside her, arms folded and jaw tense, his attention flicking constantly between the Chasers and the Seekers.

Graham had one arm stretched along the back of the bench behind Lyra’s shoulders, close but not quite touching. It was a familiar gesture now, one that used to make her feel safe, tethered—but lately, it just made her feel watched. He wasn’t paying attention to the game. Not really. He was watching her. And she pretended not to notice.

Her notes from the last match were folded neatly in her pocket, but she didn’t need them. She had every Hufflepuff formation memorized, every weak spot in their defense marked. She knew which Beater hesitated on the backhand swing and which Chaser favored their left when breaking. Her eyes scanned the field with purpose—this was about Hufflepuff now. Their tempo. Their Keeper’s reaction time. She needed to be ready. She needed something to make sense.

Cedric Diggory was fast—annoyingly fast—and not just for a Seeker. His reflexes were clean, sharp. He moved like he was part of the air itself, slipping through pockets of wind and space like they bent around him. She narrowed her eyes, tracking his flight path, watching the way he darted behind one of his Chasers before climbing sharply again, wings of his robes flaring in the sunlight.

“Still think we can take them?” Gemma murmured, not looking away.

“Absolutely,” Lyra said. "We’re tighter on defense. And their Beaters are out of sync today. They’re leaving their Keeper exposed—again."

Gemma hummed. “Still—Diggory’s quick. He’ll give Terrence a run.”

Terrence gave her a sideways look but didn’t disagree. "I'll get him. He can’t dodge forever."

Lyra didn’t answer, but her lips twitched slightly. It was as close to a grin as she’d managed all week. The movement tugged at something in her chest—a flicker of something like herself, if only briefly.

Another goal went in—Hufflepuff, again—and the stadium roared. Across the field, yellow flags waved frantically, and even from this distance, Lyra could hear Professor Sprout’s delighted cheer echo across the pitch.

“They’re playing aggressive,” Graham said, finally speaking.

Lyra nodded. "Too aggressive. They’re burning too much energy early on. If they don’t find the Snitch soon, they’ll lose momentum—and once they start flagging, they won’t recover."

Gemma cast her a sly glance. “Someone’s been reading her playbooks again.”

Lyra didn’t smile. “Always.”

Her eyes were still on the pitch, but her thoughts had begun to drift. Not away from the game—she could analyze it in her sleep—but away from the clarity it usually brought her. Graham’s hand moved slightly behind her, fingers brushing the fabric of her cloak, and she resisted the urge to flinch.

She didn’t move away. But she didn’t lean in either.

The truth was, everything felt off. Like her thoughts had been cut loose from their moorings. And no matter how hard she tried to fix her focus on the game, her mind kept circling back to the same, unwelcome place.

When she looked up again, Diggory had begun circling low, eyes sweeping the pitch like he’d seen something. Terrence tensed beside her, already scanning for the glint of gold.

“Watch this,” Lyra muttered.

Moments later, both Seekers dove at once.

The crowd surged to its feet.

Gemma was shouting something—encouragement, maybe—but Lyra barely heard her. The Snitch zipped upward at the last second, and Diggory veered, twisting midair with a move so clean it made Lyra’s breath catch. The Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, was just a fraction behind, and not by much, but enough.

“Shit,” Terrence muttered under his breath.

Lyra frowned. "We’re going to have to double up on him. Cassius can pressure him from the right flank, force him wide. Then you cut him off before he gains altitude."

Graham leaned a little closer. “You’ve already written the match, haven’t you?”

“Every version of it,” Lyra replied. But her voice lacked its usual edge. The words felt automatic.

Even now, with the adrenaline of strategy pulsing through her, there was a part of her that felt disconnected. Hollow. Like her heart wasn’t where it used to be. Like she was studying a match that didn’t really matter. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on the outside of her own thoughts.

She glanced toward the sky, tracking Diggory’s form again, then let her gaze drift to Graham for just a moment.

And found herself wondering again, what it would be like if he were a girl.

What it would feel like to lean against softness. To run her fingers through hair that was longer, not cropped too close at the neck—like her own was. What it would feel like to be held by someone she didn’t have to perform for. Someone she didn’t have to become smaller to please. Someone she didn’t feel like she had to prove herself to, every second.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Forced herself to focus.

Graham shifted beside her, leaning in again, whispering something about the Bludgers—she didn’t quite catch it. She nodded anyway, out of habit more than anything else.

Later. That was for later.

Right now, there was a game to study. And maybe, if she kept studying it hard enough, it would quiet the part of her that still didn’t know how to name what was wrong.

And worse—what she might be starting to want.

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

Later that evening, the common room had mostly emptied. A few second-years were playing chess in the corner, but the dim firelight flickered over hushed voices and the clink of pieces moving across boards.

Graham had tugged her down beside him onto one of the lower sofas. He was quiet for a while, eyes flicking toward the stairs as if waiting for someone to pass by.

“You’ve been distant,” he said eventually, his voice low.

“I’ve been tired,” Lyra replied, which wasn’t a lie, just not the truth he was looking for.

He shifted toward her, his hand sliding over hers with just a little too much pressure. “I just want you to talk to me. You’re mine, Lyra. You know that, right?”

She stiffened at the word. But nodded.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he reached up and brushed his fingers against the short curls at the nape of her neck. “You should grow it out. I like it better long.”

Lyra blinked. “This is how I like it.”

“Yeah, but it used to be longer. You looked softer then. I remember when we came back for fourth year and you’d hacked it all off. I loved it when it was long—the way it curled around your shoulders. It made you look... gentler.”

She didn’t answer.

He pulled her closer, and before she could respond, his mouth was on hers. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was forceful and insistent and claiming.

She let him.

Her body moved without her. Her hands braced on his chest as he pulled her into his lap, the back of her knees hitting the edge of the cushion before folding awkwardly. His fingers slid up her thigh, disappearing under the hem of her skirt like it was nothing.

Lyra’s mind blanked. Not with desire. With numbness.

He was always so close. He’d always been there. He said he loved her. He wanted her. And there was a part of her that wanted that so badly she’d let herself forget everything else. Wanted to be held. Wanted to be enough.

They didn’t click like they used to. That thought came out of nowhere, cutting through the haze.

But she didn’t move.

She tilted her chin up, letting him kiss her again. Letting his hand roam.

Because this was the part where she was wanted. This was where someone said she was enough. And even if it felt hollow, even if something twisted in her chest like guilt or grief or confusion—at least she wasn’t alone.

And right now, being wanted—even by someone who didn’t really see her—felt better than being invisible.

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

The first weekend of April brought with it a Hogsmeade trip, and a sudden shift in the air that smelled like thawed earth and new rain. The snow was long gone, but the cobblestones were still slick in places, shadows clinging stubbornly to alley edges and the curves of gutters. Students poured into the village in loud, laughing groups, chatter rising into the cool morning air. Scarves trailed behind them like banners, the mix of house colors painting the streets with energy.

Lyra walked a half step behind Graham.

He hadn’t given her much of a choice, really. He’d grabbed her hand almost the moment they stepped through the gates, steering her down the sloping path toward the village with all the urgency of someone on a mission. The spring air was crisp, the sun weak but steady, and Hogsmeade unfolded ahead of them in bursts of color and sound. But Lyra didn’t get a chance to take any of it in. Graham was already tugging her toward Honeydukes, weaving through students like it was a race. He didn’t ask if she wanted sweets. Or butterbeer. Or to slow down. He just decided.

She let him. Because it was easier.

At first.

They hit four shops in under thirty minutes. Honeydukes, Zonko’s, then the quill shop, then finally Dervish and Banges—though they hadn’t actually bought anything. Graham mostly paced aisles and talked at her, not to her. His hand never left her back or elbow for long, constantly reminding her—reminding everyone—that she was his. His to touch. His to guide. His to lead wherever he pleased.

Gemma had rolled her eyes when they split up outside the gates, slipping her arm through Terrence’s and leaning into him with a grin. “We’re actually doing this like a proper date,” she said with a smirk, glancing back at Lyra like she knew exactly what kind of day she was in for. “You know—fun, food, not being dragged around like a parcel.”

Then, her expression softened, just slightly. “If you need us, Lyra—me or Terrence—you know you can come find us, yeah?”

Lyra had nodded, brushing it off with a tight smile. One that didn’t reach her eyes.

But Gemma had seen more than Lyra realized.

Now, two hours later, her feet hurt. Her head hurt. She hadn’t said more than five words in the last half hour, and Graham hadn’t noticed. He was still talking—about practice schedules and strategies, about how Flint was being an arse again, and how he thought Pucey was slipping—but he didn’t seem to notice she wasn’t really listening.

When they passed behind Madam Puddifoot’s, it happened. The alley was mostly empty, save for the distant clink of glass and the steady drip of water from the edge of a low eave. Graham pulled her sideways, tugging her into the narrow space between the tea shop and the bookstore.

“What are you—?” she started, but her voice lacked bite.

He didn’t answer.

He kissed her instead.

It was heated from the start. There was nothing gentle about it—his hands gripped her hips, his lips pressed hard against hers, his teeth grazing just enough to make her flinch. He kissed like he wanted to prove something. Like she was a puzzle he was determined to force into place.

She responded automatically. Her hands found his chest. Her eyes fluttered shut.

He backed her against the wall, pressing closer. One hand slid beneath her cloak, fingers curling around her waist before drifting lower. His palm grazed the edge of her skirt and crept up her thigh—too familiar, too confident.

She didn’t stop him.

Not exactly.

But she didn’t want this. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

“Graham—” she tried, but he only kissed her harder, swallowing her protest.

“Graham, stop—”

That’s when the voice cut in.

“Well, isn’t this charming.”

Lyra froze. Her stomach dropped.

Penelope Clearwater stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly, eyes like daggers. Percy Weasley hovered awkwardly beside her, his mouth half open, clearly regretting every step that had brought him here.

Graham cursed under his breath and stepped back, hands falling to his sides, jaw tight.

Penelope’s gaze didn’t budge. It was fixed on Lyra, sharp with something almost triumphant. “Getting a bit desperate, aren’t we?”

Lyra’s mouth opened, then closed. The anger surged—but it wasn’t the kind she expected.

Of everyone here, she thought suddenly, irrationally—she’d rather be with Penelope.

Not because Penelope was kind. She wasn’t. She was a jealous bitch and sharp as broken glass.

But she was also beautiful. Blunt. Unapologetically herself.

And she didn’t pretend. She didn’t pretend to care only to corner her. Didn’t pretend to love only to control. She was cruel, yes, but she was honest about it.

Percy cleared his throat, glancing between them. “Pen—maybe we should just—”

“We were leaving anyway,” Lyra said flatly, voice tight.

She didn’t look at Graham.

She just stepped past him, brushing past Penelope with a cold nod, and kept walking.

The weight of Graham’s stare burned into her back the whole way out of the alley.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t turn around.

Her cheeks were burning, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. Something cracked open inside her, something she didn’t yet have words for.

And for the first time that day, she wished she’d gone with Gemma.

Chapter 23

The common room was quieter than usual that Sunday morning, the hush so complete it felt like the stone walls themselves were still dozing. Filtered sunlight curled through the green-tinged windows, scattering patterns across the flagstone floor and glinting against the shifting scales of the silver-and-sable tapestry by the hearth. Most of the younger years were still asleep in their dormitories, and the few older students awake were tucked into corners, quills scratching quietly or eyes closed, heads leaned against the cool stone. There was a rare stillness to it all—like the castle had decided to hold its breath.

Lyra sat curled on the end of the long leather settee closest to the fire, legs folded beneath her and a book balanced on her lap. Not that she was reading it. Her fingers rested lightly on the open page, unmoving, while her gaze kept drifting toward the embers, watching how they shifted and snapped in restless red-orange bursts. Graham was beside her, one arm flung across the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly brushing the nape of her neck as he reread the morning's Quidditch notes. His touch was gentle, automatic. Familiar.

"We were too tight in the third loop," Graham said after a while, his voice low. "Marcus nearly clipped Adrian. If Terrence hadn't dropped low, we'd have lost that drive."

Lyra nodded once, though the words slid past her. She hadn't been thinking about Quidditch at all.

Her mind was still stuck on Professor Quirrell.

He'd looked worse than ever yesterday. Even from the stands, she'd seen it—the way his skin clung sallow to his bones, how his eyes darted beneath his turban like something was chasing him inside his own skull. And the way he flinched at sudden sounds, like every noise hit him like a curse. He'd left the match barely halfway through. No one else had seemed to notice or care—but Lyra had. She always noticed things like that. Things that didn’t quite fit, didn’t behave the way they should. There was something off about him, something wrong.

"You're not listening," Graham muttered.

She blinked and turned her head. "I am. Third loop. Flint needs to widen."

Graham didn’t look convinced but let it go, instead reaching for her hand and lacing their fingers together. His thumb grazed her knuckle. "We should probably review the Chasers' formation again before the Hufflepuff match. I was thinking we could adjust the left-side pass sequence and double-check everyone's timing. You want to run it at next practice, or should I?"

"I’ll run it," Lyra said automatically. She hated the way he always phrased things like that, like he was offering her the illusion of control. As if he already had a backup plan in mind, just waiting to step in and take over the second she faltered. As if it were his team to run.

Graham smiled slightly, as if appeased—or as if she'd given the correct answer. "Good."

She exhaled quietly and stared down at her book again, trying to focus on the passage about switching spells. But the words refused to settle. They swam and blurred and rearranged themselves in her mind. Her thoughts kept slipping back to Quirrell—how he'd jumped when Terry Boot dropped his bag in the corridor last week, how he flinched at nearly every question in Defence now. And that look in his eyes yesterday—not fear, not exactly. Something worse. Whatever was wrong, it was getting worse. Quickly.

By breakfast, she'd barely touched her food. Even the kippers looked grey and unappetizing. Graham was talking animatedly with Marcus and Miles about broomstick grip wax, and Lyra let the conversation pass over her head like static. She sat in silence, staring at her toast, until Gemma dropped into the seat beside her and nudged her elbow.

"You look like someone kicked your cat."

"Don’t have a cat."

"Yeah, but if you did, it’d look like that."

"I'm fine."

"You always say that," Gemma said, not unkindly.

They rose with the rest of the sixth-years and headed toward Transfiguration. The corridor was warm with early sun, and Lyra could feel Graham's gaze flick toward her and then away again. He hadn’t held her hand on the walk over.

Outside McGonagall’s classroom, the students clustered in loose, sleepy lines. A few were murmuring about upcoming essays; someone let out a yawn that sounded vaguely like a dying walrus.

McGonagall swept into the room just as the bell rang, robes billowing. "Wands away. Today, we'll be reviewing practical applications of cross-species Transfiguration. You may recall from last term that such spells are delicate, and miscasting can have catastrophic results."

She flicked her wand, and a series of shimmering diagrams appeared in the air behind her, charting mammalian bone structure transformations from stoats to foxes to cats and back. The diagrams rotated slowly, ethereal in the candlelight.

Lyra found herself focusing, for once. This was one of the few branches of Transfiguration that held her attention completely. She scribbled a few notes in her tidy hand, already thinking through the mechanics of how fur-to-scale transitions had to be layered over the dermis, not embedded beneath. The mental steps unfolded like puzzle pieces.

"Miss Lestrange," McGonagall said sharply.

Lyra looked up. "Yes, Professor?"

"Your diagram is incorrect. Vertebral length must be preserved when transfiguring between similar-sized organisms. You’ve halved it."

Lyra blinked down at her parchment. She had. Sloppy. "Sorry."

McGonagall moved on without further comment, but Lyra could feel the heat prickling across her cheeks. She never made mistakes in this class. Not like that.

When the bell rang, she was among the first to pack up.

Graham was waiting just outside the door.

"You alright?" he asked as they started down the corridor.

"Fine."

"You never mess up your notes."

"It was one diagram."

He glanced at her sidelong. "You didn’t sleep, did you."

She didn’t answer.

They turned the corner toward Defence Against the Dark Arts, the air growing cooler in the shadows of the stairwell. Lyra felt her stomach twist. Quirrell had been getting worse by the week. But today, when he stepped into the classroom, she nearly gasped.

He looked positively skeletal. His complexion had taken on a sickly pallor, and the hollows beneath his eyes were purpled and sunken. His turban, which usually sat snug and neat, seemed too large now, slipping slightly over one ear. His hands trembled faintly as he set down his notes, and when he looked up, there was a sheen of sweat clinging to his hairline.

He gave a small, jerky smile. "T-T-Today, w-we will c-continue our s-study of d-defensive h-hexes. P-Pair up, p-please."

There was a flurry of movement as students rearranged themselves into familiar partnerships. Lyra moved automatically toward Gemma, who was already half-risen from her seat. Graham gave her a glance, unreadable, but said nothing.

They began working through the assigned hexes, murmuring incantations and blocking low-level stunners. But Lyra kept glancing up. Quirrell stood near the front, hunched slightly, his glassy eyes scanning the classroom like he expected something to leap at him from the shadows. He flinched when anyone raised their wand too quickly. His robes were wrinkled, his fingernails ragged.

Gemma muttered under her breath, "He looks like he’s about to faint."

"Or bolt," Lyra murmured back.

And then, midway through demonstrating a blocking spell, Quirrell staggered sideways, knocking into the desk beside him. His hand shot to his temple, and a small, breathless gasp escaped him—sharp and strained.

Every student froze.

"P-Please continue," he rasped, waving one trembling hand as if brushing them off. "J-Just... a headache."

No one moved.

Lyra stared at him. That hadn’t been a headache. That had looked like pain. Real, blinding pain.

She met Gemma's eyes. Her friend looked just as uneasy.

Something was wrong.

And Lyra was going to figure out what it was.

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

That afternoon, the library was bathed in stillness, the kind of quiet only broken by the occasional scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment, or the soft turning of a page. The scent of old books mingled with ink and polished wood, grounding Lyra as she slid into a far corner of the Charms section, her bag slung onto the table beside her. She needed quiet. She needed the illusion of calm, the comfort of routines and rules and hushed whispers. She needed to not be watched.

Except she was.

She'd barely cracked open her textbook before she felt it—that prickling, unmistakable sensation crawling up her spine. Someone was staring.

She glanced up casually, pretending to stretch.

Percy Weasley stood a few shelves away, half-shielded by the edge of a tall stack of Charms volumes. He looked... hesitant, caught in a moment he hadn’t prepared for. His tie was slightly askew, and there was a crease in his robes that made him look oddly human—not like a swotty prefect, but like an awkward fifth-year trying to hold it together. A book dangled from his fingers, clearly forgotten.

Their eyes met.

He shifted his weight, then stepped forward, the movement sharp in the stillness.

"Lyra," he said quietly, glancing around as if expecting Madam Pince to swoop in and scold him. "Do you have a moment?"

She raised an eyebrow but nodded. "You’re already here."

He took the seat across from her, stiff and unsure. His shoulders were square, but his expression was all nerves. "I just—I wanted to ask if everything’s alright. With you."

She blinked, unsure how to respond. "Why wouldn’t it be?"

"Montague."

Lyra went very still. Her spine straightened. Her eyes narrowed a fraction.

Percy flushed slightly but didn’t look away. "It’s not my business, really, but... he doesn’t always speak to you like—well, kindly."

Lyra let out a short, cold laugh. "Are you spying on us now, Weasley?"

"No! I mean—not on purpose." He looked genuinely distressed. "I just notice things. Everyone does, Lyra. You know that, right? He talks over you. Questions your calls during quidditch. And the way he talks about you when you're not around... it's not always flattering."

She folded her arms. "And you care because...?"

He hesitated, then said, "Because I think you're better than that."

That made her pause. Not the words, but the way he said them. Soft. Honest. No pretense.

There was a silence that stretched just long enough to be noticed.

Penelope Clearwater sat at a table nearby, stiff as stone, her spine ramrod straight and her jaw locked tight. Her eyes, narrowed into furious slits, tracked every movement between Percy and Lyra with mounting rage. Her hands were clenched tightly around her quill, so tightly the tip had started to bend, and her ink blotter was speckled with the sharp, angry dots of forced restraint. She hadn’t turned a page in five minutes—hadn't even looked at her book—because she was far too busy watching, seething, unraveling in silence.

Lyra noticed.

So did Percy. He glanced back, the corners of his mouth tugging down.

"She’s been glaring at me for ten minutes," he said, attempting a wry smile.

"Because you’re talking to me?"

"Probably."

Lyra leaned back in her chair and gave him a dry, humorless smile. "She thinks I want to steal her boyfriend."

Percy reddened. "She’s not—we’re not—I mean, we study together. That’s it. She just... she assumes things."

Lyra tilted her head. "You’re not very good at lying."

"I'm not lying," he said too quickly, then coughed. "Anyway, I just wanted to say... you don’t have to explain anything. Just... be careful, alright? Montague isn’t subtle. And I don’t think he likes it when things don’t go his way."

She didn’t answer. Not directly. But something in her expression shifted, and Percy seemed to take that as a sign to leave.

He gave her a faint, pained smile and stood, disappearing back toward his table with Penelope, who looked one second away from an outburst.

Lyra stood a minute later, gathering her things with calm precision. She could feel Penelope’s stare like a hex to the back of her skull. As she turned to leave the aisle, Penelope was suddenly there, cutting her off like a drawn blade.

"You think you're clever, don’t you?" Penelope hissed, her voice a breathy, venomous whisper.

Lyra blinked, her voice flat. "What?"

"You think everyone is supposed to fall at your feet just because of your last name and that ridiculous hair and your sad little orphan sob story—"

"Excuse me?"

Penelope’s face twisted with barely restrained jealousy. "You knew we were studying. You saw us. And yet you had to get up and bat your eyelashes at him like some pure-blood princess."

"Are you actually mad because Weasley talked to me?"

"He likes you. And you know it. And you like the attention. You want to act like you’re better than the rest of us, like you’re not your mother’s daughter—"

Lyra’s face went still. Her voice dropped to a low, warning tone. "Careful."

Penelope’s lip curled. "Everyone knows what you are."

That was it.

Lyra stepped forward, eyes hard, her voice sharp as glass. "You don’t get to talk about my family. You don’t know anything about me, Clearwater. You don’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve survived. And you certainly don’t know the first thing about Weasley, if you think one conversation with me is enough to make him walk away."

Penelope opened her mouth, but Lyra didn’t give her the chance.

"You think you scare me? Because you’re loud and jealous and petty? You want to insult me to feel better about the fact that he doesn’t look at you that way? That he never will? Go ahead. But do it knowing I won’t stay quiet next time."

Penelope faltered. Her cheeks flushed, but no words came.

"Now move."

For a long second, neither of them moved. Then Penelope, jaw clenched and eyes glinting with unshed fury, stepped aside.

Lyra swept past her without another word, her posture like iron. The hem of her robes caught a gust of cold air as the library doors creaked shut behind her, the noise echoing like a full stop at the end of a sentence neither of them would soon forget.

Chapter 24

The nightmare began like most of them did—quietly.

Lyra was standing in a hallway she didn’t recognize. The walls were too clean, the sconces flickering with a light too bright to be Hogwarts. Her shoes clicked against marble floors that echoed too sharply, stretching the sound out into a vast, yawning silence. She turned a corner. The corridor stretched on, long and straight and cold. It had no windows. No doors. Just that endless, gleaming floor and the walls that pulsed with something too sterile, too wrong.

There was no one else.

And then suddenly, there was.

She didn’t hear him appear, but she felt it—that awful presence that made her chest tighten and her breath stick. Her limbs went rigid, but her body moved anyway, turning without her consent, as if pulled on strings.

Rodolphus stood at the other end of the hallway.

Not shouting. Not casting. Not even smiling.

Just watching.

His eyes held no spark of fury or madness, just a steady, cold disgust. Her legs refused to move.

He didn’t have a wand. He didn’t need one. He took a step toward her, slow, deliberate. Then another. And another. The sound of his boots against marble was louder than it should have been, like a war drum beneath her ribs. Lyra wanted to scream, to run, to fight, but nothing worked. She reached for her wand and came up empty. Her hands were bare.

The hallway darkened.

He smiled. "You can’t run forever, girl."

She backed up, feet skidding. The corridor behind her had changed. The marble cracked, the walls folded inward like something alive. Like they wanted to crush her between them. The sconces sputtered out, one by one, with the sick hiss of extinguished breath.

Behind her, another figure stepped into view.

Bellatrix.

Only it wasn’t her mother as Lyra remembered—not beautiful and proud and sharp with secrets. This version looked like she did in the Prophet photographs from the trial: wild hair tangled in greasy knots, sunken eyes rimmed with shadow, and a maniacal grin carved into a face stretched too tight. Her robes were torn. Her hands were covered in blood.

"You ruined everything," Bellatrix said. Her voice rang too loudly, like it came from the walls themselves.

"You were supposed to be perfect," Rodolphus echoed, drawing closer. His footsteps made the floor shake.

"You were supposed to be worth the cost."

Lyra tried to speak, but her throat locked. Her lungs wouldn’t fill. The air had thickened into smoke and ash.

Then came the footsteps—another pair.

She turned to flee and slammed straight into a third figure.

It was herself.

A mirror version of Lyra stood there, a twisted reflection. Her eyes were hollow, hair hanging limp, face pale and gaunt like she hadn't slept in weeks. Her mouth curled into something cruel.

"You're never getting out."

The ground trembled. The tiles beneath her feet cracked. The walls began to collapse inward, stone shrieking as it ground against stone. Shadows spilled from every corner, coiling around her ankles.

She spun, trying to get away, only to find Rodolphus in front of her again. His face changed with every blink—smiling, sneering, screaming, blank. Then Bellatrix’s blood-covered hands reached out and gripped Lyra’s arms.

Behind them, the other Lyra stood watching.

"This is all you are. This is all you will ever be."

Hands grabbed her shoulders. They weren’t Bellatrix’s. They weren’t Rodolphus’s. They were her own—or rather, her reflection’s, dragging her downward into the stone floor as it opened like a gaping mouth.

"Stop it!" Lyra screamed, but the words didn’t echo. They vanished. Swallowed.

The hands tightened.

She screamed again.

She woke up gasping.

The darkness of the dormitory was disorienting. Familiar but suffocating. Her breath caught and hitched in sharp bursts. Sweat clung to her skin. Her sheets were twisted and tangled around her legs, and her right arm throbbed where she must have slammed it into the bed frame. Her heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest.

Her eyes scanned the dark, seeking something, anything real. The canopy above her bed. The heavy green hangings. The faint silver shimmer of runes stitched into her blanket.

She was safe. She was in her dormitory. It was just a dream.

But she still couldn’t breathe.

Gemma stirred in the next bed. There was the rustle of sheets and the creak of mattress springs.

"Lyra?" her voice was thick with sleep, but alert.

Lyra didn’t answer.

Gemma swung her legs over the side and crossed the space between their beds, not bothering with slippers or a cloak. She crouched by Lyra’s side, brows furrowed in the dim light.

"You okay?"

Still, no words. Lyra pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to will the shaking away.

Gemma didn’t push. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited, her hand resting lightly on the blankets near Lyra’s knee. She didn’t speak again. Just stayed.

The silence wrapped around them like a second blanket, dense and careful.

Eventually, Lyra exhaled. Her hands lowered. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

But the chill didn’t leave her bones.

It never did.

Gemma stayed close, perched on the edge of Lyra's bed, quiet but steady. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask again. Just waited.

The dormitory was still, the lake’s gentle creak above them the only sound in the dark. Outside the enchanted windows, filtered moonlight shimmered through shifting water, casting soft waves of silver light across the stone walls. Everything felt suspended, like even time had stopped to give Lyra space to breathe.

Lyra sat upright, arms wrapped tight around her knees, the blanket draped across her shoulders like a shield. Her breathing had slowed, but her skin was damp with sweat, and her hands trembled where they clutched the fabric. There was still a tightness in her chest that hadn’t gone away. Not fully.

Eventually, Gemma broke the silence. "You want to talk about it?"

Lyra shook her head. "No."

Gemma didn’t push. She just stayed there, elbows on her knees, fingers loosely laced. She glanced at Lyra sideways, thoughtful but quiet. She’d learned a long time ago that Lyra never opened up unless you left space for her to do it on her own.

A full minute passed.

"Was it the same one?" she asked eventually.

Lyra hesitated. Her eyes were fixed on a thread in the blanket, picking at it with her thumb. "Sort of."

"Rodolphus again?"

A nod.

"Bellatrix?"

Another nod.

"And?"

Lyra was quiet for so long Gemma thought she might not answer. Then: "Someone else. Me. Or something that looked like me."

Gemma shifted a little closer. "Like a reflection?"

Lyra nodded again. "But wrong. Empty."

"That’s not you. Whatever it said."

"It felt like it knew me. Knew what to say to make it worse."

Gemma reached out but didn’t touch her. Just rested her hand nearby, an unspoken offer.

Another silence settled.

Then Gemma asked gently, "It’s not just the dream, is it?"

Lyra shook her head again.

Gemma waited. She was good at that.

Lyra finally muttered, "Clearwater."

Gemma blinked. "What about her?"

"That day in the library. It wasn’t just a look. She stopped me. After Weasley walked off."

Gemma's eyes sharpened. "You never said she actually confronted you."

Lyra let out a long breath. "I didn’t want to talk about it."

Gemma nodded, but her fingers curled slightly into the bedspread.

Lyra continued, her voice low and tight. "She blocked the aisle. Said I was flaunting myself. That I wanted Weasley to like me. She said people only put up with me because they felt sorry for the orphan girl with the criminal parents. Said I was just like my mother."

Gemma's lips parted in shock. She said nothing, but her whole body went still.

Lyra didn’t stop. The words came easier now, like they’d built up too much pressure to keep inside. "She said my hair was ridiculous. That I acted like I was better than everyone else. And then... she said everyone knew what I was."

Gemma sat frozen for a long moment. "You should've told me."

Lyra looked away. "I didn’t want to deal with it. Or with you being angry for me."

"Well, tough," Gemma said flatly. "Because I am. That’s— that’s disgusting. Who says that to someone?"

"Clearwater," Lyra muttered.

"She thinks you took Weasley from her."

"I didn’t."

"I know. And so does he."

Lyra looked down, fingers lifting to run through her curls. They were flattened from sleep, damp with sweat. She’d cut it before fourth year, right before they returned to school. She hadn’t told anyone why. Not even Gemma. She’d just come back from summer with a sharp new crop and a silence no one questioned.

"Graham likes it long," she said quietly. "He says it softens me."

Gemma made a noise of disgust. "Of course he does."

"Clearwater hated it. Lucius did too. Said it made it harder to match me."

Gemma rolled her eyes. "Because that’s what matters. The right hairstyle to land a respectable contract."

"He said it was the only thing I had going for me."

"Then he never saw you at all."

Lyra didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly, "I thought if I looked less like her... maybe people would stop staring."

Gemma's expression softened. "You cut it because you needed to feel like you had control."

Lyra nodded. "I thought if I made the decision first, then no one could take it away from me."

"They still don’t get to. Not Graham. Not Clearwater. Not Lucius bloody Malfoy."

Lyra gave a faint smile, sad and a little crooked.

"He used to make me feel safe."

"Graham?"

Lyra nodded.

"Maybe he still does, sometimes," Gemma said. "But if he only makes you feel safe when you do what he wants... that isn’t safety."

Lyra looked up at her, eyes tired. But clearer.

"You don’t have to change to keep someone around," Gemma added. "Not the parts of you that matter."

Lyra was quiet, but something in her shoulders shifted.

Gemma stood and offered a hand. "Come on. Let’s get some water. Maybe chocolate. You look like you could duel Clearwater right now and win."

Lyra gave a faint, crooked smile. "Wouldn’t be much of a duel."

"Then we can duel Graham next."

"Tempting."

Gemma grinned. "That’s the spirit. Let’s go before I start writing hexes on chocolate wrappers."

Lyra took her hand.

And for the first time that night, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

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

The air was brisk on the Quidditch pitch that morning, the kind of cold that snuck in under robes and sharpened every sound. Lyra stood in the center of the pitch with her arms crossed, chin tilted slightly upward as she surveyed the field. The grass was slick with dew, the frost not yet burned off by the morning sun. Overhead, the sky was a pale, cloudless blue, too bright for how tense she already felt.

One by one, the team assembled: Terrence first, then Adrian and Marcus chatting softly about something from the common room, followed by Miles and Cassius. Last, as always lately, came Graham, striding across the field like he owned it, broom propped casually over one shoulder.

"We’re running formations first," Lyra called, her voice brisk and clear. "Start with the Hawk’s Head weave, then move straight into the rotation pattern from last week. Tight spacing, clean passes. Let’s go."

Graham raised a brow as he joined the others. "Wouldn’t it make more sense to open with defensive drills? Marcus was slow on the left side last match."

Lyra didn’t blink. "I said formations. We’ll get to defense after."

He gave a small shrug, his smile too casual to be sincere. "Just thought I’d offer a suggestion."

"And I’m the captain," she said sharply. "We run what I say."

He didn’t argue again. Not out loud.

They mounted their brooms, rising into the cold air with a chorus of wind and wood and whooshing cloth. Lyra hovered above them, sharp-eyed and focused, calling corrections when needed and pushing them through drill after drill. Her breath curled in the cold air, her voice strong against the wind.

But Graham didn’t stop. Every few minutes, he was shouting something down to Marcus or Adrian, countermanding Lyra’s instructions, repositioning Chasers mid-drill.

"Marcus, reset that drive—come in wider! Adrian, outside edge, watch for the swing!"

Lyra’s jaw clenched. She snapped, "Graham, I’ve got it."

He looked over at her, voice smooth. "Just helping."

"I said I’ve got it. It’s my team. I’m in charge."

The wind stilled. So did the rest of the team.

Graham gave her a tight, almost mocking smile. "Of course, Captain."

They finished the drills in silence after that, the tension crackling like static in the air. Lyra didn’t miss a thing—every sideways glance, every muttered word between Marcus and Miles, every time Graham flew just a little too close. She didn’t let it throw her. She couldn’t.

When she finally blew the whistle and called the end of practice, her hands were stiff from the cold. She waited for everyone to land before descending herself, ignoring Graham completely as she brushed past him on her way to the changing rooms.

Inside the boys’ locker room, steam rose from the enchanted showers, and the clatter of gear echoed through the tiled space. The atmosphere was thick—quiet, expectant. Marcus and Miles were laughing about something under their breath, while Cassius sat tying his boots a little too carefully. Terrence leaned against a locker, arms crossed. Adrian toweled off in silence.

Graham peeled off his gloves and tossed them into his locker. "Honestly, I don’t know what she’s playing at."

Marcus snorted. "You mean calling the shots? Like a captain?"

Graham ignored him. "She should be thanking me. I’m the best player on that team. She’d be floundering without me."

"Mm," Miles hummed, smirking. "Right. Because everything's about you."

Graham shrugged. "I’m just saying. She should be grateful I’d even lower myself to court her. No one else is lining up. Not with her last name."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Graham added with a smirk, "Someone ought to remind her who’s really in charge."

Marcus let out a low laugh. "Maybe you should snog her midair next time. That’d shut her up."

Graham grinned wider. "Or drag her into the supply shed. Not like she’d put up a fight. She acts tough, but come on—girl like that? She wants someone to put her in her place."

The room went still.

Cassius stiffened, his jaw twitching. Adrian turned away, visibly tense.

Graham wasn’t finished. He leaned back against the lockers, grinning like he thought he was clever. "Bet she screams if you get her up against a wall. Bet she likes it rough. That whole cold queen act? Just a cover. Girls like that are always the dirtiest. They want you to break them a little."

Marcus let out a bark of laughter. "Reckon you’ll find out soon enough, mate."

"She keeps mouthing off like that, I might just take what she clearly wants," Graham said, his voice lowering. "Might even teach her to beg for it. You lot’ll see—give her half a chance, and she’ll be on her knees, grateful."

Cassius looked ill. Adrian stared at the floor.

Terrence moved.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward and punched Graham straight in the face.

The crack of cartilage snapping echoed like a spell. Graham yelped, stumbling back into a bench, blood gushing from his nose.

"You’re disgusting," Terrence said flatly, shaking out his hand. "Don’t talk about her like that. Ever."

He turned and stormed out of the locker room without another word.

Outside, the air was still cold. Lyra stood with Gemma by the stands, arms crossed, talking quietly. They both looked up when Terrence approached, his expression dark.

"What happened?" Lyra asked immediately.

Terrence wiped his bleeding knuckles on his sleeve. "Nothing you need to worry about. Let’s head to the Great Hall. The others will catch up."

He stepped closer to Gemma and murmured something only she could hear.

Her face went cold.

She nodded once.

"Come on," Terrence said, a bit more gently. "You two go ahead."

Lyra frowned but didn’t press. The chill on her skin had nothing to do with the weather now.

As they turned toward the castle, walking through pale morning light across the pitch, Gemma’s hand brushed against Lyra’s.

She squeezed it.

Lyra squeezed back.

She didn’t know what had happened in that locker room. Not yet. But she knew something had changed.

Far behind them, the locker room door slammed. Voices carried faintly through the wind, muffled but heated. Lyra glanced back once but didn’t stop walking. She didn’t need confirmation—whatever had happened, it had drawn a line.

Gemma's grip on her hand was steady. Protective.

And for once, Lyra let herself lean into it.

Chapter 25

Notes:

Alrighty, this is the longest chapter yet!

Just a warning there is some shit that goes down in this chapter.

The first thing Lyra noticed was the scent of chocolate frogs.

A soft weight pressed against her ribs, and when she cracked open one eye, she was greeted by a glittering bow and a stack of neatly wrapped parcels, the topmost one vibrating ever so slightly. Ribbons curled magically in slow spirals, and the corner of one package had been enchanted to sparkle with dancing flecks of green and silver.

Gemma was already dressed and practically glowing. She sat cross-legged at the edge of Lyra’s bed, still in her slippers and clearly thrilled with herself. "Happy birthday," she sang, grinning from ear to ear. "You’re officially seventeen. Of age. Legally allowed to hex anyone who annoys you without supervision. How does it feel? Wait, don’t answer that yet, because I’ve got a whole speech prepared. I mean, seventeen! That’s a milestone. You can Apparate now—well, soon anyway—and if someone gives you trouble in Hogsmeade, you can duel them without needing a note from Snape. You can even adopt a Crup if you want one, or own a broomstick that's actually been banned in six countries. Honestly, I think we should celebrate with something irresponsible. Not dangerous, just... marginally questionable. Like sneaking you into the prefects’ bathroom—which I can do easily, by the way, perks of the badge—and charming the enchanted hot tub to shoot pink bubbles that sing Celestina Warbeck songs, or maybe making the taps dispense molten chocolate for a minute before turning back. Or—ooh—even better—vanishing the ceiling and projecting a sky full of fireworks that spell out your name. Something mildly unhinged but visually stunning. It’s your birthday, after all. Go big or go to detention. Or transfiguring Graham’s shampoo into whipped cream. Think about it. Perfect birthday prank."

Lyra groaned and threw an arm over her face. "Merlin help me."

"No, but I might," Gemma said brightly, tugging at the blanket. "Get up, you’ve got half the common room’s gift pile stacked here, and I spent ten minutes charming the ribbon on mine. You’re not allowed to ignore that level of effort."

"You’re very loud in the morning."

"I’m always loud in the morning. You just usually avoid me until tea. Now come on, open mine first."

Despite herself, Lyra sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes and pushing her curls out of her face. The dormitory was flooded with early morning light filtered through the water of the lake, casting shifting patterns across the stone walls. Everything felt oddly peaceful—at least until she saw the sheer number of gifts.

Terrence had left a long, flat parcel at the foot of her bed, wrapped in emerald green with an attached note that read: For our terrifyingly competent Captain. Don’t let Graham near it.

Lyra smirked.

Gemma handed her a box wrapped in shimmering green paper with tiny serpents that slithered just beneath the surface enchantment. "Go on," she said, practically bouncing with anticipation.

Lyra unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a sleek set of dark green Quidditch pads—a reinforced chest guard and shoulder guards, stitched with subtle silver embroidery. They gleamed faintly in the low light, the leather polished and fitted perfectly to her frame.

"They’re dragonhide," Gemma explained, clearly delighted with herself. "Terrence got you the matching arm and leg pads—we coordinated. Protection enchantments, shock absorption charms, and I charmed them to never smell like sweat no matter how grimy practice gets."

Lyra blinked, then ran her fingers along the reinforced shoulder seam. "This must’ve cost a fortune."

"Worth every Galleon," Gemma said. "You’re not breaking your arm again. Or anything else. Not on my watch."

Lyra raised a brow, but her expression softened. "These are brilliant."

Gemma looked smug. "Only the best for my favorite Slytherin sociopath. Now, get dressed. Draco’s probably pacing by the fireplace like a high-strung kneazle."

Lyra rolled her eyes but threw off the covers.

By the time she stepped out from the girls’ corridor into the Slytherin common room, uniform pressed and wand tucked into her belt, Draco was exactly where Gemma had predicted—standing near the fireplace with his arms crossed, eyes scanning for her like a sentry on high alert. He turned the moment he heard footsteps, eyes bright.

"Finally," he said, and crossed the common room in two strides to wrap her in a tight hug. "Happy birthday, cousin."

"You’re smothering me," Lyra muttered, patting the top of his head. He barely reached her shoulder, and she had to stoop a little to return the hug properly—but she did, arms wrapping around him all the same, her smile soft despite the teasing tone.

He pulled back and thrust a long, rectangular box into her hands. It was wrapped in glossy silver foil and tied with a green velvet ribbon. "Open it."

Inside was a pair of new dragonhide boots—sleek, black, and gorgeously tailored. The soles were charmed to grip wet stone and snow, and the interior was lined with fleece. These were far better than her current pair, and far more expensive too.

Lyra blinked. "These cost more than my wand."

"And you’re going to wear them every day," Draco said proudly. "You deserve proper footwear."

"You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re welcome."

Gemma arrived then, stuffing her book bag full of folded notes and extra quills, and the three of them made their way to the Great Hall together.

The morning buzzed with noise—students calling birthday greetings as they passed, enchanted owls dropping off extra packages, and the low hum of the ceiling sky showing streaks of dawn light. As soon as Lyra sat down, her plate filled with her favorites: cinnamon scones, eggs with herbs, and her favorite blend of breakfast tea. Someone—likely Gemma—had spoken to the house-elves.

She was halfway through her scone when Graham appeared, sliding into the seat beside her like he belonged there. He kissed her cheek.

She stiffened for a fraction of a second, then smiled politely. "Thanks."

"Happy birthday," he said, resting a hand on her thigh beneath the table. "You look stunning."

"I look like I do every morning," she replied.

"Exactly."

Across the table, Terrence’s jaw tightened. He made a low sound in the back of his throat and reached for his pumpkin juice with exaggerated force. Gemma didn’t even pretend to eat. Her spoon hovered halfway to her mouth, hand frozen, eyes locked on Graham.

Graham leaned closer. "I’ve got a surprise for you. End of day. Just meet me on the seventh floor after your last class, alright? I’ll find you."

Lyra’s gaze flicked to Terrence, who looked like he might throw his goblet. Then to Gemma, who stared at Graham like she wanted to peel his skin off.

Lyra hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then she nodded. "Alright."

Graham smiled and brushed his thumb along her leg. "You won’t regret it."

She gave a small smile in return, but her stomach had tightened.

She hadn’t even touched her tea.

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

Coming off the noise and tension of breakfast, Lyra was almost relieved to slip into the quiet familiarity of her classes. There was something grounding in the normalcy, even if that normalcy came wrapped in ink-stained parchment, stiff-backed chairs, and the occasional waft of burnt potion ingredients from the dungeons. Routine made things bearable. Predictable. Contained. And right now, that was exactly what she needed.

Wednesday had never been her favorite day of the week—long, slow, wedged awkwardly in the middle—but today, it felt oddly steadying. She had Ancient Runes second period, and just knowing that was enough to give her something to hold onto. It was still one of the only classes that brought her real, untarnished joy. A place untouched by her surname, by whispers, by the way people looked at her when they thought she wasn’t watching.

First was Potions. Lyra arrived early, her satchel bumping against her leg as she slid into her usual seat near the front. The dungeon classroom was cool and dimly lit, the smell of damp stone mingling with herbs and metallic tangs from the storage cupboards. She was not in the mood to be partnered with anyone, least of all Graham. Thankfully, he wasn’t in the room yet. She didn’t know if he would try. But just as she was pulling out her textbook, Terrence appeared and dropped his things beside her with a quiet nod.

He didn’t speak, but after a moment, he passed her a folded note, torn neatly from the corner of his parchment. Just one word, written in his neat, blocky handwriting: okay?

She glanced at him and gave the barest nod. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

They brewed in silence, working parallel but in sync, the rhythm of chopping and stirring providing a comforting white noise to her thoughts. The instructions for their Draught of Focus were simple, but intricate—enough to hold her attention without demanding too much of her emotionally. The kind of potion that needed patience and accuracy more than creativity.

Professor Snape stalked between tables, robes billowing as always, his sharp eyes catching every incorrect stir or improperly sliced root. When he passed her station, he paused only briefly. "Well-measured, Lestrange."

It was the closest thing to praise she’d gotten from him in weeks. He didn’t linger, didn’t offer a glance or follow-up remark—just moved on, his expression unreadable. Lately, Snape had seemed more distant than usual with her, and not in the cold, cutting way he reserved for students he disliked. No, this distance was quieter, almost measured. As though he were waiting for her to come to him—waiting for her to ask for help. But he wouldn’t push. That had never been his way.

Next was Ancient Runes, and for once, Lyra practically glided into the classroom. There was something about the atmosphere—quiet, humming with concentration, filled with the crisp scent of ink and old parchment—that steadied her. Professor Babbling greeted her with a bright, "Happy birthday, Miss Lestrange!" and gestured toward the translation puzzle already scrawled across the board.

"We’re moving into Egyptian hieratic script today," she said, clapping her hands together. "A bit more intuitive than cuneiform, though it likes to contradict itself. Rather like most of you."

The class chuckled, and Lyra smiled for real.

She liked Babbling. There was no drama in this room, no venom, no staring. No judgment. Just language, logic, and the slow, satisfying work of deciphering patterns until something ancient and beautiful unfolded.

She sat beside Gemma, who was already flipping through her notebook, her quill tucked behind her ear.

"Birthday girl gets to decode the first line. Them’s the rules," Gemma said without looking up.

"You just made that up."

"Obviously. But I stand by it. Come on, you know you want to."

Lyra rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She reached for her quill, running a hand briefly across the cropped side of her hair, fingers ruffling the soft curls as she leaned forward to begin sketching the first symbol.

For a blissful hour, she let herself fall into the puzzle. The glyphs swam into place in her mind, the meanings unfolding line by line, each symbol a tiny gift waiting to be unwrapped. There was something soothing about the process—like every shape had a place, and every place had a reason. When Professor Babbling came by to peer over her shoulder and hum approvingly, Lyra felt that rare flicker of pride—not because of her name or her House or what anyone expected from her, but because of her. Because she was good at this.

After class, as they filtered into the corridor, Gemma nudged her lightly with her shoulder.

"That look on your face? You only get that from ancient texts and contraband books."

Lyra gave a soft laugh. "I’ll take it."

"Honestly, it’s kind of cute. You go all intense and glowy-eyed."

"If you start comparing me to a romantic heroine, I’m leaving."

"No, no. You’re much too scary for that. Maybe a cursed librarian. Or a war goddess who hoards dictionaries."

They laughed together, and for a moment, the weight pressing against Lyra’s chest eased. It didn’t disappear, but it shifted enough to breathe.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Charms was uneventful, though Professor Flitwick gave her a cheerful birthday greeting and made her demonstrate the proper wand movement for the class. She did so without complaint, executing a perfect loop-to-twist that earned a few claps from the back of the room.

Gemma tossed her a wink. "Show-off."

History of Magic dragged, as usual. Professor Binns’ droning voice washed over her, and she let her quill move halfheartedly across her notes, transcribing names and dates she would likely never care about. She could feel her energy draining with each minute that passed. Her thoughts drifted.

Seventh floor. After class. Graham.

He hadn’t spoken to her again since breakfast, but she’d caught him watching her at least twice—once through the open doorway of the Charms corridor, and again from across the Entrance Hall. Always at a distance. Always waiting.

She didn’t know what he had planned. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

But she would go.

Of course she would.

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

The classroom was empty.

Unused, quiet, dust gathering in the corners of the high windows. Sunlight slanted across the floor in lazy stripes, catching on old desks and curling parchment. The air smelled like old ink and cold stone. Lyra stood in the doorway for a second too long before stepping inside, her fingertips brushing the frame as though it might anchor her.

Graham was already there.

He had one of the desks cleared off, his bag tossed carelessly to the side, leaning against the wall like he owned the place. When he looked up and smiled, it didn’t reach his eyes.

"There you are," he said, voice smooth.

She didn’t smile back. She crossed her arms, lingering by the door. "So what’s this surprise?"

"Come here."

His voice had that coaxing edge, too polished to be sincere. Like he expected her to obey. And she moved. Slowly. Not because she wanted to, but because that was what was expected.

He pulled her closer by the waist and kissed her like nothing had ever been wrong, like breakfast hadn’t been full of tension or cold glances from her friends. His mouth was hot, insistent, too fast. When she didn’t respond immediately, he pressed in harder, like he could force her to feel it.

"You’re tense," he murmured against her lips.

"Long day," she said, voice flat.

"Well, I’ve got something to make it better."

He backed her up against the desk, his hands already on her waist, fingers digging in just a bit too tightly. Touching her like he had every right to. Like he owned her.

Her pulse beat in her throat, a dull, anxious flutter. "Graham—"

"Shh. It’s your birthday," he said. "Let me take care of you."

His hand slid under her shirt, cold fingers brushing her ribs. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t done this before. They’d kissed, touched, snogged in dark hallways and corners of the pitch. But this felt different. He was different. More intense. More focused. Not affectionate—assertive. Like he was trying to make a point.

"I’ve been thinking," he said, between kisses along her jaw, "about our future. You and me."

Lyra stiffened. Her hands, until then resting loosely at her sides, clenched.

"What are you talking about?"

Graham grinned, eyes gleaming. "The Montague name. The Lestrange name. And the Black line from your mother. That’s legacy, Lyra. That’s power. Imagine if we had a son."

Her stomach twisted.

"Graham—"

"No, really," he said, pulling her tighter. "Think about it. A Montague heir with your bloodline? We’d be unstoppable. My father would lose his mind. He always said I’d marry someone powerful. I didn’t tell him you’d be gorgeous too."

Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

"That’s why I’m not going to cast the charm," he whispered. "I want it to be real. I want to claim you properly."

She froze. The air in her lungs vanished.

"What?"

He kissed her again, harder now. Possessive.

"Don’t worry, love," he breathed. "I’ll take care of everything. After tonight, everyone will know you’re mine."

She didn’t remember agreeing.

She didn’t even nod.

At first, she pushed back—hands on his chest, eyes wide. "Graham, wait—"

He caught her wrists. "It’s fine. I know you want this."

She shook her head, but her voice died in her throat. Something cold washed through her, a sick weight curling in her stomach. He was stronger than her. Not by much, but enough. And his eyes didn’t ask permission.

For a second, she saw it—not Graham, but Rodolphus. The look in his eyes the night he’d shoved Bellatrix into the bed and told her she’d bear him an heir whether she liked it or not. And Lyra had watched. Frozen. Hidden in the shadows of the corridor just outside her mother’s bedroom door, pressed behind the tapestry, not daring to breathe. Rodolphus had left the door ajar on purpose. He’d wanted her to see. She hadn’t meant to remember that. But it came anyway, vivid and jagged.

And then everything went numb.

She stopped fighting.

She just stood there, barely present, as he pushed her back onto the desk. As his hands moved faster. As he whispered things that made her skin crawl. As her mind folded in on itself, retreating.

She thought about Gemma’s gift—those padded guards with the warming spell. She thought about the way Draco had smiled when she opened the boots. She thought about Runes class, how peaceful it had felt. The neat script. The smell of parchment. Anything but this.

She barely registered her legs parting beneath him. The pressure, the tearing, the searing jolt of pain—sharp and unrelenting—shocked her breath from her lungs. It didn’t stop. He didn’t stop. She was losing her virginity in the most mechanical, hollow way imaginable, and all she could do was survive it. Her fingers curled against the desk, white-knuckled.

That night Rodolphus made her watch. Made her stand behind the tapestry outside her mother’s bedroom while he hurt Bellatrix and talked about heirs like it was a transaction. She never forgot the sound of the bed frame or the cold finality in his voice. This felt the same. Graham talking about sons and bloodlines like she was property. Not a person. Just a name and a body to use.

And she knew why. If she got pregnant, she’d have to leave Hogwarts. Most magical jobs wouldn’t hire you with only your OWLs. She’d be stuck. Bound to him. Maybe that’s what he wanted—to trap her before she could outgrow him. Before she could run. Before she could ask for help.

She didn’t feel anything. She wasn’t there.

Not really.

She didn’t move until it was over.

Graham leaned over her, breath ragged, and pressed a kiss to her jaw like it was something sweet, something tender. She didn’t return it.

"You were perfect," he said, smoothing a hand over her stomach as if that would make up for the bruises already blooming under her skin. "Ours is going to be a powerful boy, you know. You’ll see. We’ll make history."

Lyra turned her face away.

He didn’t notice—or didn’t care. He tucked himself back together, humming under his breath, and reached down to collect his robes. "Better get moving," he said. "Wouldn’t want anyone to think we were up to anything. Though after tonight, it wouldn’t matter, would it?"

He smiled like he’d won.

Like she was his.

Lyra didn’t speak. She dressed in silence, each movement stiff and mechanical, barely aware of her limbs. Her legs trembled when she stood. She felt sore, raw, scraped down to the bone.

She slipped out of the classroom without a word, avoiding eye contact with anyone she passed. The corridors were mercifully empty at first, but by the time she reached the main staircases, she could hear voices echoing through the halls. Laughter. Footsteps. Life continuing.

Her heart pounded harder with every step toward the dungeons.

Near the turn to the Slytherin common room, she heard Draco’s voice. She didn’t stop.

"Lyra?"

She saw him then—Draco, walking with Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, their satchels slung over shoulders, mid-conversation. He looked up, startled. "Hey, where have you—"

But she didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

Her eyes were locked ahead, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t see Pansy whisper something sharp to Draco or Theo furrow his brow in concern. She didn’t register the quick footsteps behind her that Draco didn’t follow through with.

She barely made it to the girls’ corridor. She reached her bed and collapsed onto it fully clothed, curling onto her side, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Her throat burned, but no sound came.

She stayed like that. Still. Waiting for the numbness to return. Or for someone to find her.

But no one did.

At least, not right away.

Pansy had watched Lyra walk past with a tight jaw and narrowed eyes. Something about her expression—not just blank, but hollow—set off an alarm in her chest she couldn’t ignore. She leaned into Draco, whispered something sharp and urgent in his ear, and then peeled off down the hall without waiting for a reply. Her path was already clear. She was going straight for Gemma.

Gemma was in the library, halfway through annotating a Defense essay, when Pansy stormed in and slapped her hand down on the table.

"Something’s wrong with Lyra. Her face—she looked like a ghost. Hollow. I don’t know what happened, but it was bad. You need to go to her. Now."

Gemma didn’t ask questions.

She bolted down to the dungeons, heart hammering. When she reached their dorm, she pushed the door open and found Lyra curled on the bed, still in her uniform, shoes on, body stiff. She looked up, but didn’t say a word.

Gemma crossed the room in seconds and knelt beside her.

"Lyra?"

No answer.

"I’m here," Gemma whispered. "I’ve got you."

Lyra didn’t move. But her fingers unclenched.

Just barely.

Gemma didn’t leave.

She sat on the floor beside Lyra’s bed, legs crossed, back resting against the frame. Her hand remained within reach—not touching, not pushing, just there. A quiet tether, steady and solid in a world that felt like it had tipped sideways.

Time passed strangely. The dorm was too still. The torches dimmed slowly, shadows creeping over the stone walls. The murmured noise from the common room faded into nothing, until it felt like they were the only two people left in the castle.

Eventually, Lyra moved.

Not much. Just enough to shift onto her back and look up at the canopy above her bed, eyes unfocused.

Gemma glanced over, cautious. "Do you want me to get you water? Or tea?"

Lyra’s throat clicked as she swallowed. Her voice came low and flat. "No."

A pause.

"Do you want to talk?"

Another beat of silence.

"No."

"Okay."

The silence returned, but it had changed. Not as heavy. Not as final. A waiting kind of quiet, suspended between breaths.

Lyra sat up slowly, each movement like dragging herself through thick fog. The blanket slid off her shoulders. She didn’t look at Gemma—just kept her eyes fixed forward, like if she looked directly at anything, it might break her.

"I need... I have to go to Pomfrey," she said.

Gemma didn’t ask why. She didn’t press. She simply stood, offered a hand, and waited.

They didn’t speak again as they left the dorm. The corridor was empty, as if the castle understood this was not a night for witnesses. The common room was silent, the dying embers in the hearth barely glowing.

The castle at night always felt different. Older. Like it held too many secrets to speak aloud. The stone walls seemed to breathe, the portraits watching without comment. Lyra’s footsteps were soft, but each one echoed inside her like a shout. Gemma walked beside her, step for step, close but not crowding.

Snape was waiting.

They hadn’t sent for him. But somehow, he just knew. Terrence had warned him after practice days ago—had pulled him aside with fists still clenched from the locker room fight and told him Graham had been saying things that didn’t sit right. That he’d made crude comments about Lyra, about control, about what he was owed. Snape had listened. Had taken in every word. He hadn't acted sooner because there had been no proof—just murmurs, innuendo, a fistfight in a locker room and a Prefect's unease. But Snape knew better than to ignore what his students weren’t saying. Tonight, when Terrence came to him again with that same strained look and said, "He’s arranged to be alone with her," Snape made the choice he’d been weighing for days. And it was already too late.

He stood outside the hospital wing like a statue carved from shadow, arms crossed, his black robes absorbing the torchlight around him.

He didn’t speak right away. His gaze swept over Lyra, sharp and unreadable, but not unkind. Just measured. Waiting.

"She needs to see Pomfrey," Gemma said quietly.

Snape nodded once. No questions, no judgment. He opened the door without a word.

Madam Pomfrey was already inside, putting away a tray of vials. She turned at the sound and hurried over the moment she saw Lyra. Her expression softened instantly.

"Sit down, dear," she said gently. "Let me take care of you."

Lyra sat on the edge of the nearest bed. Her hands trembled in her lap, her legs barely holding her upright.

Pomfrey knelt in front of her instead of standing above her, her voice quiet. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

Lyra’s voice cracked. "I need the contraceptive potion."

Pomfrey didn’t flinch. She only nodded.

"Were you protected during the act?"

Lyra shook her head, eyes fixed on her knees. "He didn’t cast the charm. You know I wasn’t on the potion—I never needed it before."

Pomfrey’s expression tightened briefly, but she didn’t let her voice change. "Alright. That’s alright. We’ll take care of it."

She stood and went to her cabinet, pulling down a locked box and turning a small brass key. She withdrew a small vial with pale blue liquid and returned, placing it in Lyra’s hand.

Snape remained by the door, arms folded. His face was unreadable, but not indifferent. He looked like he was trying not to show how much he cared.

"We’ll deal with the rest later," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Lyra didn’t look up. She took the vial with shaking fingers and drank it all in one go. It burned going down, leaving a bitter sting in her throat that had nothing to do with the potion itself.

It burned like shame. Like every choice she hadn’t made.

Gemma slid onto the bed beside her and took her hand. She didn’t speak. Just held on.

And this time, Lyra didn’t pull away.

This time, she gripped back.

Pomfrey looked her over carefully. "Do you need anything else, dear? Are you hurt?"

Lyra hesitated. Then, voice low, she said, "I think I need bruise balm. I haven’t looked yet. But I know… I know they’re there."

Pomfrey gave a small nod and turned to the cabinet once more. She moved gently, setting a fresh tin beside the bed, and placed a clean flannel next to it without a word.

Snape hadn’t moved.

"Lyra," he said, and there was something softer in his voice. "You don’t have to tell us everything. But we do need to know… was it consensual?"

She didn’t speak right away. She could feel Gemma’s grip tightening beside her.

"Yes," Lyra said finally, the word falling like a stone.

But inside, it felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong to her. Like it had come from someone else entirely.

She didn’t meet their eyes. She couldn’t. Because saying anything else would have shattered whatever was left of her composure. And this was already bad enough.

Pomfrey and Snape exchanged a look—quiet and grave. Not pitying, but careful. Pomfrey reached out and gently placed the tin of bruise balm in Lyra’s hand, her touch feather-light.

"There are ways to report it, if you ever decide," she said softly. "But for now, just focus on resting. Healing. You’re not alone, Lyra."

Snape stepped forward then, just enough to be seen in the edge of her vision. "No one will think less of you if you speak. Not here."

Lyra nodded faintly but still didn’t lift her head. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

But maybe—maybe one day.

She had to be strong. Her mother had endured worse. Rodolphus had broken her down piece by piece, and Bellatrix had still survived it—had still fought, in her own way. Lyra remembered the quiet strength in the moments no one else saw. The way Bellatrix would patch her own wounds in silence. The way she would smile at Lyra through split lips and say, "You’re still mine. They can’t take that."

If Bellatrix could carry that weight and keep walking, then Lyra had to. She had to be strong too. Even if her voice trembled. Even if the inside of her felt hollow.

She wouldn’t let this define her.

Not out loud.

And if the world tried to chain her the way it had chained her mother—

She would burn it down.

Notes:

A not so happy birthday for Lyra. But it will get better from here!

Tell me what you guys think!

Chapter 26

The Slytherin common room hummed with quiet energy the morning of the match. The usual lazy sprawl of students had been replaced with sharpened focus—books open, gear being polished, half-muttered strategy debates echoing between green-lit walls. Even the fire seemed to burn higher, casting sharp, dancing shadows against the stone. Lyra sat on one of the long leather couches, still in her uniform trousers and a thin undershirt, her Quidditch pads laid out across the coffee table in front of her. Her hands moved methodically as she checked each strap and re-checked the enchantments Gemma and Terrence had charmed for her birthday, tightening buckles until they bit against her palms.

The new pads were heavier than her old ones, but she didn’t mind. Heavier meant stronger. And today, she wanted the armor. She needed it.

They clinked softly as she set them aside.

Graham leaned against the back of the couch, close enough that she could smell his cologne—a cloying scent she used to like but now found suffocating. "You ready for today?" he asked, casual, like the past week hadn’t happened, like she hadn’t been reduced to silence in his wake.

Lyra didn’t look at him. "I’m always ready."

He smirked. "That’s my girl."

Her fingers tightened on the strap she was adjusting. My girl. The words landed differently now—less like pride, more like possession. She didn’t answer, just set her shoulder guard aside and reached for the chest plate, letting the silence answer for her.

Draco arrived then, flanked by Theo and Pansy, his hair immaculately combed despite the early hour. "You’ve got this," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. "Hufflepuff hasn’t got a chance."

"Optimism looks good on you," Lyra replied dryly, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Draco grinned back, apparently satisfied.

Across the room, Terrence was explaining a defensive maneuver to Cassius, gesturing animatedly with a broom handle. Gemma sat perched on the arm of his chair, chiming in with pointed commentary every so often. They both glanced at Lyra more than once—not obviously, but enough for her to notice. Like they were making sure she was holding together.

She was. Mostly.

The thought of Graham’s hands on her still made her skin crawl sometimes, but she had learned to hide it. To bury the disgust deep, beneath layers of control and careful expression. If Graham noticed, he hadn’t said anything. Maybe he thought she’d accepted it. Maybe he thought she’d accepted him.

He thought he had her.

And maybe he did. For now.

But she was starting to think about what it would mean if she stopped letting him.

A Black was never truly powerless. Not unless they allowed it. And Lyra Lestrange didn’t intend to stay powerless forever.

She tightened the last buckle and stood, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Team meeting in five," she called across the room.

The chatter dimmed. Heads turned. Even Graham straightened.

She was their captain. And it was time to act like it.

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

The stadium roared long before the first whistle.

Lyra stood at the edge of the pitch with her broom in hand, the Slytherin team lined up beside her. The early spring air was cool but carried that sharp edge of coming heat, the kind that clung to Quidditch matches this late in the season. Across the field, the Hufflepuff team gathered, their captain shouting something over the noise. The banners in green and gold whipped in the wind, and above it all, the crowd’s cheers rumbled like thunder.

She glanced over her shoulder. Graham smirked, tossing his bat from one hand to the other. Miles adjusted his gloves with deliberate care, Adrian and Marcus muttered last-minute passing strategies under their breath, Cassius bounced on his heels, full of nervous energy, and Terrence sat still as a coiled spring, eyes scanning for any sign of the Snitch. Every single one of them looked hungry for the win. They were ready.

Madam Hooch strode to the center of the field. “Captains,” she called. Lyra met the Hufflepuff captain halfway, exchanged the ritual handshake—firm, unflinching, her grip calculated—and returned to her place.

The whistle blew.

The balls were released, and the game exploded into motion.

Marcus seized the Quaffle first, darting low beneath a Hufflepuff Chaser before launching a quick pass to Adrian. The pair moved like they shared a single mind, weaving seamlessly between their opponents. Lyra’s eyes tracked them automatically, her body already reacting, broom positioned in defense. She hovered near the goal hoops, the new pads hugging snug against her shoulders and chest. A Bludger screamed past her head—Graham intercepted it, swinging his bat with brutal force and sending it rocketing toward a Hufflepuff Beater, who barely managed to dodge.

Within minutes, Slytherin was on the board.

And then again. And again.

Marcus and Adrian tore through Hufflepuff’s defense, their rhythm unstoppable. Cassius, playing sharper than Lyra had ever seen, feinted left, baiting two Chasers out of position and opening a clean lane for Marcus to score. Lyra barked commands when needed, her voice cutting through the chaos: “Marcus, swing right! Adrian, up! Cassius, drop back—they’re baiting you!” Her words kept the team together, tightening their already ironclad formation.

The scoreboard climbed fast: 30–0, then 50–0. The green banners in the stands waved wildly with every score.

Hufflepuff rallied. They always did. Their Chasers managed a quick double-score, and Lyra blocked the next three attempts with fierce precision, throwing her whole weight into a dive that left her gloves burning against the broom handle. Her knuckles ached, but she didn’t care.

She lived for this.

Every save sent another surge through her, adrenaline burning away the lingering weight of the week before. Here, she wasn’t silent or still. Here, she was in control.

The score climbed: 120–30. Then 150–50. And still, Slytherin pressed forward.

Graham and Miles worked like predators, their Bludgers hammering Hufflepuff’s Chasers into disarray. One Beater nearly collided with his own teammate after a particularly vicious swing from Graham. Lyra’s lips curled into a thin, approving smile. Brutal, but effective.

Terrence had been circling high for most of the match, scanning endlessly, but Lyra saw the moment his posture changed—shoulders lowering, grip tightening. The Snitch was near. He dove, a streak of green and silver cutting through the gold blur of Diggory's form. The crowd roared as both Seekers vanished into a dive so steep Lyra’s stomach lurched.

The Quaffle passed to Adrian, then Marcus—another clean goal. 180–50. Then 200–50. They weren’t letting up.

Terrence leveled out near the ground, twisting low, before shooting skyward again with a burst of speed, his hand outstretched.

It was over in seconds.

The Snitch glimmered in his fist.

The whistle blew.

Final score: 330–50.

The Slytherin stands erupted. Green smoke burst into the air as students shouted themselves hoarse. The Cup was theirs.

Lyra hovered midair, breathless, heart pounding as Terrence did a victory lap with the Snitch raised high. Graham whooped beside her, but she didn’t join in. Not yet. Instead, she scanned the stands, the scoreboard, the field—a predator soaking in the triumph.

They had done it. And for the first time in days, she almost felt whole again.

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

The locker room smelled like sweat, leather, and victory.

The team tumbled into their separate spaces, still laughing, voices echoing off the stone walls, high on the roar of the crowd and the adrenaline of the game. The boys’ locker room was alive with shouting and backslapping—Marcus and Adrian talking over each other about their last passing sequence, gesturing so wildly they nearly knocked over a bench. Miles slapped Terrence on the back so hard the younger boy nearly stumbled, but Terrence didn’t seem to mind—he still had the Snitch clutched in his fist like it was a lifeline, a glimmering trophy he wasn’t ready to let go of. Even in victory, the boys were hungry, already plotting next season between laughs.

The girls’ side was quieter, but only just. Gemma was pulling off her pads with sharp, efficient motions, muttering to herself about how badly Hufflepuff’s defense had fallen apart. Lyra sat on the bench at the far end, broom across her knees, her pads still strapped in place. Her gloves were stiff with sweat, her muscles humming with the remnants of exertion. Through the connecting preparation room—the one where the team gathered before stepping onto the pitch—she could hear the boys still celebrating. She let the noise wash over her without really listening, letting it dull into a background hum. Every cheer and laugh felt distant, like she was underwater.

Her heart was still hammering from the match, the kind of electric rush that came only from a win like this. And not just a win—a decisive, crushing, humiliating victory. They hadn’t just beaten Hufflepuff. They had claimed the Cup. Her Cup. This wasn’t just a team victory; it was hers as captain. Her strategy. Her calls. Her leadership.

Graham appeared in the doorway between the rooms, still flushed and grinning, ignoring the separation meant to give them privacy. “You were on fire out there,” he said, as if nothing had happened between them, his tone smooth and casual. “That dive to block Summers? Merlin, I thought you were going to snap your broom in half.”

Lyra gave him a faint smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “You didn’t do too badly yourself.”

He preened at the compliment, stepping closer, hand resting on her knee like it belonged there. “We make a hell of a pair, don’t we?”

She looked at him then, really looked at him—the way his smile never quite reached his eyes, the way his grip carried quiet ownership. And she smiled back. Sweet. Controlled. Calculated.

“We do,” she said softly. “A perfect pair.”

But in her head, another thought was growing like a slow, creeping vine: You think you own me. You think you’ve won.

She unclipped her pads one by one, stacking them neatly beside her, each motion deliberate. She could feel the weight of eyes on her from the preparation room just beyond—Gemma lingering there, clearly waiting for her and Terrence so they could head back together, Draco having come to offer his congratulations and Pansy trailing behind him. Their conversation had faltered when they saw her. They didn’t know the details, only that something had happened, and it hung in the air like smoke. Gemma’s expression was tight and unreadable, Draco’s gaze flicking toward her and then away, but they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They were waiting for her to decide what came next.

And for the first time since Graham had put his hands on her, Lyra felt a spark of something new—not fear, not shame. Something sharper. Colder. It sat in her chest like steel, coiled and patient. Her mind churned, cataloging every look, every word, every weakness.

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to break.

She was going to plan.

And Graham Montague would regret the day he thought he could play games with a Black. She would make sure of it. Every inch of her bloodline’s cunning demanded it.

Chapter 27

The dream began the same way it always did, but this time it felt sharper, heavier, like the edges of reality had been filed down to cut her. It was a memory dressed up as a nightmare, and it came for her the moment her eyes closed.

Darkness. The smell of blood and smoke that clung to the walls of Lestrange Manor. The heavy creak of ancient floorboards beneath bare feet. Her toes were cold on the stone, icy enough to make her flinch, but she couldn’t move. She knew before she saw him that Rodolphus was there. She always knew.

He stood in the doorway of her childhood bedroom, tall and shadowed, his figure blotting out the faint candlelight behind him. The air felt thin, heavy with the weight of his presence. “You’ll learn,” he said, voice low, almost soft—almost tender, though she knew it was anything but. “You’ll learn your place. Just like your mother did.”

Lyra wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. She wanted to scream, but her voice caught in her throat, choked down by terror. She was a child again—helpless, small, frozen in place as if bound by invisible chains. His boots clicked against the floor as he stepped toward her. Each step echoed like a death knell. The air grew thicker, suffocating her, as though the walls were closing in.

“Pathetic little thing,” he murmured, bending low. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Her breath came fast and shallow. Her fists clenched, but she couldn’t lift them. She couldn’t move. Her skin prickled, every nerve screaming, but still she stood there.

And then suddenly, it wasn’t Rodolphus at all.

It was Graham.

His hand clamped around her wrist, his grin wide and wrong, eyes glinting with a cruel amusement she hadn’t seen before. His voice was smooth, falsely sweet, dripping with a mockery that made her blood turn to ice. “We make a hell of a pair, don’t we? I told you we’d make history. A boy with our blood… no one could stop us.”

Lyra tried to fight, to pull away, but her wand was gone. Her hands found nothing but air. Her back hit the wall, her breath short and ragged as his shadow loomed over her.

Graham leaned closer, his tone dropping to a whisper that sounded too much like Rodolphus’s. “You’re mine, Lyra. You’ve always been mine.”

She felt his breath on her neck, hot and suffocating. The smell of him—sharp, bitter—overlapped with the phantom stench of Rodolphus’s cologne. The walls of the room blurred and warped, twisting between her childhood bedroom and the empty classroom, each place just as trapping as the other. Her chest burned as panic clawed up her throat. She pushed, clawed, but her hands passed through nothing, and he only laughed—a sound that was both of their voices tangled together.

She screamed.

And woke up.

Her room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the lake through the enchanted windows. Her skin was slick with sweat, her sheets twisted and tangled around her legs like restraints. Her heart slammed against her ribs, too fast, too hard, like it might break them. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—Manor, classroom, dormitory. Her breath came in jagged gasps, her eyes scanning the shadows for a figure that wasn’t there.

When she realized she was in her dorm, in Hogwarts, it didn’t make her feel any safer. The cold inside her lingered, deep and stubborn, as though the nightmare had followed her out of sleep and into the waking world.

Lyra didn’t move for a long time.

She sat there in the dark, clutching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her anchored. The dim green glow from the lake outside cast shifting patterns across her walls, but none of it felt real. Her breath still came in shallow bursts, too fast, uneven, and the cold inside her hadn’t eased. It sat heavy, pressing against her ribs, curling like smoke in her lungs, reminding her that no matter how many walls Hogwarts had, there were some things it couldn’t keep out.

She dragged herself upright, inch by inch, pulling her knees to her chest until they dug into her ribs. Her hands shook violently, fingers twitching against the fabric. She hated that they shook. Hated how powerless it made her feel.

She pressed her forehead against her knees and tried to breathe through it, counting in her head like she used to when she was little, trying to steady the pounding in her skull. But the nightmare clung to her. It didn’t feel like a dream anymore; it felt like memory dressed up as horror. Rodolphus’s voice, Graham’s hands, their words blurring together until she couldn’t separate the two. She could almost feel them still—gripping, restraining, claiming.

Her stomach churned. Bile stung her throat. She felt dirty. Used. Small. As though every layer of armor she had built for herself had been stripped away in one nightmarish breath.

She wanted to scream until her throat bled. She wanted to rip the room apart with her bare hands. She wanted to burn it all to the ground and watch the ashes scatter into nothing.

The thought startled her, but it didn’t leave.

No. Not scream. Not cry. Crying didn’t fix anything. Crying was what they wanted—helpless, broken, quiet. That’s what Rodolphus wanted. What Graham wanted. What everyone who’d ever tried to own her wanted.

She wasn’t going to give them that.

Her breathing steadied, if only slightly. She wiped at her face, even though she hadn’t cried. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t afford to.

If Graham wanted her weak, then he didn’t know who she really was. He didn’t know what kind of blood ran through her veins.

Slowly, her thoughts sharpened. Her mind, still raw and bruised, latched onto the only thing that didn’t make her feel powerless.

Make him pay.

Not now. Not loudly. But soon. When he least expected it. She could already imagine the moment, his arrogance crumbling when he realized he’d underestimated her. That thought, that spark of vengeance, was the only thing that made her feel like herself again.

She was a Black. She’d learned from the best what vengeance could look like—quiet, patient, devastating. And Graham Montague would learn the cost of thinking she was his to own. He would regret every moment he believed her silence meant surrender.

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

By late morning, Lyra had forced herself out of bed, washed, and dressed. Her uniform felt like armor, every button fastened with deliberate precision. She needed the routine, the normalcy, the illusion of control. Breakfast had been a blur—Draco chatting with his usual energy, Gemma keeping too close, eyes sharp and protective, Graham watching her like nothing had changed. She hadn’t lingered long enough for conversation. She didn’t want to.

Instead, she found herself standing at the door to Snape’s office. This meeting wasn’t unexpected; Snape scheduled them every year for his sixth and seventh years to ensure they stayed on track. Their first had been in her fifth year, when she’d said she wanted to work for the DMLE. This one was different—she had a clearer plan now, and she intended to make it known.

It was cool and dim inside, the air smelling faintly of old parchment, ink, and potions ingredients. The walls were lined with shelves full of books and neatly labeled jars. Snape sat behind his desk, quill scratching deliberately across a roll of parchment. He didn’t look up immediately, but she knew he’d seen her. He always did.

“Miss Lestrange,” he said after a pause, his voice low and even. “You’re early.”

“I wanted to get this over with,” Lyra said. Her voice sounded steadier than she expected, though she could feel the tension thrumming in her shoulders.

Snape set his quill aside, folding his hands on the desk as his black eyes fixed on her. He gestured for her to sit. “Your career meeting, then. I take it you’ve refined your goals since we last spoke?”

She nodded, smoothing her skirt as she sat across from him. “Yes. Last year I said I wanted to work for the DMLE. I still do. But now I know exactly where—I want to join the Wizengamot Administration Services.”

His gaze sharpened, reading her like he always did, but he didn’t push. “Go on.”

“I’ve been researching them,” Lyra said, her fingers clasped tightly in her lap. “The work they do—supporting members of the Wizengamot, managing hearings, schedules, proceedings. They handle everything that keeps the Wizengamot functioning. It… matters.”

Snape leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. “It does. And you believe you’re suited for this path?”

“Yes.” She kept her chin up. “I do.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, but there was a flicker of approval in his expression. “It’s an ambitious choice,” he said after a beat, his voice measured. “Competitive. Demanding. Few make it into those positions, and fewer still excel once they’re there. You’ll need to be exceptional.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands still steepled. “It will require exemplary NEWT scores in Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Runes, and Defense. Each for a reason.” He ticked them off deliberately. “Charms and Transfiguration for precision and flexibility. You will need to adapt quickly and work without error. Potions for practical application and the discipline it demands—Ministry work rarely tolerates carelessness. Runes for its legal and historical implications. And Defense, because the Ministry values not just intellect but resilience. You will be exposed to politics, power, and people who will try to bend you. Defense prepares more than just your wand arm.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. “You’ve considered all of this carefully?”

“I have.”

“Then you know you’ll need to distinguish yourself,” he said. “Not just academically, but in initiative. The Wizengamot does not take on the complacent.”

“I’m not complacent,” Lyra said quickly, almost too quickly.

Snape tilted his head, watching her with that disconcerting way he had of seeing through masks. “No. You aren’t.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the faint drip of some potion cooling in the corner. Then Snape nodded once. “Then let’s ensure you’re prepared. We’ll review your current grades in each of those subjects and adjust where necessary. If there are weaknesses, we’ll correct them before they become problems. You’ll also need to consider extracurricular experience—something that will make your application stand out when the time comes.”

He leaned back again, his gaze still locked on her. “If this is what you truly want, Miss Lestrange, then I will see to it that you leave Hogwarts as a candidate no one in that office could dismiss.”

Lyra let the words sink in. It was rare for anyone to speak to her so plainly about her future—not as Bellatrix’s daughter, not as a Lestrange, but as Lyra. It grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected. It made the path ahead feel tangible, almost within reach, and she clung to that sensation.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "For… taking this seriously."

Snape raised a brow, his gaze unreadable. "I take all of my students seriously. The question is whether they take themselves seriously." His eyes didn’t waver from hers, holding her there in that heavy, probing silence. It felt like he was testing her, trying to see if she would flinch. "Do you?"

Lyra nodded after a pause, her fingers curling against her lap. "I do."

"Good," Snape said, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly, the faintest thread of approval woven into his usual coolness. "Then you’ll find the path forward considerably easier than most—provided you continue to treat it with the same seriousness."

He reached for the parchment on his desk, scanning a few notes as if verifying what he already knew. "Your grades in Charms and Transfiguration are already strong," he began, his voice measured and deliberate. "Your work in Runes is particularly impressive—Professor Babbling has spoken highly of your insight and precision." There was the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes before his tone shifted back to critique. "Defense is… adequate, but not where it needs to be. And your Potions work, while technically impressive, has been inconsistent this year." His eyes flicked back up to meet hers, sharp as a blade. "You are capable of more. Much more."

Lyra shifted slightly in her seat, sitting taller. "I’ll fix it."

"See that you do." He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone had the weight of a promise and a warning.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, filled only by the distant gurgle of a brewing cauldron and the faint scratch of quills somewhere in the next room. Then Snape’s voice softened—not warm, but lacking its usual edge. "You know, Lyra, you don’t have to do all of this alone."

Her spine stiffened. "I can handle myself."

"You’re seventeen," he said simply. "An adult by wizarding law, yes, but not immune to the kind of damage that can follow you for a very long time." His words were deliberate, carefully chosen. "Mr. Montague has been a… topic of concern."

Lyra’s hands clenched in her lap. "I’m fine," she said, sharper than intended.

Snape studied her for another long moment. He was an expert in reading silences, and she knew he saw through the words she didn’t say. But when she didn’t elaborate, he only inclined his head. "Very well. But understand this: I can’t help you with what you won’t tell me."

She nodded once, though her eyes stayed fixed on the edge of his desk. "I can take care of myself."

"Then do so," Snape said, leaning back in his chair. "And take care of your future while you’re at it. We’ll schedule another meeting next month to review your progress. Until then, Miss Lestrange… try not to let anyone distract you from what matters."

Lyra stood, smoothing her skirt with a steadying breath. "Yes, sir."

As she left his office, her mind was buzzing—not with the lingering ghosts of nightmares or Graham’s shadow over her, but with something sharper. Purpose. She had a plan. And for the first time in weeks, she felt like she was the one holding the strings. Snape’s words clung to her like armor, and as she walked back through the quiet corridors of the dungeons, she knew one thing for certain: she would not waste the chance to become everything they thought she couldn’t be.

Chapter 28

Notes:

The planning begins! I am so excited for the next few chapters and to hear what you all think!

When writing these I had "Looks Like You" by Cole Redding on repeat. Go check the song out, I feel like it fits Lyra's vibe very well with Graham. The song "Miss Me More" by Kelsea Ballerini also was a song I had in mind!

We are almost to the end, 7 more chapters left of Book 1!

The Great Hall hummed with the easy rhythm of mid-May: quills scratching against parchment, conversations buzzing across tables, and the occasional groan from a stressed fifth year buried under revision schedules. Sunlight spilled through the enchanted ceiling, casting a warm glow that shifted with the slow drift of clouds above. Owls swooped in through the high windows, dropping letters and parcels that landed with soft thuds among the clatter of cutlery. The smell of toast, sausages, and pumpkin juice mingled with the sharp tang of ink and freshly unrolled scrolls. It was the kind of morning that reminded Lyra just how quickly the term was ending, that the end of the year was creeping toward them with exams and goodbyes.

Lyra sat with a piece of toast untouched on her plate, her gaze distant as she stirred her tea in slow, deliberate circles. She’d been up too late last night, poring over one of her new Runes texts, but her mind wasn’t on her studies now. She could feel Graham’s presence even though he wasn’t near yet, like a shadow lingering at the edge of her vision, a weight pressing at the back of her thoughts that wouldn’t lift no matter how she tried.

Draco was across from her, deep in conversation with Theo about Quidditch tryouts for next year. “If Terrence doesn’t stay on as Seeker, I’ve got a decent chance at the spot,” Draco said with a small smirk, his tone more self-assured than arrogant. His eyes gleamed with quiet determination—he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while. Pansy, perched beside him, rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, instead plucking a grape from a silver bowl and eating it with deliberate slowness, clearly amused by Draco’s ambition.

Gemma slid into the seat next to Lyra, bumping her shoulder lightly. “You’re quiet,” she observed, grabbing an apple and inspecting it before taking a bite. “That’s either bad news for someone or good news for us.” Her tone was teasing, but her gaze lingered, probing.

“I’m thinking,” Lyra said lightly, sipping her tea, masking her wandering thoughts with practiced ease.

And she was. About Graham. About how satisfying it would be to humiliate him—not just in private, but where everyone could see. Quiet revenge had its charm, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that silence wouldn’t be enough. He’d walk away thinking he still had power over her, and so would everyone else. No, she wanted him stripped of his arrogance, exposed, for everyone to watch him crumble under the weight of his own hubris. There was a certain poetry in letting him destroy himself in public, in baiting him until he couldn’t help but expose himself. All she’d have to do was set the stage, plant the right seeds, and let him hang himself with his own arrogance. The image of it gave her a twisted sort of calm—justice in motion.

Gemma gave her a sideways glance but didn’t press. She knew Lyra well enough to recognize when she was plotting, and Lyra knew Gemma would be there when she needed her.

“Still coming to Hogsmeade later?” Gemma’s voice cut through her thoughts. She was watching Lyra now, one brow raised in mild impatience.

“Of course,” Lyra said smoothly, smiling just enough to reassure her. Gemma always worried more than she let on, even if she didn’t say it aloud.

Further down the table, Graham slid into his usual spot, grinning at her with that cocky little smirk he’d been wearing for weeks. Lyra didn’t flinch. She smiled back—a perfect, controlled imitation of affection—and turned her attention back to her tea, as though he was nothing more than background noise. Let him think she was still his. It would make his fall all the sweeter, and Lyra would be there to watch every moment of it.

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

The late-spring air in Hogsmeade was warm and fragrant, carrying the scents of sugar from Honeydukes, butter from the Three Broomsticks, and parchment from the little bookshop two doors down. The cobblestone streets were packed with students savoring one of the last Hogsmeade weekends of the year, their voices blending with the occasional rumble of a passing carriage and the flapping of colorful shop banners. Lyra walked slightly ahead of Gemma, her mind miles away, letting the noise fade to a dull hum as she focused on her thoughts. She barely noticed Gemma’s amused commentary about some third-years gawking at Zonko’s window display.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Lyra stepped into the bookshop. Instantly, the noise of the street fell away. The quiet, cool air wrapped around her like a balm, the scent of old parchment, ink, and binding glue grounding her in its familiar comfort. The bookshop had always been her sanctuary—rows upon rows of knowledge neatly arranged, a place where she could disappear into possibilities. Here, she could think. Plan. Prepare.

She traced her fingers along the spines of books on the Wizengamot, their titles etched in shimmering gold script: An Annotated Guide to Wizengamot Procedure. Magical Administrative Practices. Enchantment and Law: The Intersections of Magic and Justice. She paused on each one, imagining what knowledge they held, what advantages they could give her, before pulling them from the shelves and stacking them in the crook of her arm. She made her way to the Runes section next, selecting a dense tome on the applications of ancient runic sequences in legal documents—something she knew would come in handy.

Snape’s voice echoed in her mind from their last meeting: Charms for precision, Transfiguration for flexibility, Potions for discipline, Runes for the Wizengamot’s language, Defense for resilience. He’d been right, irritatingly so. If she wanted to stand out in the Wizengamot Administration Services, she couldn’t just be competent—she had to be exceptional. Untouchable. The kind of candidate they couldn’t afford to turn away.

Her bag grew heavier as she made her selections, but it didn’t matter. Each book was a step closer to the future she wanted—a future where no one, especially Graham, could wield power over her. She would make herself indispensable, a force of quiet influence in the very institution that shaped wizarding law. And then, when the time came, she would make him regret underestimating her. Not with reckless outbursts or empty threats, but with the kind of meticulous, calculated vengeance that made people like her mother legendary.

As she stepped back out into the sunlight, the books pulled at her shoulder, their weight grounding her. It felt less like a burden and more like armor—preparation for the battles to come.

Gemma caught up as Lyra stepped out of the bookshop, raising an eyebrow at the visibly heavier bag over her shoulder. “Light reading?” she teased, her tone dry but curious.

Lyra smirked faintly. “Essential reading.” She shifted the strap on her shoulder, adjusting to the new weight of the volumes she’d chosen.

They walked together for a while, Gemma filling the silence with idle chatter about who they’d seen in town, snippets of gossip from Madam Puddifoot’s, and a passing comment about a group of Ravenclaws who’d already started discussing their summer internships. Lyra nodded in the right places, but her mind was already elsewhere—on the next stop. On Draco.

The Quidditch supply shop sat near the end of the street, its window display gleaming with polished broomsticks, protective gear, and rows of goggles arranged like trophies. The smell of waxed wood and polished leather wafted out every time the door opened. She paused at the window, thinking of Draco—how he’d mentioned wanting to try out for the team next year, how much he would want these if he saw them himself. They were expensive, easily enough to wipe out most of the money she had brought with her that day, but she knew without a doubt he’d love them, and that made the choice simple.

Lyra didn’t hesitate. “I’ll meet you back at the Three Broomsticks,” she told Gemma, who gave her a knowing look but didn’t press. “I need to take care of something.”

The bell above the Quidditch shop door jingled as she stepped inside. The interior was bright and warm, lined with racks of gloves, pads, and gear, each piece displayed to catch the eye. She wandered through the aisles, fingers brushing against the smooth leather of gloves and the lightweight bristles of racing brooms, before stopping at the display of goggles. It didn’t take long to find them: a pair of high-quality, sleek Seeker’s goggles—unenchanted, designed for a skilled owner to customize to their own needs. They weren’t just functional; they were a blank canvas for someone who took Quidditch seriously and had every intention of excelling. Lyra immediately began imagining the tiny protective runes she’d carve into the frame and the enchantments she would layer over them for anti-fog and water resistance. She’d even have his name stitched into the leather strap in bright silver—something uniquely his, something he’d know was from her.

“These are a fine choice,” the shopkeeper said as he approached, his voice pitched for a sale. “Sturdy frame, good quality lenses, adjustable fit. They’re a favorite for players who want to customize their own gear.”

Perfect.

Lyra didn’t hesitate. She purchased the goggles, sliding the neatly wrapped box into her bag alongside her books. This wasn’t just a gift. It was a message: I see you, and I believe in you.

As she stepped back out into the street, Gemma was nowhere in sight—likely already at the Three Broomsticks. Lyra adjusted the strap of her bag, feeling the combined weight of the books and the gift. Books for her future. Goggles for Draco’s—something he didn’t even know he needed yet, but that would tell him she believed in his ambitions. And somewhere in between, the satisfaction of knowing that while Graham still thought he held power over her, she was already laying the groundwork to take everything back—and more.

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

Back in her dormitory, Lyra cleared her desk, sweeping aside her Runes notes to make space. The newly purchased goggles sat in the center like a challenge, their unmarked leather strap and sleek frame just waiting for her to make them Draco’s. She fetched her runecarving kit from the drawer, laying out the small, sharp tools with practiced precision. Each motion was deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if the act of preparing his gift required the same focus as brewing a delicate potion.

She started with the leather strap. Carefully, she sent it off to Eliza Burke, a seventh-year who often did fine hand-stitching work for Slytherins who wanted their gear customized, to have Draco’s name stitched in bright silver thread—a bold, elegant mark that would stand out against the dark material. She had debated the font and placement in her head on the walk back to the castle, finally settling on simple but striking letters across the back of the band. When it returned later that evening, Eliza’s handiwork flawless, the name “DRACO MALFOY” gleamed back at her like a promise, a reminder that this was not just an ordinary gift, but something meant only for him.

Next came the runes. She leaned over the goggles, carving tiny, precise symbols along the inside of the frame where only Draco would know they existed. Antifog, water resistance, antislip—practical protections layered into delicate sequences, each one carefully chosen for its function. As she etched each line, she thought of how they would serve him: keeping his vision clear in the rain, making sure the goggles didn’t slip mid-dive, safeguarding him from the small distractions that could cost a match. She worked methodically, humming softly under her breath, the same way her mother had when enchanting small things for her as a child. It was comforting, connecting her to Bellatrix in a way that felt quietly empowering.

She paused when she finished, running her fingers over the nearly invisible etchings. The goggles weren’t just a gift anymore—they were something more. A piece of her care, her craftsmanship, and her belief in him woven into the object itself. They were protection and encouragement disguised as a simple accessory.

Lyra set them carefully back in their box, smoothing the lid shut before leaning back in her chair. Her eyes drifted to the neat pile of books she’d purchased in Hogsmeade, stacked with purpose and waiting for her attention. Her future was in those pages, Draco’s was in that box, and Graham? Graham’s future would be whatever she decided it would be when she was finished with him—whatever would hurt him most.

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Later that night, Lyra sat cross-legged on her bed, a thick volume on Wizengamot procedure open in her lap. The dormitory was quiet, Gemma already asleep in the next bed, the steady rhythm of her breathing blending with the faint hum of the enchanted lantern on Lyra’s nightstand. But Lyra’s mind was anything but calm. The warm glow of the lantern did little to soften the sharp edges of her thoughts.

Her eyes skimmed the pages, absorbing words about hearings, legal protocols, and scheduling practices, but her thoughts kept drifting to Graham. To the way his smug grin had lingered at breakfast. To the memory of his hand gripping her wrist. To the simple, infuriating fact that he still thought he owned her. Every reminder of his arrogance stoked the embers of her anger until they glowed hot in her chest.

That would end soon.

She needed to be patient. She’d learned from watching people like Rodolphus that timing mattered more than anything. Baiting him into a private argument would be easy, but it wouldn’t give her what she wanted. No, she wanted the whole common room to see him for what he truly was. She wanted his mask to slip in front of everyone—leaving no room for rumors, no chance for him to twist the story, no shield to hide behind. If he destroyed himself in public, no one could defend him—not even his friends.

She could picture it clearly: the common room buzzing with casual conversation, Graham walking in already irritated, already frayed from a long day. She’d offer a comment, carefully chosen, one that struck a nerve but was subtle enough that no one could accuse her of provoking him. She would let his temper do the rest. Push him to that breaking point with quiet precision and then step back as he crumbled. The thought alone brought a slow, controlled satisfaction curling through her.

She dragged her finger slowly down the margin of the page, grounding herself with the familiar texture of parchment. This wasn’t just revenge. This was strategy. This was power reclaimed. She would be safe in the common room, surrounded by witnesses, and Graham would be the one who looked monstrous when it was over.

Lyra closed the book and set it aside, lying back against her pillows with her hands folded over her stomach. It would take time—patience had always been her strongest weapon—but she had time. And when the moment came, Graham Montague would unravel exactly how she wanted him to.

And everyone would see.

Notes:

Don't forget to comment what you think or if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear what you have to say!

Chapter 29

Notes:

Whoo, last update of the night. This chapter was a bitch to write and to edit but I have planned this chapters ending from the start. Tell me what you think and thank you for reading!

June 5th arrived with an unusual warmth, the kind of early-summer sunlight that made the lake sparkle and the castle grounds buzz with energy. Even the Slytherin common room felt lighter that morning, its usual coolness tempered by the glow of the lanterns and the occasional laughter echoing off the stone walls. The sound of the Black Lake outside carried faintly through the walls, a reminder that summer—and freedom—was close.

Lyra had been up early, waking before Gemma, to retrieve the carefully wrapped box from her trunk. She’d spent weeks perfecting Draco’s gift and now it sat in her lap as she waited for him to come down from the boys’ dormitory. She’d double-checked every rune sequence twice the night before, unwilling to give him anything less than perfect.

When Draco finally appeared, hair neatly combed and an air of casual expectation about him, Pansy was the first to pounce with a gift, a slim green box tied with a black ribbon. Theo followed with a small parcel, and even Blaise handed him something, albeit with his usual nonchalance. They crowded around him like satellites, feeding off his birthday glow.

Lyra stood, making her way over. “Happy birthday,” she said, offering the box. It was wrapped in dark green paper with a silver ribbon, elegant but understated. Draco raised an eyebrow—Lyra Lestrange didn’t do anything halfway—and carefully untied the ribbon with deliberate precision.

His eyes widened when he pulled the goggles free. “These are—”

“Top-of-the-line,” Lyra finished for him, smirking. “For next year’s tryouts. Thought you might need them.”

Draco turned the goggles over in his hands, running his thumb along the leather strap where his name gleamed in silver stitching. “You had them customized.”

“I don’t give boring gifts,” she replied smoothly, crossing her arms. “Try them on.”

He did, adjusting the strap before pushing them up onto his forehead. “They’re perfect.” His smirk was pure Draco—pleased but trying to hide how touched he was. “Thanks, Lyra.”

“Don’t thank me until you make the team,” she said, though her tone was teasing.

“Malfoy as Seeker?” Theo quipped. “You’d better hope those goggles can help with reflexes.” Draco shot him an unimpressed look while Pansy laughed, cutting in to defend him with a sharp remark.

The group settled into a corner of the common room, sharing pastries Pansy had convinced the house-elves to prepare and trading lazy conversation. Draco held court easily, animatedly describing how he’d train over the summer, even making lists aloud of things he’d need to work on. Lyra let herself relax for a moment, sipping her tea as she watched him gesture enthusiastically. It was nice, she thought, to focus on someone else’s happiness for a change, to see her cousin enjoying himself without the weight of their names pressing down.

But in the back of her mind, her plans for Graham still simmered, patient and waiting. Today wasn’t about that. Today was for Draco—and she intended to keep it that way.

After the gifts and pastries, they spent most of the morning lingering in the common room before heading outside. Pansy insisted on walking the grounds with Draco while Blaise and Theo argued over who could beat whom at Exploding Snap, dragging Lyra into their debate until she agreed to play a few rounds. The day stretched lazily, a rare moment where they could all enjoy themselves without the looming pressure of exams. In the evening, they returned to the common room where Pansy had arranged for a small cake—green frosting with silver trim—to be brought in. They sang for Draco, who pretended to be unimpressed but couldn’t hide his grin. Lyra stayed close, content to see her cousin surrounded by his friends, enjoying his day the way a twelve-year-old should. For once, she let herself breathe.

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The days after Draco’s birthday fell into a blur of revision sessions and restless nights. The castle had shifted into its exam rhythm—hushed corridors where even Peeves seemed quieter than usual, classrooms filled with the scratch of quills on parchment, and students hunched over notes as if their futures depended on them. For some, they did.

Lyra spent most of her time in the library or at her favorite corner table in the common room, where the light from the enchanted lanterns never dimmed. Her books—Transfiguration guides annotated within an inch of their lives, Defense spell charts, Charms theory, Potions instructions, Runes translations, and even Astronomy star charts—spread across the table in neat, organized stacks. Every subject had its own pile, and every pile had its own set of carefully compiled notes. She had color-coded her Runes translations, drawn diagrams for difficult Potions processes, and practiced complex Charms sequences on scraps of parchment until her wand hand ached.

Gemma often joined her, quizzing her on Charms incantations or helping refine her translations in Runes. Their whispered discussions ranged from the difference between Norse and Phoenician runic applications to mnemonic devices for memorizing obscure potion ingredients. Occasionally Terrence would sit across from them, offering insight from his own study habits and adding practical tips for Defense spells. Even Rhys appeared once, lounging in a chair only to offer snide commentary about the rest of them working so hard, though Lyra suspected he’d done his studying elsewhere in secret. Lyra ignored his jabs, too focused to waste energy on his arrogance.

Her mind, sharp and disciplined, handled the pressure well. She compartmentalized—Graham, her plans for him, stayed in one box, shoved deep into a mental corner she rarely touched. The rest of her thoughts focused on perfecting nonverbal transfigurations, memorizing potion ingredients, and drilling defensive counterspells until she could perform them in her sleep. She practiced wand movements with Gemma until their arms ached, reviewed Arithmantic calculations for Runes until her quill stained her fingers with ink, and spent long hours mapping the night sky from memory for Astronomy.

The nights were the hardest. Lying awake in the dormitory, the flickering green light from the lake casting shadows on the ceiling, she would think about her future. About becoming someone untouchable. She imagined herself walking into the Ministry one day, prepared and confident, her name no longer a burden but a weapon. Every page she studied, every fact she memorized—it was a step toward that life, one where no one could take her power from her again.

By the end of the week, she felt prepared. Exhausted, yes, but ready. And in a strange way, the intensity of it all kept her grounded. Studying gave her purpose, something beyond the lingering shadows of her trauma and the simmering need for revenge. Exams weren’t just tests—they were opportunities to prove herself.

The exams were coming. And she intended to prove herself in every single one.

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The morning of the first exam arrived with a crackling tension in the air, the castle unusually quiet save for the shuffle of robes, the scuff of shoes on stone floors, and the occasional nervous murmur echoing off the high ceilings. Lyra walked into the Great Hall with Gemma at her side, her bag slung heavily over one shoulder. The long tables had been replaced by neat rows of desks, each charmed to keep wandering eyes in check. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a clear blue sky, calm and bright, though it did little to soothe the anxious hum of students settling into their places.

Transfiguration was first. Lyra set her quill carefully on the desk, her other hand brushing the handle of her wand for reassurance, taking a slow breath to center herself. Professor McGonagall swept to the front, her presence commanding as ever, and outlined the exam in crisp, efficient words. Written questions first—complex theories about object-to-animal transformations, ethical considerations of human transfiguration, and advanced application methods—followed by the practical: a teapot into a tortoise.

Lyra’s quill moved steadily across the parchment. She wrote with deliberate precision, recalling the hours she’d spent drilling McGonagall’s lectures into her mind and refining her understanding late into the night. She referenced advanced theory where possible, weaving in details from her own notes. When the practical portion came, she stood at her station, wand poised. With a sharp flick and clear intent, the teapot rippled, reshaped, and blinked up at her from the desk as a small tortoise, its shell faintly patterned with remnants of the porcelain’s blue floral design. McGonagall’s approving nod was small but unmistakable, and the faintest curve of her lips told Lyra everything she needed to know: she had impressed her.

By the time she left the hall, Lyra felt lighter. Transfiguration had been hers to conquer, and she had.

Potions followed in the dungeons that afternoon. The air was cool and smelled faintly of crushed herbs and something acrid. The low hum of cauldrons heating filled the space, blending with the soft scratch of quills noting instructions. Professor Snape prowled between the rows, his black robes whispering over the stone floor, watching each student with hawk-like precision. Today’s task: brew a perfect Draught of Peace. Difficult. Unforgiving. One misstep could curdle the potion into useless sludge—or worse.

Lyra rolled up her sleeves and began, recalling the sequence of steps she’d practiced: moonstone powder, stirred counterclockwise exactly seven times; a dash of powdered valerian root, carefully ground; heat adjusted with each stage to prevent volatility. Her hands moved with confidence born of repetition, though sweat beaded at the nape of her neck as Snape paused behind her. He said nothing, only glanced at the pale, shimmering potion in her cauldron before moving on. The lack of critique was praise enough, though the pounding of her heart didn’t ease until he’d drifted away.

When the time was up, Lyra decanted her potion into a vial, the liquid smooth and pearlescent—a near-perfect brew. She corked it, labeling it in neat script, and set it on Snape’s desk with a quiet satisfaction. Her shoulders ached, her fingers were stiff from gripping her tools so tightly, but she felt accomplished.

Exiting the dungeons, she exhaled deeply. Two exams down. Both had gone exactly as she needed them to. Her legs ached from standing, her head buzzed with leftover adrenaline, but there was a quiet thrill in knowing she’d excelled.

Gemma caught up to her in the corridor, grinning. “If you don’t get an Outstanding on both, I’ll hex the professors myself.”

Lyra smirked faintly, shaking her head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” But deep down, she knew Gemma was right.

And there were still more exams to dominate. Charms loomed tomorrow, Astronomy on Wednesday night, followed by Runes on Thursday and Defense on Friday. Today had been the only day with two exams crammed together, she felt herself exhale—just a little—as the relief of finishing them both settled in.

The next morning dawned cooler, clouds rolling lazily across the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall as Lyra made her way to her desk for the Charms exam. The room hummed with quiet tension, the occasional scrape of chairs and low murmur of anxious students filling the air. Her quill tapped rhythmically against the desk as she waited for Professor Flitwick to announce the start. The tiny professor beamed from the front of the hall, his cheerful demeanor doing little to mask the challenge that lay ahead—sixth-year Charms demanded precision, layered understanding, and adaptability in equal measure.

The written portion came first, and it was as dense as she had expected: questions on the theoretical limitations of Summoning in magical voids, the proper method for layering multiple charms on an object without destabilizing their effects, and ethical considerations around memory modification and its historical misuse. Lyra’s quill flew across the parchment, her notes and endless revision sessions crystallizing into concise, confident responses. She even added examples from case studies she’d read in supplementary texts, silently thanking her past self for spending so many evenings in the library.

When it came time for the practical portion, Lyra rose from her seat with calm focus. Flitwick guided them to the testing stations where their skill would be put to the test. She steadied her breathing, wand poised, and worked through the tasks one by one: carefully enlarging a quill while maintaining its structure, levitating a stack of books through a narrow obstacle course of enchanted hoops, and finally layering a Summoning and Shield charm on a single target. She felt the magic hum under her control, steady and strong. When she finished, Flitwick clapped his hands in delight, his high-pitched voice carrying a simple but meaningful, “Excellent work, Miss Lestrange!” It was as good as a personal commendation.

The next evening brought no time to savor her success. Wednesday night meant the Astronomy exam. She climbed the spiral staircase to the tower under the blanket of night, the cool air biting against her skin. The night sky stretched endlessly above, stars glittering against the black canvas. Professor Sinistra greeted them with calm authority, her instructions clear: map the night sky in full, label star positions, and calculate planetary alignments relevant to the upcoming solstice.

Lyra worked methodically, quill scratching across parchment as she charted the constellations with practiced ease. Hours of study came rushing back—nights spent in the Astronomy Tower with Gemma, memorizing constellations by tracing their shapes until they were burned into her mind. Her hands grew numb from the cold, but she kept writing, double-checking each coordinate and verifying her calculations twice. She remembered Snape’s words about discipline during their career counseling meeting; it carried her through the final lines of her work.

When she finally set down her quill, satisfied with her chart, a deep, quiet pride swelled within her. She packed her things and descended the tower, the castle’s eerie silence wrapping around her like a blanket as fatigue pressed down on her limbs.

Back in the dormitory, Gemma was sprawled across her bed, her own Astronomy notes abandoned at her side. “How was it?” she mumbled through a yawn.

“Good,” Lyra replied, placing her completed chart on the desk. She paused, then added with a faint smile, “Better than good.”

Gemma smirked sleepily. “I knew you’d crush it.”

Lyra changed into her nightclothes and slid beneath her blankets, the exhaustion finally catching up to her. But beneath the fatigue was a glowing sense of confidence.

Thursday morning came quickly, bringing with it the steady pulse of nervous energy that seemed to hum through every stone of the castle. The air felt charged, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Lyra found herself seated in one of the smaller classrooms for her Ancient Runes exam, the walls lined with carved inscriptions and enchanted diagrams that flickered faintly, as if to remind them of the magic they were studying. Professor Babbling handed out the exam scrolls with her usual enthusiasm, her eyes bright behind her spectacles, and offered a few encouraging words about how much she had enjoyed teaching them that year. It did little to quiet the churning in Lyra’s stomach, but she straightened in her seat, quill poised.

The written section was extensive: detailed translations of multi-layered Norse and Phoenician inscriptions, complex essays on the dismantling of layered runic wards and their underlying mechanics, and an analysis of the risks involved in breaking protective enchantments. Lyra thrived on it. She had prepared for this. Her quill glided over the parchment with confidence as she wove together theoretical knowledge and practical application, drawing on every late night she had spent buried in runic texts. Her diagrams were neat, her explanations concise, and when she included references to obscure applications from supplementary reading, she could almost feel Babbling’s approval.

The practical portion required inscribing and enchanting a protective rune sequence on a blank stone slab. Lyra traced the lines slowly at first, then with increasing confidence, each carved rune deliberate and perfectly proportioned. The sequence glowed faintly as she infused it with magic, the hum of the enchantment settling into the stone with a satisfying pulse. When Babbling stopped behind her and made a small, approving sound, Lyra felt her chest swell with pride.

By the time she left the room, she felt that rare, quiet sense of accomplishment—the kind that came from doing something exceptionally well. Gemma grinned when she saw her expression. “Outstanding?” she guessed. Lyra only smirked, but the answer was obvious.

Friday’s Defense exam was held in one of the larger classrooms, desks pushed aside to make room for the practical work. Professor Quirrell, his stammer worse than usual, breaking nearly every word into fragments, explained the structure of the exam in his halting way: a brief written section on magical theory, followed by a practical assessment of defensive spells and counter-curses. His voice wavered with each instruction, doing little to calm the tension in the room, though Lyra kept her focus sharp, steadying herself as her heart pounded in her chest.

The written portion was straightforward, a mix of spell theory and situational application questions. Lyra breezed through them, her answers crisp, drawing connections between spell principles and real-world uses. The practical exam, however, was where she truly shone. Her wand felt like an extension of her hand as she cast shield charms that absorbed simulated hexes, disarmed invisible opponents with a flick of her wrist, and countered minor jinxes with precise, confident incantations. When Quirrell quietly increased the difficulty near the end with a few unexpected hexes, she adapted quickly, her movements sharp and her mind focused. By the time she lowered her wand, her breathing steady, his stammered but genuine, “V-very good, Miss L-Lestrange,” was acknowledgment enough—and meant more than she cared to admit.

As she gathered her things, Quirrell lingered nearby, his pale hands folded behind his back. "Y-y-you have… q-quite the t-t-talent for th-this work," he said, his stammer dragging over every syllable before softening as his tone deepened. "A s-strong c-command of m-magic for s-someone so… y-young." Lyra met his gaze briefly, unsure whether to thank him or move on, but his words held her in place.

He took a small step closer, lowering his voice. "Y-your f-family has al-always been p-powerful. Th-the L-Lestranges… th-the B-Blacks. Magic r-runs in your b-blood." The way he said it made her stomach twist—half praise, half something she couldn’t name.

Lyra tightened her grip on her wand. “I work hard. That’s all,” she said flatly, but he only tilted his head slightly, as if amused.

She turned to leave, but as she reached the doorway, a different voice—deeper, resonant, almost serpentine—slipped through the air: “Your father would be proud.”

Lyra froze. The words echoed in her head, chilling and strange, lodging there like a curse. She didn’t recognize the speaker, yet the voice itself stirred something deep inside her—a familiarity that felt like it belonged to another lifetime. And the words—Your father. They stuck to her ribs like ice, suffocating. For a heartbeat, she saw Rodolphus Lestrange, that cruel sneer, the shadow of her family’s legacy pressing down on her like a weight she could never shed. Her pulse spiked, hands clammy against her wand, breath coming faster as she forced herself to keep walking. By the time she stepped quickly out of the room, her chest felt tight, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had spoken hadn’t just seen her—they’d reached inside and peeled something open she wasn’t ready to face.

Your Father Would Be Proud. But would he? The words echoed with the weight of both—the stepfather who had claimed her and the man whose blood she truly carried, the same blood she’d seen stain the floors of Bones Manor—leaving her unable to decide which one the voice had meant.

She knew which one she wished it to be.

Chapter 30

The dormitory was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made every breath sound too loud, every thought heavier than it should be. The curtains were drawn tight around Gemma’s bed across the room, but even her steady breathing didn’t comfort Lyra tonight. It only reminded her how alone she felt inside her own head.

Lyra sat at the edge of her bed long after she should have been asleep, fingers twisting the blanket in her lap, staring at her hands as though they might start bleeding. They didn’t. Of course they didn’t. But she could still feel it—the phantom warmth, the ghost of pain—like Quirrell’s words had embedded themselves somewhere deep in her, a splinter she couldn’t pull out no matter how hard she tried.

Your father would be proud.

She’d replayed those words a hundred times already, but they still sounded foreign, like they didn’t belong to the man who had spoken them. It wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it—so unlike him. Quirrell’s usual quivering had been gone, replaced by something steady, deliberate. The kind of tone that made the room colder without lowering the temperature.

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to move—stand up, pace, throw something—but her limbs felt impossibly heavy, her body anchored to the mattress by dread. She didn’t understand it. Didn’t know why the words clung so tightly, why they felt like more than just a passing comment.

She curled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest, ignoring the creak of the bed frame. It didn’t matter if she was too old to be lying like this. It was the only way to make herself small enough to breathe. Her thoughts tangled—Rodolphus’s voice, the sharp green light of curses, her mother’s screaming, Quirrell’s pale, unreadable face. Your father would be proud.

The words burrowed under her skin like insects, crawling deeper every time she tried to push them out. She pressed her hands over her ears like it would help, but it didn’t. Nothing did.

She hated how powerless she felt. She had promised herself she would be stronger, that she wouldn’t keep folding into herself whenever the past crept back in, or when people tried to push her, but this felt different—like strength didn’t know where to start. She wanted to shake it off, wanted to be angry instead of afraid, but the fear sat heavier than anything else. She couldn’t make sense of it. Not tonight.

Eventually, exhaustion blurred the edges of everything. Her muscles loosened just enough, her mind slipping like a stone into deep water. Her eyes closed at last, though the words still echoed in the dark.

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The room wasn’t the dorm anymore. It was the drawing room at Lestrange Manor.

She knew this place. She’d spent so many nights on this rug that it was burned into her—the faded pattern beneath her knees, the smell of smoke and ash lingering in the heavy curtains, the sharp edges of the table legs she had once crawled behind trying to make herself invisible. Everything in her bones told her she was a child again, small and breakable, waiting for the next order she couldn’t refuse. Her breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, as the air itself seemed to grow thicker, pressing down on her lungs. She could almost hear the echoes of her mother’s voice in another room, raised but distant, and the soft click of boots across the floor. Memories bled into the dream like they belonged there.

"Stand up."

She didn’t. Her knees locked. Her fingers dug into the rug as if anchoring herself to anything that felt solid. The voice crawled up her spine like ice.

"Stand up, Lyra."

Her head snapped up before she could think. That wasn’t Rodolphus. It wasn’t anyone she knew. The sound made her skin crawl. It was too calm, too steady, carrying with it the kind of weight that made her feel like the walls were bending toward her, like the whole room bowed to its will.

The voice came from everywhere at once. Smooth, deliberate, heavy with an unshakable power that made the air hum. It wasn’t just sound—it was something that lived beneath the skin, inside her ribs, clawing its way into her. It filled the room, filled her, like it owned every part of her that had ever been afraid.

"Do you know who I am?"

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The silence between them stretched, suffocating, like the air itself had become punishment.

"I am the blood you carry. The breath in your bones. I am everything you were born for."

A cold hand—not there, but felt—brushed her face like a brand. Her skin burned where it passed, as if the touch left a mark invisible to anyone else. Her whole body trembled, frozen in place by a terror so deep it felt like it belonged to someone else. Shadows seemed to pool in the corners, moving closer with every syllable, as though even the darkness answered to that voice.

"You are mine."

The words rang like a sentence being passed. The room tilted, warped, and the rug beneath her turned black and melted away, swallowing her whole. The walls fell away into nothing, replaced by a crushing, endless dark. It felt like falling and drowning all at once.

She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe. Every ounce of her strength was gone, stolen by the weight of the voice.

And before the darkness consumed her entirely, she understood. She knew that voice. And she wished, with every part of her, that she didn’t.

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

She woke up gasping.

No. Not gasping. Choking.

The dorm was spinning—stone walls bending like melted glass, shadows crawling up from the floor like living things. Her chest burned with a raw, searing ache, each attempt at breath making it worse. She clawed at the blankets, at her own skin, as though she could tear her lungs open and drag the air in by force. It felt like the voice had followed her here, curling invisible fingers around her throat and squeezing until all she could hear was her pulse roaring in her ears. The taste of iron filled her mouth, though she couldn’t remember biting her tongue. Her body felt wrong, foreign, like she was trapped in something she couldn’t control.

“Lyra?”

Gemma’s voice. Low. Sharp. Scared. A sound that usually grounded her, but now only cut through the suffocating fog for a heartbeat before the panic swallowed it again.

The curtains whipped open, and Gemma’s wandlight flared to life, flooding the bed with sudden brightness. The movement was fast, jarring—like the world had suddenly decided to be too bright, too loud. The sudden contrast burned against Lyra’s eyes, tears pricking as she flinched back.

“Lyra—Merlin—breathe—come on—breathe—please—” Gemma’s words were quick, desperate, as she reached for Lyra’s wrists, trying to keep her from clawing at herself.

She couldn’t. She couldn’t. Her lungs were useless, her vision shrinking at the edges like someone was slowly drawing the curtains closed inside her own head. Panic crawled up her spine, every nerve screaming, as if her body were both on fire and frozen at once. Her limbs jerked wildly, striking the bedpost, the wall—anything in reach—as she tried to fight off something she couldn’t see.

Gemma climbed onto the bed, grabbing her shoulders and trying to hold her still. “Hey—look at me—stay with me—look at me—Lyra—please—”

Lyra jerked back so hard she nearly fell off the mattress. Her limbs moved without direction, kicking against the blankets, striking at a phantom enemy only she could feel. The world tilted, and she swore she could still feel that voice, like it was in the room with them, breathing down her neck.

“Listen to me, you’re safe—safe—just breathe—please—just breathe—” Gemma’s voice cracked, breaking through the fog for the briefest second. She tried to sound calm, but Lyra could hear the fear behind it, thin and fraying.

No air. No control. Her body wasn’t listening. It was like the nightmare had ripped her out of herself and left only terror behind. The room dissolved into a spinning blur of shapes and sounds she couldn’t name—Gemma shouting, the creak of bedposts, her own gasps that weren’t enough. Every sound echoed too loud, every shadow felt too close.

“Come on—come on—stay with me—don’t do this—” Gemma’s words came faster, sharper, pleading in a way Lyra had never heard before. There was no hesitation in her hands now, just urgency.

Gemma swore under her breath, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Lyra. I can’t— I’m sorry—”

The last thing she saw before the world went dark was Gemma’s wand flashing red, a spell snapping through the air, and the unbearable weight crushing her chest finally easing.

A soft thud.

Then nothing.

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

When she woke, it felt like swimming up from the bottom of a frozen lake. Every movement was sluggish, every thought delayed, as though her body wasn’t sure it wanted to come back at all. The ache in her chest was dull but lingering, the echo of something that had clawed at her from the inside. Her fingers twitched beneath the blankets, slow and clumsy, like they belonged to someone else, foreign and uncooperative. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and for a moment she wondered if she was still dreaming. Her tongue felt thick, her lips dry. Even blinking took effort.

The first thing she noticed was the smell—clean, sharp, antiseptic with a hint of chamomile. The sheets beneath her were cool and crisp, the mattress too soft to belong anywhere but here. A soft humming sound came from somewhere nearby: Madam Pomfrey, bustling behind a curtain, muttering to herself as she rearranged potions on a cart. She could hear the glass clink against the wood, the scratch of quills on parchment, the occasional creak of well-worn shoes on stone. A glass of water on the bedside table caught the pale morning light through the high windows, ripples stilling as if someone had just set it down. The quiet hum of life in the infirmary made her feel strangely disoriented—too normal, too peaceful compared to the nightmare she had come from.

The hospital wing. Safe. Sterile. Familiar. And yet, it didn’t feel safe. Not really. It felt like waking up in a cage with velvet bars.

Her limbs felt strangely heavy, her mind dulled like a blunted blade. Dreamless Sleep, and a strong dose. Pomfrey had probably kept her under for days. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to come back up. She couldn’t shake the thought that if she had stayed asleep, none of this—the voice, the truth of what just happened—could touch her. Her heart twisted at the thought of slipping away into the void forever, away from all the ghosts that had chased her here. That was the worst part—how much she’d wanted that quiet.

“Good morning.”

The voice startled her. Dumbledore sat beside her bed, hands folded in his lap. Calm. Composed. Watching, like he’d been there longer than she knew. His presence was both comforting and unnerving, like a reminder that she couldn’t hide from what had happened. His blue eyes, sharp and soft all at once, fixed on her as though they could see beyond the layers she’d built.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Her throat ached when she spoke. “Panic attack.”

“Yes.” He nodded, the movement deliberate, his voice calm in that way that somehow both soothed and unsettled her. “Miss Farley acted quickly. She stunned you before things could spiral further. It was necessary—she saw that you were past the point of reaching, and she did what needed to be done to keep you safe.”

Lyra stared at her hands. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Dumbledore said softly. “You’ve been under more strain than most could bear. And yet, here you are.”

She almost laughed. Strain. As if that word contained even a fraction of it. That word didn’t hold the nightmares, or the voice that had seeped into her bones. It didn’t hold the dread curling in her stomach now, heavy and unshakable.

“It wasn’t just a panic attack.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No?”

“I heard him. In class. When Quirrell spoke. And again, in a dream. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Quirrell. It was—” She stopped. Her mouth wouldn’t form the name.

Dumbledore filled the silence. “Voldemort.”

Lyra’s stomach turned at the sound of the name, and she flinched, her jaw tightening as if the word itself had burned her. She couldn’t bring herself to repeat it, couldn’t let it pass her lips; even thinking it felt dangerous. The only thing she could do was sit there, tense and silent, as though moving might summon the shadow behind it.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Voldemort lives still,” Dumbledore said. “A shadow of what he was, but alive.”

The words hit like a blow. “But… how? He’s supposed to be—”

“Gone?” Dumbledore sighed. “That is an answer I cannot yet give you. But I do not doubt you. I believe you.”

No one ever said that. People didn’t just… believe her. It was disarming, disorienting. She clung to it despite herself.

They sat in silence for several minutes. The kind of silence that stretched and grew heavy, filling every inch of the room until she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the distant clatter of Pomfrey’s potions. Lyra avoided his gaze, staring instead at her hands twisting in the blanket, unsure if she wanted him to keep talking or to leave her alone. Dumbledore didn’t rush her; he let the quiet do its work, patient and unshakable. Then, softly: “Your mother worked for me once.”

Her head snapped up. Of course she already knew her mother had been a spy during the war, that she’d worked for Dumbledore, but hearing him say it aloud still landed like a stone dropped in still water, rippling through everything she thought she understood. It made it feel heavier, more real—like the part of her mother that belonged to the Order was still alive in this room.

“She was one of my spies. Brilliant. Brave. She risked more than anyone has the right to ask. She endured horrors no one should face, for the sake of something greater.”

She scoffed, bitterness curling in her chest. “If she was so brilliant, why is she in Azkaban?”

“Because I could not save everyone.”

It burned. She wanted to demand more, to scream at him for letting it happen, for not trying harder. Why hadn’t her mother been worth his time to save? Why hadn’t she mattered enough? The questions swirled like smoke in her head, bitter and suffocating, but no words came. Her throat locked around them like even her body didn’t want the answer.

“You are much like her. And like Edgar.” As he spoke, Dumbledore shifted slightly in his chair, leaning forward just enough that the movement felt deliberate, his long fingers steepling beneath his chin. His gaze never left her, heavy and assessing, like he was weighing not just his words but her reaction to them.

She froze. “You… knew him.” The name hit her like a slap, pulling threads of memory and grief she barely allowed herself to touch. She wondered what Dumbledore really knew of him—of the man who’d been her father, beyond the title of a good man. Did he know the sound of his laugh? The way he held her when she was small? Or did Edgar Bones live in Dumbledore’s memory only as another soldier in a war? She wanted to ask, to demand the details, but the words tangled in her throat.

“I did. He was a good man. Fierce, principled, compassionate. He wanted a better world for you. And he would be proud of the woman you are becoming.”

Her heart pounded, each beat loud in her ears. Pride clawed at her chest, twisting into grief, then into anger until she couldn’t separate one from the other. She thought of the empty spaces where memories of him should have been, of the pieces of her life stolen before she even knew they existed.

“And I believe you can help make that world,” Dumbledore said. “Lord Voldemort will rise again. When he does… I will need people like you. People who can do good. People who can succeed where others could not.”

People who could be useful.

Lyra’s chest tightened. Useful. Worth something. More than the Lestrange name. More than Bellatrix’s daughter. More than the bastard everyone saw.

“I can’t promise it will be easy,” Dumbledore said, his voice low, almost coaxing. “But you are strong. Stronger than you realize. You could be what they could not. Your mother fought for what was right. Edgar did too. You are their legacy. Their hope.”

Her hands curled into the sheets, twisting the fabric until her knuckles whitened. She wanted to say no, to tell him she was tired of carrying pieces of a war she hadn’t chosen. She wanted to ask why her life had to keep revolving around someone else’s fight, why her worth had to be measured by battles and legacies. But underneath all of that, under the bitterness and the exhaustion, was the desperate, aching need to be something more. She wanted to matter, even if it meant letting herself be used. At least this time, it would be on her terms—and that made all the difference.

Her chest felt tight when she finally forced the words out. “Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll help.”

Dumbledore smiled, the expression kind but calculated, as if he’d been waiting for that answer all along. “Good. Then I will see you again soon.”

At the door, he paused. “Lyra. Your father—Edgar—would be proud of you.”

The words cut deeper than he could know. Only then did she notice another bed across the room, one she hadn’t seen when she first woke. Harry Potter lay there, unconscious, pale against the white sheets. He looked broken in a way only battles could make someone look. Whatever had happened while she was under, it hadn’t been small. She didn’t need to ask who had done it. She didn’t need to ask why. Her stomach turned as the pieces fell into place. Quirrell. The voice. The Dark Lord. It was all real.

Her stomach churned. It wasn’t over. Whatever had spoken through Quirrell, whatever had haunted her dreams—it had been real. And Potter’s stillness was proof. Proof that the shadow wasn’t just in her head. It had touched the world again.

That night, as she lay in the bed in the infirmary staring at the ceiling, the weight of his words pressed against her like an anchor. Every word he’d said replayed in her mind, louder in the silence, impossible to escape.

Proud.

The word clung to her like a hex. Edgar Bones would be proud. Her mother would be proud. She didn’t know if she believed it. But she wanted it to be true.

She wanted to be more than this. Someone who mattered. Someone who could do good.

And if that meant becoming whatever Dumbledore needed her to be…

So be it.

Chapter 31

The air in the hospital wing felt strangely hollow when Lyra stepped out from behind the privacy curtain. Madam Pomfrey had fussed over her for far longer than Lyra thought necessary, double-checking potions, repeating instructions as if she didn’t already know how to take care of herself, and clucking her tongue every time Lyra gave too short of an answer. The matron’s stern concern washed over her like static, smothering her in a way that only made her more eager to leave. Lyra had nodded along silently, not really listening. Her mind had been elsewhere, counting the hours—two days until summer. Two days until she could put distance between herself and all of this. Two days until she could be somewhere where no one would look at her like she was breakable. But first, there was one thing she needed to do, and she couldn’t afford to hesitate.

She lingered for a moment at the doors, taking in the filtered light of the infirmary, the scent of potions that clung to the air, the faint squeak of Pomfrey’s shoes as she retreated back to her desk. Lyra wasn’t sure if she was grateful for the time she’d been forced to rest or resentful for every second of it. Both, maybe. She felt like an animal kept in a cage for observation, poked and prodded until she no longer knew what part of her hurt most. Her fingers grazed the doorframe before she pushed it open, inhaling a breath that felt like the first real one she’d taken in days.

The corridors outside were quiet, echoing faintly with the laughter and chatter of students enjoying their last days of term. It felt obscene that the world had kept moving while hers had stalled. The sun slanted through high windows, warming the stones but doing nothing to thaw the cold knot in her stomach. Lyra wrapped her arms around herself as she walked, willing herself to look composed even though every step felt heavier than the last. Her shoes clicked softly against the flagstones, each one deliberate, rehearsed—like she could walk herself into feeling steady again. She didn’t hear Draco until he was right behind her.

“You look terrible,” he said flatly, though his voice didn’t have the usual bite. When she turned, he was standing awkwardly, hands tucked behind his back like he didn’t know what to do with them. His pale eyes scanned her face quickly before darting away. “Are you… alright?”

Lyra smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Draco muttered, glancing away like he’d overstepped. He didn’t push, and she appreciated that more than she’d admit. “I’m glad you’re out.” His voice softened on the last word, almost imperceptibly.

It was brief, but it was enough. She gave him a small nod before continuing down the corridor, letting the quiet say what they didn’t need to. Draco, for all his posturing, understood better than most when words were unnecessary.

Gemma and Terrence were waiting for her in the common room entrance, both leaning against the wall like sentries. Gemma’s face lit up with relief before twisting into a frown. “You look like hell, Lyra.”

“Nice to see you too,” Lyra said dryly, though a small part of her felt warmed by their concern. Their presence was grounding—a reminder that there were still people who would stand by her without question.

“You should know—Graham’s furious,” Terrence said, leaning back with his arms crossed. “He’s been stomping around like a storm since he found out you were in the infirmary. He said no one told him.”

Lyra’s stomach tightened, but she only hummed in response. Perfect. His anger would make him sloppy. She needed him sloppy.

'This is the best day for it,' she thought, the words settling like iron in her chest. Two days left. No more waiting. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it on her terms. No one else’s.

She plastered on a calm, icy expression, forcing stillness into her body even as her thoughts churned. “Good,” she said. “Let him be mad.”

Gemma exchanged a wary glance with Terrence but didn’t argue. They knew her well enough not to try. They could see it in her—the steel in her shoulders, the quiet resolve in her eyes. Lyra already had her plan, sharp and unyielding in her mind. And she wasn’t going to waste another moment.

The common room was packed, the usual lazy murmur of afternoons replaced by a tense, prickling hush. Conversations died mid-sentence as the door shut behind her. Dozens of heads turned at once. The fire roared in the hearth, shadows clawing up the green-and-silver walls, making the dungeon feel smaller, hotter. Lyra didn’t pause. Her every step measured, and her expression carved from ice. No preamble. No hesitation. The plan she’d settled on outside the door was already in motion, and there was no room for second thoughts.

Her gaze swept the room, and then she saw him.

Graham sat in his usual chair, sprawling like he owned the room, one arm slung lazily over the back, legs kicked out. His dark eyes found hers instantly. The grin that spread across his face wasn’t pleasant—it was predatory. The chatter dulled instantly, an electric tension filling the air as everyone turned to watch. Whispers hissed around the room, some hushed, others sharp. Lyra’s steps didn’t falter.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," Graham growled, his voice rough with the kind of anger that filled the entire room. He pushed himself up from his chair, the movement quick and sharp, and stalked toward her with deliberate, heavy steps, his broad frame cutting an imposing path through the common room. “In the infirmary for days, and I hear about it from someone else? What the fuck is that, Lyra? Not a note, not a goddamn word?”

Lyra didn’t flinch. “Didn’t think it was your business.”

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as his anger climbed. “Not my business?” His voice rose, cutting through the quiet like a whip. “I’m the one who gives a shit about you! I’m the one who—” He cut himself off, jaw ticking, the fire in his eyes burning hotter. “You don’t just disappear on me.”

She tilted her head, meeting his glare with icy calm. “I’m not yours to disappear on.”

It was like striking flint. His face darkened, his hands curling into fists, his whole body vibrating with barely contained rage. “You think you can talk to me like that?”

“I just did,” she said, her voice sharp and cutting, each word landing like a slap.

Gasps murmured through the crowd. Students leaned forward, tension mounting, waiting to see what would happen next. Graham closed the space between them until he was looming over her, the heat of his breath hitting her face. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper, dripping with fury. “Don’t fucking test me, Lyra.”

She held his gaze. Unblinking. “Or what?”

The slap came fast, his open palm cracking across her cheek. The sound echoed in the room like a gunshot. Her head snapped to the side, pain blooming hot and sharp across her face. But she didn’t stumble. Didn’t cry. Didn’t break. She slowly turned her head back toward him, her eyes like frozen steel. He wanted her small—he’d get anything but.

“Still think you can talk to me like that?” he spat, his lips curled back in a snarl.

“Looks like I just did,” she said coldly, her voice steady even as her skin burned and her tongue tasted blood.

The insult cut deeper than the slap. His face twisted into something ugly—something unrecognizable. He struck her again, harder, in the same spot. The sting of it brought the metallic tang stronger to her tongue. She didn’t move. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. Her heart hammered, fury rising like bile in her throat.

He drew his arm back for a third strike—and that’s when everything exploded.

A violent blast of magic struck him square in the chest, hurling him backward with a force that sent him crashing into the floor. The thud of his body against stone rattled the room.

Gemma stood behind Lyra, wand raised, her face twisted in pure, unfiltered rage. “Touch her again,” she hissed, her voice shaking with fury, “and I swear to Merlin I will kill you right here.”

In a blink, Terrence and Rhys were at Lyra’s sides, wands drawn and steady. Graham groaned, clutching at his chest, but his rage wasn’t done. He rolled to his side, reaching for his wand—

A sickening crunch cut through the silence.

Eliza Burke, standing near where he’d landed, had stomped her heel down on his hand and wand, shattering both with one decisive move. Graham howled, the sound echoing off the stone walls as he clutched his mangled hand, his pride shattered as quickly as his bones.

That was when the rest of the room moved. Adrian and Cassius stood from where they had been sitting dicussing new quidditch moves with their wands drawn, aimed squarely at Graham. One by one, others followed, the majority of the common room forming a silent wall of pointed wands and cold, unyielding stares.

The tension was suffocating. The room hummed with magic, with fury, with solidarity. Lyra felt it in her bones—this wasn’t just a moment. It was a reckoning.

Graham froze, breathing hard, his eyes darting between the students encircling him. His pride roared for him to fight, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to take on an entire house. Not when he’d just lost them all.

“Get up,” Gemma barked, her wand still trained on him. “And get the hell out.”

He glared at Lyra one last time, something venomous and broken flashing in his eyes. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright with his good hand, cradling the other against his chest. His pride was shattered, but his hate was still burning.

He spat on the floor, a bitter, ugly sound, and limped toward the dormitories. No one stopped him. No one needed to.

Only when the door slammed shut behind him did the common room breathe again. Lyra stood rooted in place, her cheek throbbing, heart hammering, surrounded by the silent storm of her housemates’ loyalty—and the burning knowledge that this wasn’t over.

Gemma was the first to move. She lowered her wand, though her knuckles were still white, and turned toward Lyra. "Let’s get you to our room," she said, her voice clipped, no room for argument. Terrence and Rhys escorted them only to the entrance of the girls’ hallway, stopping at the threshold where the dorm enchantments barred them from following. They lingered there, silent and furious like sentinels guarding the passage, while Gemma guided Lyra the rest of the way. Even Eliza, who hadn’t moved from where she’d crushed Graham’s hand, gave Lyra a small, approving nod before turning away, her eyes still smoldering.

Once they were in the safety of the dormitory, the silence cracked. "I should’ve kept going," Gemma said flatly, pacing near the window. Her hands twitched at her sides, still itching to cast another curse. "One good curse and he’d never touch anyone again."

Lyra sank onto her bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her hands trembled before she pressed them flat against the quilt, forcing stillness into herself. She chuckled briefly, though it sounded more bitter than amused.

Gemma stopped pacing. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll live.” Lyra reached for her wand and muttered a quick cleansing charm. The taste of blood faded, but the ache in her cheek remained. It would bruise—deeply. She would need more than that to hide it, and the thought of Pomfrey’s knowing look made her stomach twist.

Gemma crouched in front of Lyra, forcing her to meet her eyes. “You don’t have to act like this doesn’t matter. It does. He doesn’t get to just—walk away from this like nothing happened.”

Lyra cut her off with a sharp look. “I’m fine.” The lie sat heavy on her tongue, but she needed it more than the truth.

“You’re not fine.”

“I will be.” Her voice was steel. “He can’t do any real damage to me unless I let him. And I won’t.” It wasn’t just defiance; it was a vow, one that burned hotter than the sting in her cheek.

Gemma’s eyes softened, but she didn’t push further. She sighed, exhaling some of her anger, and fetched a potion from her trunk, placing it on the nightstand. “For the swelling. It’ll help you sleep too. You should still go to Pomfrey, Lyra.”

“No,” Lyra said. “She’ll ask questions.” She had only just been released, and Pomfrey would be even more smothering now, trying to keep her under her watch. Pomfrey was a good woman, but some things Lyra needed to handle on her own. And Pomfrey would ask questions, ones she didn’t want to answer. Not now. Maybe not ever. And definitely not where anyone could hear.

When Gemma finally left, Lyra stood before the mirror, examining the mottled red imprint blooming across her face. It would be purple by morning. Ugly. Visible. The kind of mark that lingered even after the pain dulled. She raised her wand, muttered the incantation, and watched as the glamour settled over her skin, hiding the evidence behind a flawless mask.

There. Untouchable. The girl in the mirror looked calm, collected, whole. But Lyra could still feel the sting beneath the illusion, like a truth she couldn’t charm away.

She straightened her spine, staring into her own reflection until her breathing evened out. Graham wanted her broken. He wanted her humiliated. Instead, she felt colder than she ever had. Controlled. He had taken his shot, and she was still standing. And that, she decided, was what would ruin him most.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. And next time, she promised herself, she’d be the one holding all the power.

Chapter 32

Notes:

This chapter is a bit shorter than usual but the last few will be longer! Let me know what you think!

The Great Hall was alive with the usual end-of-year grandeur, its ceiling awash with a dusky twilight charm that mirrored the sky outside. Hundreds of floating candles hovered in neat rows, their warm glow reflecting off the golden plates and goblets polished to a mirror finish. The four house tables were packed, students chattering in excited, overlapping bursts of conversation that echoed from the high stone walls. Slytherin banners hung proudly above the tables, their silver serpents shimmering against deep green fabric, a pointed reminder that the House Cup belonged to them.

Lyra slipped into her usual seat between Gemma and Terrence at the Slytherin table, Adrian and Cassius sitting across from them. Draco was a few places down, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, his pale face set in his usual smug expression—though it softened when he caught Lyra’s eye, offering her a subtle nod of acknowledgment. Her cheek still ached under the glamour, but she wore it like armor, refusing to let it weigh her down. She ignored the curious glances from younger students who had clearly heard whispers of the confrontation days earlier. She felt the weight of their stares but chose not to meet them—tonight wasn’t about that.

The feast was a display of excess: roast meats steaming on silver platters, mountains of potatoes, bowls of rich gravies, baskets of warm rolls, and endless assortments of pastries and puddings at the far end of the table. Lyra reached for a serving spoon without much enthusiasm, piling food onto her plate more out of habit than hunger. The Slytherin table hummed with self-satisfied excitement—this was their night. They’d held the lead all term, and the green and silver banners above their heads felt like an unshakable crown.

“We’ve won the House Cup again,” Gemma said with a satisfied grin, glancing at the banners. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Lyra gave a faint smile. “It does.” Gemma grinned and leaned back, clinking her goblet against Terrence’s.

The sound of a fork clinking against a goblet drew their attention to the staff table. Dumbledore rose to his feet, arms open in his usual sweeping gesture, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the candlelight.

“Another year has passed,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “And before we all return to our homes for the summer, there are a few matters to address. First and foremost, I must say that our young witches and wizards have done us proud—academically, athletically, and in ways that cannot be measured by points alone.”

Polite applause rippled across the room. Dumbledore let it settle before continuing.

“Now, to our House Cup totals.” His expression brightened as he gestured toward the hourglasses at the far wall, each filled with their respective House gems, which glittered brilliantly in the torchlight. “In fourth place, with 312 points, Gryffindor!” His voice lifted, adding weight and grandeur to each name. “In third place, with 324 points, Ravenclaw! In second place, with 352 points, Hufflepuff! And in first place, with an impressive 482 points, Slytherin!” His words rang out with a flourish, filling the Great Hall with a sense of momentous occasion and pride, as if he were savoring the energy of the entire school hanging on every syllable.

The Slytherin table erupted into cheers, the sound loud and triumphant. Gemma grinned, clapping Terrence on the back, while Adrian and Cassius whooped across the table. Even Lyra felt a flicker of satisfaction warm her chest.

“However,” Dumbledore said, and the word cut through the cheers like a blade. “Recent events have required me to award some last-minute points.”

The Hall fell silent.

Dumbledore’s gaze fell on the Gryffindor table. “To Mr. Harry Potter, for pure nerve and outstanding courage—sixty points.”

Gasps erupted. The Gryffindor table began buzzing as their hourglass filled with a cascade of crimson gems.

“To Mr. Ron Weasley, for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years—fifty points.”

The cheers grew louder. Gryffindor’s gems surged upward again.

“To Miss Hermione Granger, for cool logic in the face of fire—fifty points.”

The Gryffindor table was on its feet now, clapping and shouting, while the rest of the Hall buzzed in disbelief.

“And finally,” Dumbledore said, “to Mr. Neville Longbottom, for his courage and the bravery it takes to stand up to one’s friends, even in the face of great difficulty—fifteen points.”

The Gryffindor table exploded with cheers as their total surpassed Slytherin’s by five points. The banners above the tables shimmered, green melting into crimson and gold. Gryffindor had stolen the House Cup.

The Hall roared, Gryffindor pounding their fists on the table in celebration, while the Slytherin table fell into stunned silence. The only sound from their end was the dull clink of utensils as someone dropped a fork. Gemma muttered something venomous under her breath, and Draco looked like he’d swallowed something sour. Adrian swore softly, glaring at the shifting banners, while Cassius kicked the table leg hard enough to rattle the silverware. Pansy Parkinson slammed her hand against the table, drawing a brief hush from those nearest her.

“At least we still have the Quidditch Cup,” Terrence said darkly, breaking the silence. It did little to soothe the sting. “Next year we’ll make sure they don’t get either.”

Gemma crossed her arms, scowling up at the Gryffindor table, her jaw tight. “They can keep their pity points. It doesn’t change the fact we earned it.”

Lyra didn’t speak. She kept her face neutral, but her hands tightened around her goblet as she took a slow sip. Gryffindor could have their hollow victory. Let them celebrate. The real game, Lyra decided, was only just beginning.

Chapter 33

The castle felt different on the morning of departure—quieter, though not truly silent. The usual hum of excitement that came with the end of term was muted, replaced by the shuffle of trunks, the occasional bark of laughter echoing down the corridors, and the clatter of last-minute packing. Lyra stood in the Slytherin common room, double-checking the buckles on her trunk, the glamour still perfectly in place. She could feel the stares of a few younger students who had clearly heard whispers about what happened in the common room days ago; the older years had been talking, and news traveled fast. A small part of her ached to drop the glamour, to stop pretending, but she wasn’t ready for those questions—not yet. Her fingers lingered on the clasp for a moment longer than necessary, as if perfecting its alignment could steady the chaos in her mind.

“Do you have everything?” Draco’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He appeared in the archway, already dressed in traveling robes, his trunk floating obediently behind him. He looked every bit the picture of calm, though Lyra caught the way his eyes flicked over her, searching for cracks she wouldn’t let him see.

“I do,” Lyra said simply, giving her trunk one last glance before levitating it behind her. “And you?”

Draco smirked faintly. “Naturally. Father would have a fit if I left so much as a book behind. Or worse—something Potter could use to gloat.”

She rolled her eyes but allowed herself a small smile. “We can’t have that.”

As they walked together to the Great Hall for breakfast, the corridors were full of students hauling trunks, chattering quickly about their summer plans, and exchanging hurried goodbyes. A group of younger Slytherins scampered past them, chattering about their families meeting them at the station. The hall smelled of warm bread, fresh fruit, and sizzling bacon, the aromas mingling in a way that almost masked the nervous undercurrent in the air.

Lyra and Draco sat near Gemma, Terrence, and Rhys, who were already eating. Gemma looked annoyingly alert for the early hour, her hair perfectly plaited as she buttered her toast with a precision that only Gemma could muster.

“You all ready to go?” Gemma asked, glancing at Lyra. “I swear, these last few days always feel like the longest.”

“As I’ll ever be,” Lyra replied, taking a roll and tearing it in half. “You?”

“Ready for a summer of quiet,” Gemma said. “Though I’ll probably be sick of my brothers after a week.”

Terrence muttered something about wanting to get home before his siblings took over his room, and Rhys grunted his agreement, too busy shoveling food onto his plate to add much else. Draco rolled his eyes at them but said nothing, unusually subdued. Pansy Parkinson and Theo Nott soon drifted over to join Draco, sliding into the seats nearby with casual familiarity, adding their quiet presence to the little cluster of Slytherins at the table.

Conversation at the Slytherin table was hushed and sparse, as though the sting of the House Cup loss still lingered in the air like smoke. Even Draco, who normally would have had something cutting to say about Gryffindor’s “stolen victory,” kept his comments brief, his jaw tightening whenever he glanced at the red-and-gold banners still draped overhead.

When breakfast was over, the group made their way to the front steps, where the carriages waited. The air was heavy with summer warmth, and the sky above was bright and cloudless. The courtyard buzzed with the sound of scraping trunks and the murmur of students saying goodbye to the castle. Lyra paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the sight of the carriages—thestral-drawn, though most students couldn’t see their skeletal forms. She climbed in beside Gemma, with Draco and Terrence across from them, Rhys following with a nod while Pansy and Theo squeezed in near Draco, making the small space feel fuller, louder, and more familiar..

The ride to Hogsmeade station was short but oddly reflective. The only sounds were the creak of wheels, the snorts of the unseen thestrals, and the distant chatter of other students. Lyra stared out the window, watching the castle shrink in the distance, its towers glowing faintly in the morning light. She let herself think for just a moment—of everything she was leaving behind, of everything waiting for her beyond this train ride. Another year gone. Another one survived.

She kept her hands folded in her lap, preparing herself for the long train ride ahead. She had no illusions—this journey home would not be uneventful.

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

The platform at Hogsmeade was a churning sea of noise and movement, the shrill whistle of the scarlet train cutting through the chatter of students as they prepared to board. The scent of coal smoke, warm metal, and damp stone mingled in the air, clinging to the crowd as trunks scraped along cobblestones and owls hooted irritably from their cages. Lyra stuck close to Gemma, Terrence, and Rhys as they navigated the chaos, their trunks floating obediently behind them. Draco, Pansy, and Theo walked with them until they reached the train, exchanging a few last words before peeling off to find their own compartment, leaving Lyra and her closest friends to settle together.

They found a compartment midway down the train. Gemma claimed the window seat with Terrence beside her, while Rhys slouched into the opposite corner, leaving space for Lyra next to him. The compartment felt snug, a haven of calm compared to the shouting and stomping in the corridor. They let the conversation wander: Rhys’s dry complaints about his family’s suffocating expectations, Gemma’s playful vow to drag Lyra out to Diagon Alley for something other than books, Terrence grumbling about his siblings stealing his things and how he’d hex them if they dared touch his broom. Laughter spilled between them easily, easing the tension from the last few days. For a moment, Lyra allowed herself to believe the journey home might stay this simple.

Then the door slid open.

Graham.

He filled the doorway, rumpled and pale, his eyes fixed solely on Lyra. The air tightened instantly. Rhys straightened, his hand drifting toward his wand. Gemma’s fingers twitched like she was moments from drawing hers, while Terrence’s scowl deepened, his shoulders squaring defensively.

“Can we talk?” Graham asked, quieter than she’d ever heard him, but the sharp edge beneath his words made her stomach knot.

“No,” Terrence said flatly, his tone like steel.

Graham ignored him, gaze locked on Lyra. “Please. Just you and me. Five minutes.”

Lyra wanted to tell him to leave, to disappear from her life entirely, but the desperation in his stance—coiled, tense—made her pause. Better to hear him out and end it on her own terms. “Fine,” she said coldly. “Five minutes.”

She stepped into the corridor. Graham followed a few paces behind, close enough to speak but far enough that Gemma’s silhouette through the glass stayed visible. The train rumbled beneath their feet, the metallic groan of wheels against tracks thrumming in her bones.

“What do you want?” Lyra asked, her tone flat.

“I’m sorry,” Graham said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “I lost it. I shouldn’t have hit you. That’s not— I didn’t mean—”

She cut him off with a sharp, humorless laugh. “You didn’t mean to? You did it. Twice. Don’t pretend it wasn’t a choice.”

“I was angry,” he said, his fists curling at his sides. “I thought you were pulling away.”

“I was,” she replied coolly. “For good reason.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping. “We can fix this. I can fix this. You and me—we’re good together. Don’t throw it away because of one mistake.” His gaze searched her face, brimming with a desperate need for her to agree.

Lyra’s lip curled in disgust. “One mistake? You humiliated me. In front of everyone. And you think I’ll forgive that because you’re sorry now?”

His mask cracked, desperation souring into venom. “I love you,” he said, like the words could mend the wreckage.

“No,” Lyra said, her voice like ice. “You don’t. You don’t know what that word means.”

Graham’s face twisted, bitterness bleeding into his tone. “You’ll regret this,” he spat, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

“No,” she said, turning her back on him. “I won’t.”

He barked out a laugh, ugly and sharp. “Really? After everything? After your birthday?” His voice dropped lower, laced with implication. “You know what that night meant. Don’t pretend you don’t. There’s no way you’re walking away now—not after that. You think your family will stand by you? Mine? You’ll be forced to do what’s right. What’s expected. You’re mine, Lyra. That’s how this works.”

Lyra felt a cold, steadying fury wash over her. He thought he’d outmaneuvered her, that he’d trapped her. But he hadn’t. He didn’t even know she’d gone to Pomfrey, that she’d taken control back before he could ever use that night to own her. She wasn’t naïve; she knew exactly what his plan had been—pull her from Hogwarts, strip her of her NEWTs, make her dependent on him so she’d never escape. And he thought she’d play along. He thought wrong.

Her nails dug into her palms until she felt the sting. “We’re done, Graham,” she said, each word clipped and deliberate. “You don’t own me. And you never will.”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. Without another glance back, Lyra strode down the corridor, each step fueled by the simmering anger still churning in her chest. When she reached the compartment, she slid the door open, meeting the expectant stares of her friends. No one spoke at first, but Gemma reached out, squeezing her hand as Lyra sank back into the seat beside Rhys. The conversation didn’t resume, but it didn’t need to—her friends’ silent solidarity said enough. No one noticed that the compartment door across from them had been slightly ajar, and Draco with his friends, seated inside, had heard the entire exchange.

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

Two hours later, the hum of the train had settled into a steady rhythm, the earlier chaos fading into a dull background noise of conversations and the occasional clatter of footsteps in the corridor. Lyra had been staring out the window for so long she’d memorized the passing blur of countryside—rolling green fields, distant farmhouses, and clusters of trees that looked like dark smudges against the horizon. Every so often, the scenery blurred as the train curved, the light shifting across her face. It was hypnotic in a way, but it didn’t quiet her thoughts.

Gemma and Terrence had drifted into a lazy conversation about Quidditch strategies for next year, their voices low and casual, occasionally punctuated by Gemma’s dry laughter or Terrence’s more animated rants about broom regulations. Rhys had dozed off, arms crossed and head tilted back, his breathing steady and deep enough to almost make the compartment feel safe. It was calm. Almost too calm. The kind of quiet that left too much room for her thoughts to creep in.

And they did. Graham’s words still echoed in her mind like a poison she couldn’t purge, festering in the corners of her thoughts. Worse than his voice was the memory of how he had said them—with that ugly certainty, like her choices didn’t matter. She hated that he’d dared to use that night as leverage—hated it even more that it had worked enough to linger in her head. She knew exactly what he’d tried to do, the trap he’d laid, and the way he thought he could own her through it. But that wasn’t what kept needling her now. It was something else, something deeper that left her unsettled.

She thought of Madam Pomfrey’s quiet kindness, of the way Gemma had wordlessly stayed at her side that night, of her own cold, methodical decision to take the potion and take control back. It had been necessary. It had been smart. But the night itself still sat like a stone in her stomach—not because of what Graham thought it meant, but because of what it had forced her to face about herself.

Her thoughts spun faster, unmoored, trailing back to moments she hadn’t wanted to examine. The way she’d stared too long at Penelope Clearwater in the library, cataloging the neat braid over her shoulder, the way her fingers moved gracefully across parchment, precise and confident. The confusing lurch in her chest when she’d seen Pomfrey and McGonagall together in that quiet moment in the hospital wing, and several times after that. She shoved those thoughts down when they surfaced, told herself they weren’t worth dwelling on. But here—on the train, in the stillness—they clawed their way back up.

And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the door slid open.

Penelope Clearwater.

She stood in the doorway, her prefect’s badge catching the light as if to remind everyone exactly who she was. Percy Weasley hovered just behind her, clearly her patrol partner, but Penelope’s attention didn’t leave Lyra. “Lestrange,” she said coolly, her voice dipped in disdain. “Still hiding? I would’ve thought you’d be more dramatic after a display like that.”

Gemma immediately sat up straighter, her gaze sharp. “She doesn’t need to hear this from you.”

Penelope ignored her, taking a deliberate step closer. “You know, for someone who struts around like she’s untouchable, you’ve been awfully quiet. Almost like you don’t know what to do when the whole train’s laughing at you.”

Lyra tilted her head slightly, feigning amusement. “If this is the best you’ve got, Clearwater, I’d suggest going back to practicing in front of a mirror.”

Penelope’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered. “Just saying—it’s refreshing. Seeing someone like you knocked down a peg. Makes the rest of us feel like balance has been restored.”

Terrence bristled at that, muttering something under his breath, but Gemma placed a hand on his arm. “You’re really spending your patrols fishing for attention? Ravenclaw must be desperate for entertainment.”

Penelope gave a light shrug, clearly pleased with herself. “Call it performing my duty. Prefects are meant to keep an eye on troublemakers. And we all know Lestrange fits the bill.”

Lyra’s gaze shifted toward Percy, who stood awkwardly in the doorway, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “You’re dismissed, Clearwater,” she said evenly, dismissing her with a glance that made it clear Penelope wasn’t worth her time.

Penelope’s lips curved into a final, smug smile. “Enjoy the rest of your ride, Lestrange. Try not to embarrass yourself again.”

The door slid shut behind her, leaving the compartment in heavy silence. Rhys cracked an eye open, muttering something low that sounded very much like a curse, and Gemma exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Pathetic,” she said under her breath, earning a faint, humorless smirk from Lyra.

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

The train screeched as it pulled into King’s Cross, the sudden lurch of slowing wheels jolting Lyra from the daze she’d been in for the last half hour. Students were already shoving trunks from racks, the compartment filling with the dull roar of voices, shouts of parting goodbyes, and the hiss of steam outside. Gemma was the first on her feet, muttering about how she hated this part—getting through the crush of students, dragging luggage through the crowd. Terrence just grunted his agreement, already hauling his trunk down with a thud that made the floor vibrate.

Lyra rose more slowly, adjusting her glamour in the reflection of the compartment window. It was habit by now, but it felt heavier here, knowing who would be waiting once she stepped off the train. The faint shimmer of the charm caught the light for only a second before it settled again, flawless. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, forcing her face into a practiced neutrality. To everyone else, she looked perfectly composed.

The group moved together off the train, following the flow of students onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The cool air of the station hit her like a wall, mingling with the sharp tang of smoke and the metallic scent of the train. She could already spot familiar faces in the crowd of parents—hugs, laughter, hurried goodbyes to friends—and then she saw them.

Lucius and Narcissa.

They stood a little apart from the chaos, perfectly put together as always. Lucius looked as though the station itself offended him, his pale hair tied neatly back, his gloved hand resting on his cane. Narcissa, by contrast, was softer in appearance, though her cool blue eyes swept the crowd with a precision that reminded Lyra of a hawk preparing to strike. Their presence was commanding, enough to make the nearest students subconsciously step aside.

“Lyra,” Narcissa said when they reached her, her voice warm but measured as she pulled her into a brief, careful hug. “Draco.” She reached for her son next, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “I trust the rest of the year was… tolerable?”

“Eventful,” Draco replied, giving Lyra a small glance that said more than his word did.

Lucius’s gaze flicked over Lyra briefly, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than she liked. “You look well,” he said smoothly, though his eyes sharpened slightly, as if searching for something beneath the surface.

Lyra gave a polite nod. “Thank you, Lucy.” She saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, a flicker of annoyance breaking his polished composure for just a moment. It was petty, but satisfying.

Draco watched her as they exchanged greetings, a faint crease between his brows. He knew. Or at least suspected. He’d been watching her closely since the night in the common room, and now, seeing her stand there, glamour perfectly in place, he clearly had questions he wasn’t going to ask here.

Narcissa, though, kept her eyes on Lyra a little too long, as if she saw through the illusion. There was the slightest shift in her expression—recognition. She’d seen this before. Lyra had watched Bellatrix use glamours to hide bruises, and Narcissa had grown up with Bellatrix. She would know. It wasn’t just a glance; it was a quiet study, a silent acknowledgment. And yet, she said nothing.

“Shall we?” Lucius said, already steering them toward the barrier with that effortless authority that made people move out of his way without a word. Narcissa kept close, her hand resting lightly against Draco’s shoulder while her eyes still lingered on Lyra, thoughtful and almost protective.

Lyra followed, silent, the glamour holding firm even as she felt Narcissa’s gaze linger on her like a quiet, unspoken question that would have to be answered sooner or later.

Chapter 34

The manor was warm when they returned, but it didn’t feel warm. It never did. The corridors hummed faintly with old magic, portraits tracking them as they passed, the walls too pristine to feel alive. Even the faint scent of pine and spice from the freshly stoked fireplaces couldn’t soften the tension that followed Lyra in from the cold. Every sound — the rustle of Narcissa’s skirts, the tap of Lucius’s cane against the marble — echoed like a reminder that this house belonged to a different world, one that never quite let her breathe.

The dining room gleamed in soft candlelight, every surface polished to a cold perfection. A centerpiece of enchanted winter blooms sat untouched in the middle of the long table. The heavy velvet drapes, drawn against the night, made the space feel more like a stage than a room. Narcissa sat at the far end in dark green silk, posture impeccable, her expression as measured as the silver knife cutting silently through her roast. Lucius sat opposite her, robes crisp, pale fingers resting lightly on his cane between bites, his face smooth and unreadable as marble. Even his stillness carried weight.

Lyra took her usual place on the right, between Draco and the wall. It was deliberate. Safer. She could feel Narcissa’s gaze as soon as she sat, not sharp but penetrating, the kind that made her skin prickle. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of cutlery and the faint pop of logs in the nearby fireplace.

Dinner was quiet at first — too quiet. Only the soft clink of cutlery, the crackling of the distant fire, and the rhythmic tick of the enchanted grandfather clock in the hall filled the room. Lyra kept her gaze fixed on her plate, carefully avoiding Narcissa’s watchful blue eyes and Lucius’s occasional glances that felt as much like assessment as observation. She cut her food into neat, mechanical bites and focused on chewing, swallowing, breathing. Anything but talking.

“You look tired,” Narcissa said finally, her voice calm but laced with something heavier. A statement, not a question.

“I am,” Lyra replied, her tone clipped but polite. “Exams. Quidditch. Prefects breathing down my neck. Same as usual.” Her voice had the same steadiness she used on the pitch, but even she could feel the cracks at the edges.

Narcissa’s eyes flicked briefly to Lyra’s face — not her expression, but the faint shimmer at her jaw where the glamour charm had settled. She didn’t comment. Not yet.

“You’ve grown quieter,” Lucius observed, his fork pausing midair. It wasn’t idle conversation — it was an inquiry disguised as one. His pale eyes caught hers for an instant, sharp enough to make her look away.

Lyra shrugged without looking up. “It was a long term.”

Draco glanced between them, his mouth tightening. He opened it like he might say something, then thought better of it, dropping his gaze back to his plate. The tension was so thick even he didn’t dare cut through it.

Narcissa laid her fork down gently, deliberate in the way her fingers lingered on the silver. “You didn’t write much after Easter.”

“Didn’t have time,” Lyra said.

The lie was clean. Practiced. It tasted like ash in her mouth. She wanted to look away from them entirely, to sink through the floor and into the quiet cold of the dungeons where questions couldn’t reach her.

Narcissa didn’t press further, but her silence carried meaning. “I see.” The words were clipped, precise, a line drawn under the conversation—for now.

They finished the meal in silence. The food was excellent, as always, but every bite felt like work, like swallowing glass. When Lucius excused himself to his study, Lyra was quick to stand, chair scraping softly against the marble floor. “I’m going to unpack,” she said, already turning for the door, her tone brisk as if leaving faster might make them forget she was there.

“Lyra,” Narcissa began, her voice firmer now, but the girl was already halfway down the corridor, retreating like a shadow.

Draco watched her go, his hand tightening on the edge of the table, unease settling over his young features like a shadow, the unspoken knowledge between them growing heavier with every passing moment.

Draco waited until the sound of Lyra’s footsteps had faded down the corridor before he spoke. He’d been fidgeting through dinner, restless and distracted, but now that she was gone, his back straightened, and his gaze flicked nervously to Narcissa, then to Lucius. He could feel the weight of their silence, the expectant pause in the room, and he hated it. The tension pressed down like a physical thing, and his heart thumped harder the longer neither of them spoke.

“She’s lying,” he said quietly, his voice trembling just enough to betray the certainty beneath. The words sounded small in the cavernous dining room, but once spoken, they couldn’t be taken back.

Lucius did not immediately look up from where he rested his cane against the table. His fingers drummed once against the wood, calculated and slow. “About what?” he asked, though there was already a flicker in his eyes that said he knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. His voice was soft, too soft — that measured tone he used when his patience balanced on a knife’s edge.

Draco hesitated, his fingers knotting in his lap so tightly his knuckles turned white. “About everything. About Graham. About what’s been happening all term.” He swallowed hard, his throat dry, glancing at his mother for courage. “She won’t tell you because she doesn’t think you’ll help.”

Narcissa’s expression sharpened at once, the poise slipping just enough to show something more raw underneath. “What do you mean, Draco? Tell me everything,” she said, her voice steady but edged with something far more dangerous.

“She—” He stopped, swallowed again, and pushed the words out like they might burn him. “I didn’t understand at first, but I’ve been watching her these past few days. She’s been using glamour charms, just since the end of term, and she thought nobody noticed, but I did. She looked… I don’t know, just wrong. Like she was pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. And then three days ago, in the common room, I heard what happened. I didn’t see it, but everyone was talking about Graham slapping her. Twice. Like it was nothing, like she couldn’t do anything about it. And on the train back… I heard them. Lyra and Graham. They were fighting, and I heard what he said — how he ‘claimed her,’ like she couldn’t walk away, like she had to stay with him even if she didn’t want to. Like she was—” He cut himself off, disgust curling his lip as if even repeating the words made him ill. He shuddered slightly, his hands curling into fists. “He was proud of it. Like it was some kind of victory.”

Narcissa’s knuckles whitened where they gripped her napkin. The controlled grace in her movements trembled for just a moment. “You should have told us sooner,” she said, the words tight, almost strangled. Her voice had lost its warmth, but not its resolve.

Draco stared at the table. “She’d hate me if she knew I said anything. But she won’t tell you herself. She doesn’t think you care. She thinks she’s alone.” The admission stung, his voice wobbling between guilt and frustration.

Lucius finally looked up. His face was calm, but his stillness was like the eye of a storm. There was something dangerous in his voice when he spoke. “She is wrong.” The words were quiet, but they rang with a cold, unshakable promise. The air in the room felt heavier when he said it, and Draco knew it wasn’t a simple reassurance — it was a threat to whoever had hurt her.

Draco glanced between his parents, uncertain. “What are you going to do?” His voice was small, but there was something like hope in it. Hope that someone would finally make things right.

Lucius stood, pushing his chair back with deliberate slowness. The sound of the legs scraping the marble felt like a declaration in itself. “What I should have done months ago,” he said, his tone measured but lethal. He gripped his cane tighter, his knuckles pale against the silver handle. “I supported them being together. I even told Lyra at Easter that if she wanted, I’d speak to Lord Montague about arranging a proper marriage. If I had known what that boy truly was, none of this would have happened.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “Montague will regret the day he touched her. And if his family had any part in it, they will, too.”

Narcissa reached across the table and touched Draco’s hand, reassuring him even as her own face had hardened. “We’ll handle it now. No more silence. No more pretending. We let this go on too long.” She gave his hand a squeeze, the closest thing to comfort she could offer with her mind already racing ahead.

Draco nodded, swallowing his guilt. He didn’t know what exactly his father would do, but he didn’t doubt for a moment that Graham Montague’s days of feeling safe were over. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

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

Lyra didn’t hear them coming.

She sat on the edge of her bed, still dressed from dinner, her trunk half-unpacked beside her like she’d given up midway through. Her wand rested loosely in her hand, not as a defense but as something to hold on to, something that kept her from floating apart. Her shoulders sagged, heavy with exhaustion she couldn’t admit to. The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the night, and she hadn’t lit the lamps. The dim, heavy room felt safer that way, like the shadows could swallow her up. The faint glow from the hallway seeped in beneath the door, sharp and intrusive, a reminder that the world outside was waiting. Her mind raced, replaying every moment of the last few days until it blurred into one endless stretch of shame, pain, and hollow rage.

The knock was soft. Too soft to be Lucius.

“Lyra,” Narcissa called gently, that cool, measured voice lined with something almost fragile. “May I come in?”

Lyra’s throat felt tight. “Fine,” she said. It came out flat, dull — the kind of answer meant to end questions, not invite more. She rubbed her thumb over the smooth wood of her wand like the motion could settle her shaking. She wanted to tell them to leave her alone, to crawl under the covers and disappear, but the word stuck in her throat.

The door opened. Narcissa stepped inside first, all calm grace, though her movements were too deliberate, betraying the tension in her spine. Lucius followed, closing the door behind them with a click that echoed through the quiet like a verdict. He didn’t bother with the pretense of small talk, simply standing like a sentinel, his pale eyes fixed on her. She’d seen that look before, on men ready to draw blood.

“Draco told us,” Narcissa said, her tone careful, delicate — like she was handling a wounded creature that might bolt. But there was steel underneath.

Lyra stiffened, her grip on her wand tightening until her knuckles hurt. “Told you what?”

“Everything,” Lucius said. He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried all the weight of a judgment already passed. “About Montague. About what happened in the common room. About what he said to you on the train.”

Lyra’s chest tightened painfully, shame and anger colliding like a storm. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, voice trembling despite herself. Part of her wanted to scream, to demand they leave, but her body stayed frozen, stiff as stone.

“It matters,” Narcissa said softly, crossing the room with a grace that didn’t mask the urgency in her movements. She sat beside Lyra, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “It matters because what he did wasn’t just cruel words, Lyra. He hurt you. He assaulted you.”

Lucius’s voice sharpened, slicing through the silence. “Did he force himself on you?” It was a question now, cold and deliberate, each word weighted like iron.

Lyra’s jaw trembled. Her throat worked, but no sound came out at first. Then, quietly, “I didn’t say yes. I… I couldn’t. I just—shut down.” The admission felt like a stone crushing her chest. “And he said he wanted… an heir. That if it was a boy, it would mean something for him—for us. That I couldn’t walk away.”

Narcissa’s hand gripped hers tighter, steady and unshaking despite the way her voice wavered. “He raped you,” she said, the words quiet but deliberate, as though naming the truth aloud could shoulder a fragment of its weight. Her voice deepened, brimming with anger she rarely let anyone hear. “He used you for his own gain, Lyra, and then thought he could humiliate you like you were nothing. In front of everyone. He wanted to make you small.” She shook her head, breath catching. “You are not small. You are not his to break.”

Lucius stepped forward, no longer hiding the fury that coiled beneath his veneer of calm. “He struck you. He violated you. And then he dared to try to claim you still? To treat you like property?” His cane hit the floor with a sharp, resonant crack that punctuated each word. “I swear to you, Lyra, he will regret ever having drawn breath in your presence. I will destroy him, his reputation, his family if I must. I will make him crawl.” His voice was venom now, his fury almost tangible.

Lyra’s breath hitched, her vision blurring, the tears she fought finally spilling over. “It won’t change anything,” she said, brittle, her voice raw with the weight of everything she’d been forced to carry. “Nothing will change what he did.”

“It changes everything,” Lucius replied, his voice low and dangerous, each word measured like a blade against a whetstone. “Because now this is my problem, and I will make certain he pays—for all of it.” He paused, his jaw tightening with barely contained rage. “And I regret ever encouraging that match. If I had known the truth, I would have ended it then. This never would have happened.”

Lucius turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him, his anger echoing in the silence he left behind.

Lyra stared after him for a moment, shaking, then whispered so softly Narcissa could barely hear, “It would have been better if Rodolphus had just killed me when I was born.”

Narcissa froze, her breath catching at the quiet devastation in Lyra’s words. Then, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. “Don’t you ever say that again,” she murmured fiercely into Lyra’s hair. “You are not disposable. You are ours, and we love you. He does not get to take that from you.”

Lyra broke then, truly broke, sobbing into Narcissa’s shoulder until her body shook from the force of it. Narcissa held her and didn’t let go, whispering soft, grounding words as Lyra wept herself into an exhausted sleep.

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

The next morning, the house was quiet, unnervingly so. The stillness of Malfoy Manor felt heavier than usual, the kind of quiet that pressed on the lungs. Breakfast had been prepared but left untouched; the silver teapot still steamed faintly in the center of the table beside an untouched platter of scones and fruit. Narcissa sat at one end, posture straight but fingers wrapped tightly around her teacup, her expression the picture of composure except for the tension in her jaw and the way her knuckles whitened against the porcelain. Across from her, Lucius stood rather than sat, pacing slowly, his cane tapping out a steady rhythm of contained fury against the marble floor.

“Yaxley will be here shortly,” Lucius said at last, his tone clipped, deliberate. “This has gone far beyond what we can settle quietly.”

Narcissa inclined her head but didn’t look up from her tea. “Do you think it wise to bring the Ministry into this?” she asked. Her voice was mild, but he could hear the storm beneath it.

Lucius gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Yaxley isn’t just the Ministry. He’s a friend. And more importantly, he owes me favors.” He paused near the staircase, glancing upward as though he could see through the walls to where Lyra still slept, exhausted from the night before. “If there’s any hope of seeing Montague punished properly, it begins with a statement. On record. His actions—what he did—cannot be buried. Not this time.”

“She’ll hate it,” Narcissa said softly, swirling her spoon through her tea without drinking. “The retelling. She’s already hanging by a thread.” Then she set the cup down sharply, her composure fracturing just enough for her anger to slip through. “He made her believe she was powerless. He hurt her. He humiliated her. And I want him to pay for every single bit of it.” Her lips pressed into a thin line before she added, quieter but no less furious, “And if I’m honest, I don’t trust the Ministry to give Lyra the justice she deserves. I’d rather crush him myself, legal or not.”

Lucius stopped pacing and leveled his gaze on his wife. “She’ll survive it. And it will give us the grounds to destroy him. Attempted line theft, assault, rape—if his family so much as blinked at what he was planning, they’ll burn with him.” He gripped his cane tighter, as if imagining it was Montague’s throat.

Narcissa set her cup down and folded her hands in her lap, meeting his gaze with quiet defiance. “He didn’t just hurt her, Lucius—he made her believe she was powerless. After what she told me last night… what she wished… I can’t stop hearing it. I’ve already lost one sister to men like him. I will not lose my niece, not to his cruelty and not to her own despair.” Her voice was steady now, every word sharpened by grief and rage. “She deserves to see him ruined. Completely.”

Lucius didn’t hesitate. “Then he will be. His name, his safety, everything his family thinks will protect him—I’ll take it all. He will regret ever touching her.”

For a long moment, Narcissa only watched him, her expression unreadable. Then, quieter, “Good. Because I’m not standing aside for this. Whatever it takes, Lucius, we make sure she knows she’s safe. And that he can’t touch her again.”

Lucius’s eyes softened, just for a moment, before the steel returned. “She is safe. And anyone who threatens that will pay for it.”

The sound of footsteps in the corridor broke the tense silence. Moments later, a tall man in dark red robes appeared at the doorway, his boots clicking softly against the marble. His broad shoulders and unhurried stride carried an easy, unshakable confidence. Yaxley.

“Lucius,” he greeted smoothly, his voice like gravel dipped in honey. His eyes flicked briefly to Narcissa, then back to Lucius. “You said this was urgent.”

“It is,” Lucius replied, his tone dropping to something even colder than before. “It concerns my niece. And the Montague boy who thought he could touch what belongs to my house.”

Yaxley stepped further inside, his brow raising slightly. “Then I assume you want more than an official report.”

Lucius smiled thinly, though there was no warmth in it. “I want justice.”

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

Yaxley stayed only long enough to hear the details, but in those moments the drawing room felt colder than any dungeon. His presence filled the space like a shadow, an unspoken reminder of the weight of the Ministry behind him. Lyra sat stiffly in a high-backed chair, her hands clenched tightly in her lap, Narcissa at her side, a hand resting lightly but firmly over hers. Lucius stood near the mantelpiece, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the hearth, watching everything, saying little.

“We’ll begin when you’re ready,” Yaxley said, his quill poised over a thick Ministry file. His voice was smooth and practiced, the kind of tone that could only belong to someone who had done this too many times before. “Take your time.”

Lyra’s hands trembled despite herself, and she immediately hated that he could see it. Narcissa squeezed them once, grounding her. “You’re safe here,” she murmured in a voice meant only for Lyra.

“I…” Lyra swallowed hard, feeling her throat tighten, her hands twisting in her lap. “Graham Montague…” The name tasted sour, like speaking it aloud made everything more real. Across from her, Yaxley’s quill scratched steadily across parchment, every word of her pain being committed to the file. He didn’t look up, but his jaw flexed at the name, and his hand paused briefly before he gestured lightly for her to go on.

“It… it really started after Christmas. We’d shared a few moments before then—he even kissed me once—and at first I thought maybe… maybe it was what I wanted. But on Valentine’s Day, we got together. He said we were together, and I convinced myself I could handle it. I thought it was fine.” She let out a bitter laugh, thin and humorless. “Even when Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape tried to intervene… I told them I was fine. I lied. Because I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t control it. But I wasn’t fine.”

Yaxley made another note, his expression controlled but his grip on the quill tightening until his knuckles whitened, especially as she spoke of his manipulation. “Go on,” he said quietly, his voice flat but edged.

She dragged in a breath, her voice cracking. “He was controlling. So suffocating I couldn’t breathe without thinking of how he’d react. And I regret—Merlin, I regret—pretending I could manage it myself.” Her eyes unfocused for a moment before she blinked hard, forcing herself to continue. “On my birthday… he—he raped me.” The words came out broken, small. “He said he wanted an heir. Said he wouldn’t cast the charm. I tried to fight back, I did, but—” her voice faltered, “—he did it anyway. I froze. I couldn’t move. I just… shut down.”

Her breathing quickened. “After, I went back to my dorm like nothing happened. I felt numb. Empty. Gemma—Farley, found me, dragged me to the hospital wing. I took the potion. Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape asked questions… and when Professor Snape asked if it was consensual, I said yes.” Tears blurred her vision. “Because I didn’t think anyone would help me. I didn’t want them to look at me differently. And I knew they couldn’t have done anything without me saying so. But I wish—” her voice broke again, “—I wish I’d told them the truth. I wish I hadn’t been so numb.”

As she spoke, the room itself felt heavier. Narcissa’s face remained calm only for Lyra’s sake, but her free hand gripped the arm of the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white, her composure cracking at the edges as her niece unraveled. Lucius, near the mantelpiece, looked as if he could rip the boy apart with his bare hands, every word stoking his silent fury. Yaxley’s lip curled in a sneer at the mention of the so-called heir, the quill pausing as his jaw flexed, his composure clearly an effort. He made himself write every word, his anger barely restrained, before nodding once for Lyra to continue.

She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. “After that, I tried to avoid him, but he always found me. He always wanted to control me. And when he saw me after I’d been in the hospital wing after exams without telling him—he got angry. I think it was because he actually believed I’d gotten pregnant, and that I’d gone there because of it. He hit me.” She winced at the memory. “Twice. Before he could do more, Gemma blasted him across the room. Eliza Burke broke his wand—stomped on his hand when he tried to grab it.”

Her gaze fell to the floor. “And then on the train back, he cornered me. Insisted we talk. Tried to make me feel like I belonged to him.” She shook her head, voice fading. “He just… he wouldn’t stop.”

Narcissa stroked the back of her hand lightly, whispering, “You don’t have to carry the details alone anymore.” Her words gave Lyra just enough strength to finish.

When it was over, the silence in the room felt deafening, heavy with everything that had been spoken and everything that could not be unsaid. Yaxley carefully closed the file with a snap, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial, as he slipped his quill back into his pocket. His face remained composed, but there was a dangerous tightness to his jaw, his lip curling briefly before smoothing back into neutrality. “It’s enough,” he said finally, voice low and hard. “More than enough.” His dark eyes flicked to Lucius, holding his gaze for a long, pointed moment. “You’ll have your case. And more.”

Lucius’s voice was steel, quieter than before but carrying far more menace. “See that I do. And make sure there’s no mercy for him.”

Yaxley gave a short nod, his face unreadable though his eyes held the same restrained fury Lucius had carried, then turned to Narcissa with the briefest of acknowledgments before sweeping out of the drawing room. His boots clicked against the polished marble with precise, deliberate steps. The echo of the closing door left an unnerving quiet behind, the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken promises.

In the corridor, Yaxley adjusted his cloak, drawing it around his shoulders as though armoring himself for what came next. He did not linger or exchange farewells with the staff that appeared in the periphery. Once beyond the wards, he turned on the spot and Apparated directly to the Ministry of Magic.

The Atrium was nearly empty at this hour, its golden statues gleaming in the dim torchlight. Only the faint crackling of enchanted torches and the distant echo of Ministry workers on late shifts disturbed the quiet. Yaxley didn’t break stride. He crossed the vast hall, headed toward the lifts, and headed to the second floor where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement occupied its sprawling wing. He moved with purpose through the echoing corridors, passing enchanted office doors bearing the names of various divisions and silent fireplaces flickering with green flames. He navigated deeper into the heart of the DMLE, his destination clear.

Finally, he stopped before one of the oldest and most ornate doors in the department. The carved oak radiated authority, its surface polished to a mirror finish. Yaxley knocked once, the sound sharp and echoing.

“Enter,” came a clipped, commanding voice from within.

He opened the door and stepped inside. A woman sat behind a massive oak desk, the warm glow of candlelight glinting off her fiery dark red hair, which was pulled back neatly. The color matched the deep scarlet trim of her Auror’s uniform, a subtle but unmistakable sign of her authority. Her piercing hazel eyes fixed on him the moment he crossed the threshold—sharp, assessing, and unyielding.

Yaxley took a seat opposite her without a word, sliding the file across the polished desk. “You’ll want to read this,” he said simply.

She opened the file without hesitation, her fingers moving with a kind of deliberate precision. The room grew so quiet that even the soft rustle of parchment seemed loud. As her eyes darted over each line, her jaw tightened. By the time she reached the section detailing the Montague boy’s motives—the heir, the deliberate violation, the clear attempted life theft—her nostrils flared and her grip on the parchment whitened her knuckles.

“Merlin,” she muttered under her breath, though her voice still carried a controlled edge. “And he thought he’d walk away from this.”

Yaxley remained silent, watching her as she closed the file with a quiet, deliberate thud.

“I’d love to be part of this case,” she said at last, her voice low and dangerous, each word weighted like a verdict. “And I’ll assign a few others I trust to assist. This won’t be handled quietly. We’ll make sure every one of them pays.”

Yaxley inclined his head, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “That’s what I expected to hear.”

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands together. “Tell Lord Malfoy his niece will have justice. And tell him we’ll be thorough.”

Yaxley rose smoothly, inclining his head once more before leaving the room. The heavy door closed behind him with a resonant thud, sealing the conversation away.

The gold lettering on the door gleamed in the flickering candlelight:

Madam Amelia S. Bones

Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement

There wouldn’t be much left of Graham Montague or his family when she was through with them.

Chapter 35

The morning after Yaxley’s visit, Malfoy Manor felt heavier than usual, as though the walls themselves had absorbed everything said the night before and refused to let it go. The house-elves moved quietly, their usual clatter muted to a near-silence. Even the winter light that filtered through the tall windows seemed dimmer, casting pale, cold beams across the marble floors. The grand house, so full of ostentatious beauty, felt like a mausoleum—grand, empty, and suffocating.

Lyra woke late, but waking didn’t make her feel any less exhausted. It wasn’t the kind of tired that sleep could fix—more like a weight that had settled in her chest, dragging everything down. Her body felt leaden, her limbs heavy, her mind caught somewhere between numbness and a raw, simmering ache. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting loosely in her lap, staring at nothing in particular. The memory of giving her statement was still fresh, replaying itself in her mind like an unwanted echo. Every word she’d said to Yaxley still tasted like ash. She kept hearing herself confessing it all—his words, his hands, the humiliation—and every time she did, she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She had survived the conversation, but it didn’t feel like survival. It felt like another violation, another piece of herself laid bare for someone to dissect.

A soft knock pulled her out of her thoughts. “Lyra?” Narcissa’s voice was quiet, measured. She didn’t wait for a reply before easing the door open, her pale figure framed in the doorway like a portrait come to life. “You’re awake.”

“Barely,” Lyra muttered. Her voice sounded hoarse, like she hadn’t used it in days. Her throat felt raw, as if speaking might make the ache in her chest worse. It felt like everything she wanted to say was stuck in her lungs, too heavy to lift.

Narcissa crossed the room, every movement graceful but deliberate, and perched on the bed beside her. She reached out to adjust the edge of Lyra’s blanket like she used to when Lyra was small. “You should come down. Eat something. You’ll feel worse if you don’t.”

“I’m not hungry.” The words came out flat, final, though she knew they wouldn’t be accepted.

“That’s not the point.” Narcissa’s hand brushed lightly over Lyra’s knuckles, grounding her. “You need to keep your strength.” Her tone carried no judgment—only quiet insistence, the kind that made it hard to argue. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a reminder that strength wasn’t optional.

Lyra stared at their joined hands, then away. She didn’t want to talk about strength, or about anything at all. But Narcissa’s touch—light, careful—kept her from retreating completely. “Has he done anything?” she asked after a moment, her voice smaller than she intended.

“Yaxley?” Narcissa shook her head, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. “He’s already begun the process. And Lucius has… other measures in place.” Her tone made it clear she wouldn’t elaborate, but the way her lips thinned told Lyra enough—Lucius’s wheels were turning, quietly and ruthlessly. Somewhere deep in the house, there was the faint hum of Lucius’s study doors opening and closing, his low voice carrying in clipped, purposeful tones as he spoke to someone. It made Lyra shiver.

Lyra nodded mutely, not sure if she felt reassured or even more uneasy. Justice sounded so clean when other people talked about it. In her head, it felt messy. Pointless. Too late. No matter what Lucius or Yaxley or anyone did, nothing would erase what had been done to her. Nothing would make her feel like herself again.

Narcissa squeezed her hand gently, drawing her attention back. “You survived, Lyra. That matters more than you realize.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed the storm behind them. She wasn’t just speaking to Lyra; she was convincing herself, too.

Lyra didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she believed it. The words sounded hollow, like a truth meant for someone stronger than her.

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

By late afternoon, the sun had shifted, draping the Manor’s drawing room in long slants of light that did little to soften its chill. The fire in the ornate marble hearth had been lit, but it seemed more for appearance than warmth; its glow didn’t reach the corners of the cavernous room. Lyra sat curled in one of the armchairs near the window, her knees drawn up under her, staring at the gardens beyond the glass. The hedges swayed gently in the breeze, green and alive, a sharp contrast to how lifeless she felt inside. It felt wrong that the world outside could look so serene when everything inside her felt jagged and unsettled.

Narcissa and Lucius were talking quietly across the room near the fireplace. They hadn’t asked her to leave, but their hushed tones and the way they occasionally glanced toward her made it clear this was a conversation she wasn’t meant to join. Still, Lyra listened, letting their voices fill the silence in her head. It was easier than thinking about herself.

“She’s personally taken it on,” Lucius said, his back to the window, his voice carrying the measured weight he used when discussing business. “Bones doesn’t involve herself lightly. She’ll make a statement of this.”

“Good,” Narcissa replied, sharper than usual. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her poise belying the tension in her knuckles. “But how long will that take? Weeks? Months? He’s out there still. Breathing. Walking free.”

Lucius’s fingers tapped against his cane in a steady rhythm, an outlet for the anger simmering beneath his calm. “The Ministry moves as it does. But my measures won’t wait for them.”

Narcissa shot him a look—cool and cutting, one Lyra couldn’t fully read. “Just be sure your measures don’t jeopardize hers. I want him destroyed, Lucius. Thoroughly. But it needs to last. No one should be able to protect him when this is done.”

“He won’t be protected.” Lucius’s tone left no room for doubt. “Not by his name, not by his family, not by anyone. I’ll see to that myself if I must.”

There was a long pause, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire and the muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Narcissa inhaled slowly, then nodded, as if she had accepted his answer—for now.

Lyra glanced between them, silent. She’d spent so much time imagining herself in this world—working for the Wizengamot Administration Services, handling files, organizing hearings, making sense of the system—and she still wanted that future. But now, hearing them talk about her case in those same terms was overwhelming. These were the words and processes she wanted to make her career, the things she usually found fascinating, but it felt different when they were about her. The neatness she once associated with justice, the tidy signatures and schedules and polished reports, all felt distant when it was her life being recorded on parchment. She didn’t feel neat or clean. She felt hollow, like the words they used—justice, process, punishment—were just paper shields against something that had already devoured her. And listening to them made her wonder whether their kind of justice would make her feel any different at all, or if she would still wake up every morning with the same ache in her chest and the same weight pressing her down.

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

Later that evening, Lyra found herself in the gardens with Narcissa. The sky had turned a muted gold, the last light of day slipping behind the distant hills, leaving streaks of amber and violet across the horizon. The air was warm and smelled faintly of roses and honeysuckle from the carefully tended flowerbeds. A faint hum of summer insects filled the quiet, mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves when the breeze wound its way through the hedges. They walked slowly along the stone path, though Lyra felt more like Narcissa was gently guiding her than actually taking a stroll. It wasn’t aimless wandering — Narcissa always had a purpose, even when she didn’t voice it.

“You’ve been quiet,” Narcissa said finally, her voice soft but deliberate, the kind of tone that coaxed rather than demanded.

Lyra kept her eyes on the path, her shoes scuffing against the stone. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s always something to say,” Narcissa countered lightly. She didn’t press further, simply waiting, patient in a way that made Lyra both grateful and uncomfortable. The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t suffocating. It felt like Narcissa was giving her the space to decide if she wanted to fill it.

They reached one of the marble benches tucked between two tall hedges. Narcissa gestured for her to sit, and Lyra obeyed, folding her hands in her lap, staring at her knuckles like they held answers. The garden was still, and for a moment it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Narcissa said after a long silence, her words slicing cleanly through the heavy quiet.

Lyra blinked, startled by the bluntness of the statement. “You don’t even know what—”

“I know enough.” Narcissa’s gaze was steady, unflinching, her tone brooking no argument. “And I know what guilt looks like. You’ve been wearing it like a cloak.”

Lyra’s throat tightened, the words pressing against her ribcage like they wanted out but couldn’t find their way. “I should’ve said something sooner. I should’ve told someone. Maybe it wouldn’t have gotten this bad.”

“No.” Narcissa’s interruption was quiet but firm, a sharpness under the softness. “You survived. You did what you had to do to survive, Lyra. That is not weakness. That is strength.”

Lyra looked away, fighting the sting in her eyes. “It doesn’t feel like strength.”

“Survival rarely does.” Narcissa reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Lyra’s ear with a careful, deliberate touch. “But it is. And in time, you’ll see that.” Her voice softened even further. “You’re stronger than you think. You always have been.”

They sat there for a while in silence, the only sounds the soft hum of the summer breeze and the distant caw of a crow perched somewhere in the trees. Narcissa’s hand remained lightly over Lyra’s, not pushing, just anchoring her. For once, the silence didn’t feel oppressive. It felt like something close to safety — fragile, but real enough for Lyra to hold onto, even if only for a moment.

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

Two weeks had passed since Yaxley had come, but the weight of those days hadn’t lifted. That night, Lyra couldn’t sleep. She’d tried — lying under the cool sheets, staring at the ornate ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the Manor settling around her — but her thoughts were too loud, too sharp. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of everything she wanted to forget: the hospital wing, Yaxley’s quill scratching across parchment, Graham’s voice in that classroom, the look on Narcissa’s face when she told her everything. The silence in her room felt suffocating, pressing in from all sides, until she couldn’t tell if she was breathing shallowly or if the air itself was too heavy to draw in.

Her eyes drifted to her desk, to the quillknife sitting neatly beside a stack of parchment. The thought came unbidden, sudden and sharp — how easy it would be to use it for more than cutting quills once again, to press it deeper than the skin of her wrists this time, to stop the ache that wouldn’t leave. Her fingers twitched. For a moment, she imagined the quiet that might follow. But then she heard Narcissa’s voice in her head, steady and unwavering: You survived. That is strength. And Draco, just a few rooms away, blissfully unaware of how much she was unraveling. And that sentence that had haunted her for weeks: that her father would be proud of her. Edgar would be proud.

But would he be proud if she gave up now? If she left them all with this? No. She couldn’t. She wasn’t strong, not yet, but she had to try to be.

She rolled over, staring at the tall windows. The moonlight poured through them in silvery ribbons, bathing the room in a glow that made it feel more like a gilded cage than a sanctuary. She hated it here sometimes — the quiet, the stillness, the way Malfoy Manor was both a fortress and a prison. It was beautiful, but its beauty was suffocating. It was safety, but safety felt like being trapped.

Pushing the blankets off, she sat up. Her feet found the cool floorboards, grounding her as she rubbed her hands over her face. She couldn’t stay here, not like this. She needed to move, to breathe, to feel like she was making a choice for herself. To be somewhere that wasn’t built on silence and heavy expectations.

Lyra crossed to her wardrobe and changed into a simple dark skirt and blouse, pulling on a light cloak. She hesitated at the door, listening. The Manor was quiet as she eased it open, the corridor stretching ahead, lined with portraits whose painted occupants stirred as she crept past. Their soft whispers followed her, judgmental eyes tracking her movements, but she ignored them, keeping her steps soft, avoiding the spots she knew creaked.

By the time she reached the entrance hall, her pulse was racing. It wasn’t fear — not exactly. It was the strange thrill of knowing she wasn’t supposed to be doing this, of reclaiming something that felt like hers. Lucius and Narcissa wouldn’t understand why she needed to go. Maybe she didn’t even fully understand it herself. But staying still felt unbearable, like she would collapse in on herself if she didn’t do something.

The night air hit her like a balm when she stepped outside. It smelled of damp grass and the faint sweetness of blooming flowers, cool against her heated skin. The grounds were quiet, the distant hedges casting long shadows under the moonlight. Crickets chirped somewhere beyond the gardens, the only living sound in the stillness. She followed the gravel path down toward the gates, her cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders. Beyond them lay the town—the one she’d seen from a distance but never visited. For once, she wanted to see it up close, to remind herself that the world was bigger than these walls and everything they held.

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

Salisbury was quieter than she expected at night, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty but alive with small, unnoticed sounds. The streets were mostly empty, the shops closed, their windows glowing softly with dim light from behind drawn curtains, like little lanterns guiding her through an unfamiliar world. Lyra walked slowly, taking it all in — the uneven cobblestones under her shoes that caught her off balance now and then, the way the lampposts buzzed faintly as they cast shimmering pools of golden light across the narrow streets, the faint smell of baking that lingered even though the bakeries had long since closed for the night. She breathed it in like someone who had been underwater for too long. It was all so ordinary, so simple, so different from the deliberate, stifling grandeur of Malfoy Manor, and that was what made it feel strangely thrilling.

She passed storefronts she didn’t recognize, their painted signs announcing everything from tailors to bookshops to little cafes, their names whimsical or plain in a way wizarding establishments never were. She slowed when she reached a darkened stationery shop, peering through the glass at the neatly lined shelves of parchment and journals. It was mundane, but something about it tugged at her chest. This was a world that felt lived in, comfortable in its ordinariness, familiar and safe in ways she hadn’t known she needed.

The further she walked, the more her nerves settled, though her senses stayed sharp, alert to every sound. She hadn’t been caught. She wasn’t being followed. It was just her, the quiet town, and the exhilarating freedom of walking somewhere no one expected her to be. For the first time in weeks, her lungs felt like they could expand fully.

She eventually found herself on a side street, the hum of distant traffic replaced by the faint music of a pub. A narrow building stood at its end, its painted sign creaking gently in the evening breeze, announcing itself as The Wild Hare. Warm light spilled from its windows, golden and inviting, carrying with it the low hum of conversation, bursts of laughter, and the distant sound of soft music that made her heart ache with something she couldn’t name. A pub. Lyra stopped just outside the door, her pulse hammering in her ears. She’d never been in a place like this alone. It felt reckless. It felt dangerous. It felt necessary. The thought of returning to the Manor without doing something — anything — different made her stomach turn.

She tightened her cloak around her shoulders and took a step forward, then another. One breath. Then another. And she pushed the door open.

Warm air and noise hit her right away, wrapping around her like a blanket. The place smelled of ale, smoke, and something rich and hearty cooking in the back — maybe stew or roast, though she couldn’t tell. It was such a strong change from the sharp, cold night air outside that she almost stopped in the doorway. The pub was small but lively, filled with an easy hum of conversation. A few groups clustered at tables, sharing quiet talks, while bursts of laughter rang out from the corner near the bar. A man strummed softly on a guitar by the fireplace, his music weaving faintly through the din. Candles glowed in sconces along the walls, casting golden pools of light that made the scuffed wooden floors and mismatched chairs feel warm and inviting instead of old and worn.

Lyra hesitated by the door, holding her cloak tightly around herself. She felt out of place — standing too straight, her posture rigid, her clothes far too neat for somewhere like this. No one seemed to notice her, which was both a relief and, oddly, a disappointment. Slowly, she walked farther inside, her shoes making the faintest thuds on the floorboards, trying to blend in as her eyes wandered the room.

Then she saw her.

At first, Lyra couldn’t figure out what it was about the woman that drew her in. Maybe it was the way she leaned across the table, fully engaged in conversation, or the honey-blonde hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon of green and navy tartan with fine threads of lighter blue catching the candlelight. Lyra stared at the ribbon longer than she meant to. It wasn’t just an accessory — it looked purposeful, carefully chosen, and yet she didn’t know why. The woman’s face was soft but alive, her features animated as she laughed at something her companion said, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy. She looked so at ease in this place, so comfortable in her own skin, like she belonged here in a way Lyra never could.

Lyra couldn’t stop staring. Her stomach tightened with something she didn’t fully understand — curiosity, admiration, maybe even longing. She didn’t go closer. She didn’t dare. She just stood there, watching, memorizing every detail — the ribbon, the honey-blonde hair, the laughter, the ease of her movements — until she forced herself to take a deep breath. She needed to remember this, to hold onto it like a spark in the darkness.

It was strange, how seeing her made Lyra feel a little lighter, like she’d glimpsed something she didn’t know she’d been searching for.

After a moment, she turned and left as quietly as she’d come in, wrapping her cloak tightly against the night. The streets of Salisbury felt different now — not as empty, not as cold — as she made her way back to the Manor, the image of honey-blonde hair and tartan burning vividly in her mind, impossible to shake.

She didn’t know who the woman was, or why she couldn’t stop thinking about her — only that this was the moment everything began to change.

Notes:

And there it is, the end of Book 1!

I am so excited to hear what you all think, please let me know!

Book 2 is coming soon so stay tuned!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Your Father Would Be Proud